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diff --git a/26475-h/26475-h.htm b/26475-h/26475-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9b593d4 --- /dev/null +++ b/26475-h/26475-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10438 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Boy Scouts Book of Campfire Stories, by Franklin K. Mathiews. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1.25em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + img {border: 0;} + .tnote {border: dashed 1px; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + ins {text-decoration:none; border-bottom: thin dotted gray;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + .cap:first-letter {float: left; clear: left; margin: -0.2em 0.1em 0; margin-top: 0%; + padding: 0; line-height: .75em; font-size: 300%; text-align: justify;} + .cap {text-align: justify;} + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + .copyright {text-align: center; font-size: 70%;} + .blockquot{margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; text-align: justify;} + .blockquot2{margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 25%; text-align: justify;} + + .bbox {border: solid 2px; margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .unindent {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + .right {text-align: right;} + .poem {margin-left: 30%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: left;} + .poem2 {margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 10%; text-align: left;} + .sig {margin-right: 10%; text-align: right;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align:baseline; + position: relative; + bottom: 0.33em; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + .hang1 {text-indent: -3em; margin-left: 3em;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Boy Scouts Book of Campfire Stories, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Boy Scouts Book of Campfire Stories + +Author: Various + +Editor: Franklin K. Mathiews + +Release Date: August 29, 2008 [EBook #26475] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMPFIRE STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Emmy and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 315px;"> +<img src="images/i_cover.jpg" width="315" height="500" alt="Cover" title="Cover" /> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[i]</a></span></p> + +<h1>THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK<br /> +OF CAMPFIRE STORIES</h1> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[ii]</a></span><br /><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[iii]</a></span></p><div class="figcenter" style="width: 314px;"> +<img src="images/i004.jpg" width="314" height="500" alt="THERE, STANDING KNEE-DEEP IN THE WATER, WAS THE BIGGEST AND BLACKEST MOOSE IN THE WORLD" title="THERE, STANDING KNEE-DEEP IN THE WATER, WAS THE BIGGEST AND BLACKEST MOOSE IN THE WORLD" /> +<span class="caption">THERE, STANDING KNEE-DEEP IN THE WATER, WAS THE BIGGEST AND BLACKEST MOOSE IN THE WORLD</span> +</div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h1>THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK<br /> +OF CAMPFIRE STORIES</h1> + +<h3> +EDITED<br /> +WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES<br /> + + +<br />BY</h3> + +<h2>FRANKLIN K. MATHIEWS</h2> + +<div class='center'> +CHIEF SCOUT LIBRARIAN,<br /> +BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +PUBLISHED FOR<br /> + +<big>THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA</big></div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 130px;"> +<img src="images/emblem.png" width="130" height="150" alt="Emblem" title="Emblem" /> +</div> + + +<div class='center'> +D. APPLETON-CENTURY COMPANY<br /> +INCORPORATED<br /> +NEW YORK 1933<br /></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></span></p> + +<div class='copyright'> +COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY<br /> +<br /> +D. APPLETON AND COMPANY<br /> +<br /><br /> + +<div class="blockquot2">All rights reserved. This book, or parts +thereof, must not be reproduced in any +form without permission of the publishers.</div> +<br /><br /><br /> + +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA<br /></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span></p> + +<h2>BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION</h2> + +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> campfire for ages has been the place of council +and friendship and story-telling. The mystic glow of +the fire quickens the mind, warms the heart, awakens +memories of happy, glowing tales that fairly leap to the +lips. The Boy Scouts of America has incorporated the +"campfire" in its program for council and friendship +and story-telling. In one volume, the <i>Boy Scouts Book +of Campfire Stories</i> makes available to scoutmasters and +other leaders a goodly number of stories worthy of +their attention, and when well told likely to arrest and +hold the interest of boys in their early teens, when "stirs +the blood—to bubble in the veins."</p> + +<p>At this time, when the boy is growing so rapidly in +brain and body, he can have no better teacher than some +mighty woodsman. Now should be presented to him +stirring stories of the adventurous lives of men who +live in and love the out-of-doors. Says Professor +George Walter Fiske: "Let him emulate savage woodcraft; +the woodsman's keen, practiced vision; his steadiness +of nerve; his contempt for pain, hardship and the +weather; his power of endurance, his observation and +heightened senses; his delight in out-of-door sports and +joys and unfettered happiness with untroubled sleep +under the stars; his calmness, self-control, emotional +steadiness; his utter faithfulness in friendships; his +honesty, his personal bravery."</p> + +<p>The Editor likes to think that quite a few of the +stories found in the <i>Boy Scouts Book of Campfire<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span> +Stories</i> present companions for the mind of this hardy +sort, and hopes, whether boys read or are told these +stories, they will prove to be such as exalt and inspire +while they thrill and entertain.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align='left'><img src="images/i_spine.jpg" width="88" height="498" alt="Book Spine" title="Book Spine" /> +</td><td align='left'><div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> +<tr><td align='center' colspan='3'><h2>CONTENTS</h2></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' colspan='2'><small>CHAPTER</small></td><td align='right'><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left' colspan='2'><span class="smcap">Introduction</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_v">v</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>I.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">Silverhorns</span></td><td align='right'><i>Henry van Dyke</i> <a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>II.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">Wild Horse Hunter</span></td><td align='right'><i>Zane Grey</i> <a href="#Page_21">21</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>III.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">Hydrophobic Skunk</span></td><td align='right'><i>Irvin S. Cobb</i> <a href="#Page_90">90</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>IV.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">The Ole Virginia</span></td><td align='right'><i>Stewart Edward White</i> <a href="#Page_100">100</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>V.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">The Weight of Obligation</span></td><td align='right'><i>Rex Beach</i> <a href="#Page_108">108</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>VI.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">That Spot</span></td><td align='right'><i>Jack London</i> <a href="#Page_140">140</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>VII.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">When Lincoln Licked a Bully</span></td><td align='right'><i>Irving Bacheller</i> <a href="#Page_155">155</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>VIII.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">The End of the Trail</span></td><td align='right'><i>Clarence E. Mulford</i> <a href="#Page_180">180</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>IX.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">Dey Ain't No Ghosts</span></td><td align='right'><i>Ellis Parker Butler</i> <a href="#Page_201">201</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>X.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">The Night Operator</span></td><td align='right'><i>Frank L. Packard</i> <a href="#Page_218">218</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XI.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">Christmas Eve in a Lumber Camp</span></td><td align='right'><i>Ralph Connor</i> <a href="#Page_258">258</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='right'>XII.</td><td align='left'> <span class="smcap">The Story That the Keg Told Me</span> </td><td align='right'><i>Adirondack (W. H. H.) Murray</i> <a href="#Page_275">275</a></td></tr> +</table></div> +</td></tr> +</table></div> + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i011.png" width="500" height="222" alt="Moose" title="Moose" /> +</div> + + +<h2>I.—Silverhorns<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></h2> + +<h3><i>By Henry van Dyke</i></h3> + + +<div class='cap'>THE railway station of Bathurst, New Brunswick, +did not look particularly merry at two +o'clock of a late September morning. There +was an easterly haze driving in from the Baie des +Chaleurs and the darkness was so saturated with chilly +moisture that an honest downpour of rain would have +been a relief. Two or three depressed and somnolent +travelers yawned in the waiting room, which smelled +horribly of smoky lamps. The telegraph instrument +in the ticket office clicked spasmodically for a minute, +and then relapsed into a gloomy silence. The imperturbable +station master was tipped back against the +wall in a wooden armchair, with his feet on the table, +and his mind sunk in an old Christmas number of the +<i>Cowboy Magazine</i>. The express agent, in the baggage-room, +was going over his last week's waybills and +accounts by the light of a lantern, trying to locate an<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span> +error, and sighing profanely to himself as he failed +to find it. A wooden trunk tied with rope, a couple of +dingy canvas bags, a long box marked "Fresh Fish! +Rush!" and two large leather portmanteaus with brass +fittings were piled on the luggage truck at the far end +of the platform; and beside the door of the waiting +room, sheltered by the overhanging eaves, was a neat +traveling bag, with a gun case and a rod case leaning +against the wall. The wet rails glittered dimly northward +and southward away into the night. A few +blurred lights glimmered from the village across the +bridge.</div> + +<p>Dudley Hemenway had observed all these features +of the landscape with silent dissatisfaction, as he +smoked steadily up and down the platform, waiting +for the Maritime Express. It is usually irritating to +arrive at the station on time for a train on the Intercolonial +Railway. The arrangement is seldom mutual; +and sometimes yesterday's train does not come along +until to-morrow afternoon. Moreover, Hemenway +was inwardly discontented with the fact that he was +coming out of the woods instead of going in. "Coming +out" always made him a little unhappy, whether +his expedition had been successful or not. He did not +like the thought that it was all over; and he had the +very bad habit, at such times, of looking ahead and +computing the slowly lessening number of chances that +were left to him.</p> + +<p>"Sixty odd years—I may get to be that old and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span> +keep my shooting sight," he said to himself. "That +would give me a couple of dozen more camping trips. +It's a short allowance. I wonder if any of them will +be more lucky than this one. This makes the seventh +year I've tried to get a moose; and the odd trick has +gone against me every time."</p> + +<p>He tossed away the end of his cigar, which made a +little trail of sparks as it rolled along the sopping platform, +and turned to look in through the window of the +ticket office. Something in the agent's attitude of literary +absorption aggravated him. He went round to +the door and opened it.</p> + +<p>"Don't you know or care when this train is coming?"</p> + +<p>"Nope," said the man placidly.</p> + +<p>"Well, when? What's the matter with her? +When is she due?"</p> + +<p>"Doo twenty minits ago," said the man. "Forty +minits late down to Moocastle. Git here quatter to +three, ef nothin' more happens."</p> + +<p>"But what has happened? What's wrong with the +beastly old road, anyhow?"</p> + +<p>"Freight car skipped the track," said the man, "up +to Charlo. Everythin' hung up an' kinder goin' slow +till they git the line clear. Dunno nothin' more."</p> + +<p>With this conclusive statement the agent seemed to +disclaim all responsibility for the future of impatient +travelers, and dropped his mind back into the magazine +again. Hemenway lit another cigar and went into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> +the baggage room to smoke with the expressman. It +was nearly three o'clock when they heard the far-off +shriek of the whistle sounding up from the south; +then, after an interval, the puffing of the engine on the +upgrade; then the faint ringing of the rails, the increasing +clatter of the train, and the blazing headlight +of the locomotive swept slowly through the darkness, +past the platform. The engineer was leaning on one +arm, with his head out of the cab window, and Hemenway +nodded as he passed and hurried into the ticket +office, where the ticktack of a conversation by telegraph +was soon under way. The black porter of the Pullman +car was looking out from the vestibule, and when he +saw Hemenway his sleepy face broadened into a grin +reminiscent of many generous tips.</p> + +<p>"Howdy, Mr. Hennigray," he cried; "glad to see +yo' ag'in, sah! I got yo' section all right, sah! +Lemme take yo' things, sah! Train gwine to stop +hy'eh fo' some time yet, I reckon."</p> + +<p>"Well, Charles," said Hemenway, "you take my +things and put them in the car. Careful with that gun +now! The Lord only knows how much time this +train's going to lose. I'm going ahead to see the +engineer."</p> + +<p>Angus McLeod was a grizzle-bearded Scotchman +who had run a locomotive on the Intercolonial ever +since the road was cut through the woods from New +Brunswick to Quebec. Every one who traveled often +on that line knew him, and all who knew him well<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> +enough to get below his rough crust, liked him for his +big heart.</p> + +<p>"Hallo, McLeod," said Hemenway as he came up +through the darkness, "is that you?"</p> + +<p>"It's nane else," answered the engineer as he stepped +down from his cab and shook hands warmly. "Hoo +are ye, Dud, an' whaur hae ye been murderin' the +innocent beasties noo? Hae ye kilt yer moose yet? +Ye've been chasin' him these mony years."</p> + +<p>"Not much murdering," replied Hemenway. "I +had a queer trip this time—away up the Nepisiguit, +with old McDonald. You know him, don't you?"</p> + +<p>"Fine do I ken Rob McDonald, an' a guid mon he +is. Hoo was it that ye couldna slaughter stacks +o' moose wi' him to help ye? Did ye see nane at +all?"</p> + +<p>"Plenty, and one with the biggest horns in the +world! But that's a long story, and there's no time +to tell it now."</p> + +<p>"Time to burrn, Dud, nae fear o' it! 'Twill be +an hour afore the line's clear to Charlo an' they lat us +oot o' this. Come awa' up into the cab, mon, an' tell +us yer tale. 'Tis couthy an' warm in the cab, an' I'm +willin' to leesten to yer bluidy advaintures."</p> + +<p>So the two men clambered up into the engineer's +seat. Hemenway gave McLeod his longest and strongest +cigar, and filled his own briar-wood pipe. The +rain was now pattering gently on the roof of the cab. +The engine hissed and sizzled patiently in the darkness.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> +The fragrant smoke curled steadily from the +glowing tip of the cigar; but the pipe went out half a +dozen times while Hemenway was telling the story of +Silverhorns.</p> + +<p>"We went up the river to the big rock, just below +Indian Falls. There we made our main camp, intending +to hunt on Forty-two Mile Brook. There's quite a +snarl of ponds and bogs at the head of it, and some +burned hills over to the west, and it's very good moose +country.</p> + +<p>"But some other party had been there before us, +and we saw nothing on the ponds, except two cow +moose and a calf. Coming out the next morning we +got a fine deer on the old wood road—a beautiful +head. But I have plenty of deer heads already."</p> + +<p>"Bonny creature!" said McLeod. "An' what did +ye do wi' it, when ye had murdered it?"</p> + +<p>"Ate it, of course. I gave the head to Billy +Boucher, the cook. He said he could get ten dollars +for it. The next evening we went to one of the ponds +again, and Injun Pete tried to 'call' a moose for me. +But it was no good. McDonald was disgusted with +Pete's calling; said it sounded like the bray of a wild +ass of the wilderness. So the next day we gave up +calling and traveled the woods over toward the burned +hills.</p> + +<p>"In the afternoon McDonald found an enormous +moose-track; he thought it looked like a bull's track, +though he wasn't quite positive. But then, you know,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> +a Scotchman never likes to commit himself, except +about theology or politics."</p> + +<p>"Humph!" grunted McLeod in the darkness, showing +that the strike had counted.</p> + +<p>"Well, we went on, following that track through +the woods, for an hour or two. It was a terrible country, +I tell you: tamarack swamps, and spruce thickets, +and windfalls, and all kinds of misery. Presently we +came out on a bare rock on the burned hillside, and +there, across a ravine, we could see the animal lying +down, just below the trunk of a big dead spruce that +had fallen. The beast's head and neck were hidden +by some bushes, but the fore shoulder and side were +in clear view, about two hundred and fifty yards away. +McDonald seemed to be inclined to think that it was a +bull and that I ought to shoot. So I shot, and knocked +splinters out of the spruce log. We could see them +fly. The animal got up quickly, and looked at us for +a moment, shaking her long ears; then the huge unmitigated +cow vamoosed into the brush. McDonald remarked +that it was 'a varra fortunate shot, almaist +providaintial!' And so it was; for if it had gone six +inches lower, and the news gotten out at Bathurst, +it would have cost me a fine of two hundred dollars."</p> + +<p>"Ye did weel, Dud," puffed McLeod; "varra weel +indeed—for the coo!"</p> + +<p>"After that," continued Hemenway, "of course my +nerve was a little shaken, and we went back to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> +main camp on the river, to rest over Sunday. That +was all right, wasn't it, Mac!"</p> + +<p>"Aye!" replied McLeod, who was a strict member +of the Presbyterian church at Moncton. "That was +surely a varra safe thing to do. Even a hunter, I'm +thinkin', wouldna like to be breakin' twa commandments +in the ane day—the foorth and the saxth!"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not. It's enough to break one, as you do +once a fortnight when you run your train into Rivière +du Loup Sunday morning. How's that, you old Calvinist?"</p> + +<p>"Dudley, ma son," said the engineer, "dinna airgue +a point that ye canna understond. There's guid an' +suffeecient reasons for the train. But ye'll ne'er be +claimin' that moose huntin' is a wark o' necessity or +maircy?"</p> + +<p>"No, no, of course not; but then, you see, barring +Sundays, we felt that it was necessary to do all we +could to get a moose, just for the sake of our reputations. +Billy, the cook, was particularly strong about +it. He said that an old woman in Bathurst, a kind of +fortune teller, had told him that he was going to have +'la bonne chance' on this trip. He wanted to try +his own mouth at 'calling.' He had never really done +it before. But he had been practicing all winter in +imitation of a tame cow moose that Johnny Moreau +had, and he thought he could make the sound 'b'en +bon.' So he got the birch-bark horn and gave us a +sample of his skill. McDonald told me privately that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> +it was 'nae sa bad; a deal better than Pete's feckless +bellow.' We agreed to leave the Indian to keep the +camp (after locking up the whisky flask in my bag), +and take Billy with us on Monday to 'call' at Hogan's +Pond.</p> + +<p>"It's a small bit of water, about three quarters of a +mile long and four hundred yards across, and four +miles back from the river. There is no trail to it, but a +blazed line runs part of the way, and for the rest you +follow up the little brook that runs out of the pond. +We stuck up our shelter in a hollow on the brook, +half a mile below the pond, so that the smoke of our +fire would not drift over the hunting ground, and +waited till five o'clock in the afternoon. Then we went +up to the pond, and took our position in a clump of +birch trees on the edge of the open meadow that runs +round the east shore. Just at dark Billy began to call, +and it was beautiful. You know how it goes. Three +short grunts, and then a long ooooo-aaaa-ooooh, winding +up with another grunt! It sounded lonelier than +a love-sick hippopotamus on the house top. It rolled +and echoed over the hills as if it would wake the dead.</p> + +<p>"There was a fine moon shining, nearly full, and a +few clouds floating by. Billy called, and called, and +called again. The air grew colder and colder; light +frost on the meadow grass; our teeth were chattering, +fingers numb.</p> + +<p>"Then we heard a bull give a short bawl, away off +to the southward. Presently we could hear his horns<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> +knock against the trees, far up on the hill. McDonald +whispered, 'He's comin',' and Billy gave another call.</p> + +<p>"But it was another bull that answered, back of the +north end of the pond, and pretty soon we could hear +him rapping along through the woods. Then everything +was still. 'Call agen,' says McDonald, and Billy +called again.</p> + +<p>"This time the bawl came from another bull, on top +of the western hill, straight across the pond. It seemed +to start up the other two bulls, and we could hear all +three of them thrashing along, as fast as they could +come, towards the pond. 'Call agen, a wee one,' says +McDonald, trembling with joy. And Billy called a +little seducing call, with two grunts at the end.</p> + +<p>"Well, sir, at that, a cow and a calf came rushing +down through the brush not two hundred yards away +from us, and the three bulls went splash into the water, +one at the south end, one at the north end, and one on +the west shore. 'Land,' whispers McDonald, 'it's a +meenadgerie!'"</p> + +<p>"Dud," said the engineer, getting down to open the +furnace door a crack, "this is mair than murder ye're +comin' at; it's a buitchery—or else it's juist a pack o' +lees."</p> + +<p>"I give you my word," said Hemenway, "it's all +true as the catechism. But let me go on. The cow +and the calf only stayed in the water a few minutes, +and then ran back through the woods. But the three +bulls went sloshing around in the pond as if they were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> +looking for something. We could hear them, but we +could not see any of them, for the sky had clouded +up, and they kept far away from us. Billy tried another +short call, but they did not come any nearer. +McDonald whispered that he thought the one in the +south end might be the biggest, and he might be feeding, +and the two others might be young bulls, and they +might be keeping away because they were afraid of +the big one. This seemed reasonable; and I said +that I was going to crawl around the meadow to the +south end. 'Keep near a tree,' says Mac; and I +started.</p> + +<p>"There was a deep trail, worn by animals, through +the high grass; and in this I crept along on my hands +and knees. It was very wet and muddy. My boots +were full of cold water. After ten minutes I came to +a little point running out into the pond, and one young +birch growing on it. Under this I crawled, and rising +up on my knees looked over the top of the grass and +bushes.</p> + +<p>"There, in a shallow bay, standing knee-deep in +the water, and rooting up the lily stems with his long, +pendulous nose, was the biggest and blackest bull moose +in the world. As he pulled the roots from the mud +and tossed up his dripping head I could see his horns—four +and a half feet across, if they were an inch, +and the palms shining like tea trays in the moonlight. +I tell you, old Silverhorns was the most beautiful monster +I ever saw.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But he was too far away to shoot by that dim +light, so I left my birch tree and crawled along toward +the edge of the bay. A breath of wind must have +blown across me to him, for he lifted his head, sniffed, +grunted, came out of the water, and began to trot +slowly along the trail which led past me. I knelt on +one knee and tried to take aim. A black cloud came +over the moon. I couldn't see either of the sights on +the gun. But when the bull came opposite to me, +about fifty yards off, I blazed away at a venture.</p> + +<p>"He reared straight up on his hind legs—it looked +as if he rose fifty feet in the air—wheeled, and went +walloping along the trail, around the south end of the +pond. In a minute he was lost in the woods. Good-by, +Silverhorns!"</p> + +<p>"Ye tell it weel," said McLeod, reaching out for a +fresh cigar. "Fegs! Ah doot Sir Walter himsel' +couldna impruve upon it. An, sae thot's the way ye +didna murder puir Seelverhorrns? It's a tale I'm +joyfu' to be hearin'."</p> + +<p>"Wait a bit," Hemenway answered. "That's not +the end, by a long shot. There's worse to follow. +The next morning we returned to the pond at day-break, +for McDonald thought I might have wounded +the moose. We searched the bushes and the woods +where he went out very carefully, looking for drops +of blood on his trail."</p> + +<p>"Bluid!" groaned the engineer. "Hech, mon, +wouldna that come nigh to mak' ye greet, to find the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> +beast's red bluid splashed over the leaves, and think o' +him staggerin' on thro' the forest, drippin' the heart +oot o' him wi' every step?"</p> + +<p>"But we didn't find any blood, you old sentimentalist. +That shot in the dark was a clear miss. We followed +the trail by broken bushes and footprints, for +half a mile, and then came back to the pond and turned +to go down through the edge of the woods to the camp.</p> + +<p>"It was just after sunrise. I was walking a few +yards ahead, McDonald next, and Billy last. Suddenly +he looked around to the left, gave a low whistle +and dropped to the ground, pointing northward. +Away at the head of the pond, beyond the glitter of +the sun on the water, the big blackness of Silverhorns' +head and body was pushing through the bushes, dripping +with dew.</p> + +<p>"Each of us flopped down behind the nearest shrub +as if we had been playing squat tag. Billy had the +birch-bark horn with him, and he gave a low, short +call. Silverhorns heard it, turned, and came parading +slowly down the western shore, now on the sand beach, +now splashing through the shallow water. We could +see every motion and hear every sound. He marched +along as if he owned the earth, swinging his huge head +from side to side and grunting at each step.</p> + +<p>"You see, we were just in the edge of the woods, +strung along the south end of the pond, Billy nearest +the west shore, where the moose was walking, McDonald +next, and I last, perhaps fifteen yards farther to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> +east. It was a fool arrangement, but we had no time +to think about it. McDonald whispered that I should +wait until the moose came close to us and stopped.</p> + +<p>"So I waited. I could see him swagger along the +sand and step out around the fallen logs. The nearer +he came the bigger his horns looked; each palm was +like an enormous silver fish fork with twenty prongs. +Then he went out of my sight for a minute as he passed +around a little bay in the southwest corner, getting +nearer and nearer to Billy. But I could still hear his +steps distinctly—slosh, slosh, slosh—thud, thud, thud +(the grunting had stopped)—closer came the sound, +until it was directly behind the dense green branches +of a fallen balsam tree, not twenty feet away from +Billy. Then suddenly the noise ceased. I could hear +my own heart pounding at my ribs, but nothing else. +And of Silverhorns not hair nor hide was visible. It +looked as if he must be a Boojum, and had the power +to 'softly and silently vanish away.'</p> + +<p>"Billy and Mac were beckoning to me fiercely and +pointing to the green balsam top. I gripped my rifle +and started to creep toward them. A little twig, about +as thick as the tip of a fishing rod, cracked under my +knee. There was a terrible crash behind the balsam, +a plunging through the underbrush and a rattling +among the branches, a lumbering gallop up the hill +through the forest, and Silverhorns was gone into the +invisible.</p> + +<p>"He had stopped behind the tree because he smelled<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> +the grease on Billy's boots. As he stood there, hesitating, +Billy and Mac could see his shoulder and his +side through a gap in the branches—a dead-easy shot. +But so far as I was concerned, he might as well have +been in Alaska. I told you that the way we had placed +ourselves was a fool arrangement. But McDonald +would not say anything about it, except to express his +conviction that it was not predestinated we should get +that moose."</p> + +<p>"Ah dinna ken ould Rob had sae much theology +aboot him," commented McLeod. "But noo I'm +thinkin' ye went back to yer main camp, an' lat puir +Seelverhorrns live oot his life?"</p> + +<p>"Not much, did we! For now we knew that he +wasn't badly frightened by the adventure of the night +before, and that we might get another chance at him. +In the afternoon it began to rain; and it poured for +forty-eight hours. We covered in our shelter before +a smoky fire, and lived on short rations of crackers +and dried prunes—it was a hungry time."</p> + +<p>"But wasna there slathers o' food at the main +camp? Ony fule wad ken enough to gae doon to the +river an' tak' a guid fill-up."</p> + +<p>"But that wasn't what we wanted. It was Silverhorns. +Billy and I made McDonald stay, and Thursday +afternoon, when the clouds broke away, we went +back to the pond to have a last try at turning our +luck.</p> + +<p>"This time we took our positions with great care,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> +among some small spruces on a joint that ran out +from the southern meadow. I was farthest to the +west; McDonald (who had also brought his gun) was +next; Billy, with the horn, was farthest away from +the point where he thought the moose would come +out. So Billy began to call, very beautifully. The +long echoes went bellowing over the hills. The afternoon +was still and the setting sun shone through a light +mist, like a ball of red gold.</p> + +<p>"Fifteen minutes after sundown Silverhorns gave a +loud bawl from the western ridge and came crashing +down the hill. He cleared the bushes two or three +hundred yards to our left with a leap, rushed into the +pond, and came wading around the south shore toward +us. The bank here was rather high, perhaps four feet +above the water, and the mud below it was deep, so +that the moose sank in to his knees. I give you my +word, as he came along there was nothing visible to +Mac and me except his ears and his horns. Everything +else was hidden below the bank.</p> + +<p>"There were we behind our little spruce trees. +And there was Silverhorns, standing still now, right in +front of us. And all that Mac and I could see were +those big ears and those magnificent antlers, appearing +and disappearing as he lifted and lowered his head. +It was a fearful situation. And there was Billy, with +his birch-bark hooter, forty yards below us—he could +see the moose perfectly.</p> + +<p>"I looked at Mac, and he looked at me. He whispered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> +something about predestination. Then Billy +lifted his horn and made ready to give a little soft +grunt, to see if the moose wouldn't move along a bit, +just to oblige us. But as Billy drew in his breath, one +of those fool flies that are always blundering around +a man's face flew straight down his throat. Instead +of a call he burst out with a furious, strangling fit of +coughing. The moose gave a snort, and a wild leap +in the water, and galloped away under the bank, the +way he had come. Mac and I both fired at his vanishing +ears and horns, but of course——"</p> + +<p>"All Aboooard!" The conductor's shout rang +along the platform.</p> + +<p>"Line's clear," exclaimed McLeod, rising. "Noo +we'll be off! Wull ye stay here wi' me, or gang awa' +back to yer bed?"</p> + +<p>"Here," answered Hemenway, not budging from +his place on the bench.</p> + +<p>The bell clanged, and the powerful machine puffed +out on its flaring way through the night. Faster and +faster came the big explosive breaths, until they +blended in a long steady roar, and the train was sweeping +northward at forty miles an hour. The clouds had +broken; the night had grown colder; the gibbous moon +gleamed over the vast and solitary landscape. It was +a different thing to Hemenway, riding in the cab of +the locomotive, from an ordinary journey in the passenger +car or an unconscious ride in the sleeper. Here +he was on the crest of motion, at the forefront of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +speed, and the quivering engine with the long train +behind it seemed like a living creature leaping along +the track. It responded to the labor of the fireman +and the touch of the engineer almost as if it could +think and feel. Its pace quickened without a jar; its +great eye pierced the silvery space of moonlight with +a shaft of blazing yellow; the rails sang before it and +trembled behind it; it was an obedient and joyful monster, +conquering distance and devouring darkness.</p> + +<p>On the wide level barrens beyond the Tête-á-Gouche +River the locomotive reached its best speed, purring +like a huge cat and running smoothly. McLeod leaned +back on his bench with a satisfied air.</p> + +<p>"She's doin' fine, the nicht," said he. "Ah'm +thinkin', whiles, o' yer auld Seelverhorrns. Whaur is +he noo? Awa' up on Higan' Pond, gallantin' around +i' the licht o' the mune wi' a lady moose, an' the gladness +juist bubblin' in his hairt. Ye're no sorry that +he's leevin' yet, are ye, Dud?"</p> + +<p>"Well," answered Hemenway slowly, between the +puffs of his pipe, "I can't say I'm sorry that he's alive +and happy, though I'm not glad that I lost him. But +he did his best, the old rogue; he played a good game, +and he deserved to win. Where he is now nobody can +tell. He was traveling like a streak of lightning when +I last saw him. By this time he may be——"</p> + +<p>"What's yon?" cried McLeod, springing up. Far +ahead, in the narrow apex of the converging rails +stood a black form, motionless, mysterious. McLeod<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> +grasped the whistle cord. The black form loomed +higher in the moonlight and was clearly silhouetted +against the horizon—a big moose standing across the +track. They could see his grotesque head, his shadowy +horns, high, sloping shoulders. The engineer pulled +the cord. The whistle shrieked loud and long.</p> + +<p>The moose turned and faced the sound. The glare +of the headlight fascinated, challenged, angered him. +There he stood defiant, front feet planted wide apart, +head lowered, gazing steadily at the unknown enemy +that was rushing toward him. He was the monarch +of the wilderness. There was nothing in the world +that he feared, except those strange-smelling little +beasts on two legs who crept around through the woods +and shot fire out of sticks. This was surely not one +of those treacherous animals, but some strange new +creature that dared to shriek at him and try to drive +him out of its way. He would not move. He would +try his strength against this big yellow-eyed beast.</p> + +<p>"Losh!" cried McLeod; "he's gaun' to fecht us!" +and he dropped the cord, grabbed the levers, and threw +the steam off and the brakes on hard. The heavy train +slid groaning and jarring along the track. The moose +never stirred. The fire smoldered in his small narrow +eyes. His black crest was bristling. As the engine +bore down upon him, not a rod away, he reared high +in the air, his antlers flashing in the blaze, and struck +full at the headlight with his immense fore feet. There +was a shattering of glass, a crash, a heavy shock, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> +the train slid on through the darkness, lit only by the +moon.</p> + +<p>Thirty or forty yards beyond, the momentum was +exhausted and the engine came to a stop. Hemenway +and McLeod clambered down and ran back, with the +other trainmen and a few of the passengers. The +moose was lying in the ditch beside the track, stone +dead and frightfully shattered. But the great head +and the vast spreading antlers were intact.</p> + +<p>"Seelverhorrns, sure enough!" said McLeod, bending +over him. "He was crossin' frae the Nepisiguit +to the Jacquet; but he didna get across. Weel, Dud, +are ye glad? Ye hae kilt yer first moose!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Hemenway, "it's my first moose. But +it's your first moose, too. And I think it's our last. +Ye gods, what a fighter!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i031.png" width="500" height="341" alt="On the trail" title="On the trail" /> +</div> + + +<h2>II.—The Wild-Horse Hunter<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></h2> + +<h3><i>By Zane Grey</i></h3> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<div class='cap'>Three wild-horse hunters made camp one +night beside a little stream in the Sevier Valley, +five hundred miles, as a crow flies, from +Bostil's Ford.</div> + +<p>These hunters had a poor outfit, excepting, of course, +their horses. They were young men, rangy in build, +lean and hard from life in the saddle, bronzed like +Indians, still-faced, and keen-eyed. Two of them appeared +to be tired out, and lagged at the camp-fire +duties. When the meager meal was prepared they sat, +cross-legged, before a ragged tarpaulin, eating and +drinking in silence.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p> +<p>The sky in the west was rosy, slowly darkening. +The valley floor billowed away, ridged and cut, growing +gray and purple and dark. Walls of stone, pink +with the last rays of the setting sun, inclosed the valley, +stretching away toward a long, low, black mountain +range.</p> + +<p>The place was wild, beautiful, open, with something +nameless that made the desert different from any other +country. It was, perhaps, a loneliness of vast stretches +of valley and stone, clear to the eye, even after sunset. +That black mountain range, which looked close enough +to ride to before dark, was a hundred miles distant.</p> + +<p>The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by +the time the hunters finished the meal. Then the camp +fire had burned low. One of the three dragged +branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire. +Quickly it flared up, with the white flame and crackle +characteristic of dry cedar. The night wind had risen, +moaning through the gnarled, stunted cedars near by, +and it blew the fragrant wood smoke into the +faces of the two hunters, who seemed too tired to +move.</p> + +<p>"I reckon a pipe would help me make up my mind," +said one.</p> + +<p>"Wal, Bill," replied the other, dryly, "your mind's +made up, else you'd not say smoke."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because there ain't three pipefuls of thet precious +tobacco left."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Thet's one apiece, then. . . . Lin, come an' +smoke the last pipe with us."</p> + +<p>The tallest of the three, he who had brought the firewood, +stood in the bright light of the blaze. He looked +the born rider, light, lithe, powerful.</p> + +<p>"Sure, I'll smoke," he replied.</p> + +<p>Then, presently, he accepted the pipe tendered him, +and, sitting down beside the fire, he composed himself +to the enjoyment which his companions evidently considered +worthy of a decision they had reached.</p> + +<p>"So this smokin' means you both want to turn +back?" queried Lin, his sharp gaze glancing darkly +bright in the glow of the fire.</p> + +<p>"Yep, we'll turn back. An', Gee! the relief I +feel!" replied one.</p> + +<p>"We've been long comin' to it, Lin, an' thet was +for your sake," replied the other.</p> + +<p>Lin slowly pulled at his pipe and blew out the smoke +as if reluctant to part with it. "Let's go on," he said, +quietly.</p> + +<p>"No. I've had all I want of chasin' thet wild stallion," +returned Bill, shortly.</p> + +<p>The other spread wide his hands and bent an expostulating +look upon the one called Lin. "We're two +hundred miles out," he said. "There's only a little +flour left in the bag. No coffee! Only a little salt! +All the hosses except your big Nagger are played out. +We're already in strange country. An' you know +what we've heerd of this an' all to the south. It's all<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> +cañons, an' somewheres down there is thet awful +cañon none of our people ever seen. But we've heerd +of it. An awful cut-up country."</p> + +<p>He finished with a conviction that no one could say +a word against the common sense of his argument. +Lin was silent, as if impressed.</p> + +<p>Bill raised a strong, lean, brown hand in a forcible +gesture. "We can't ketch Wildfire!"</p> + +<p>That seemed to him, evidently, a more convincing +argument than his comrade's.</p> + +<p>"Bill is sure right, if I'm wrong, which I ain't," +went on the other. "Lin, we've trailed thet wild stallion +for six weeks. Thet's the longest chase he ever +had. He's left his old range. He's cut out his band, +an' left them, one by one. We've tried every trick +we know on him. An' he's too smart for us. There's +a hoss! Why, Lin, we're all but gone to the dogs +chasin' Wildfire. An' now I'm done, an' I'm glad of +it."</p> + +<p>There was another short silence, which presently +Bill opened his lips to break.</p> + +<p>"Lin, it makes me sick to quit. I ain't denyin' thet +for a long time I've had hopes of ketchin' Wildfire. +He's the grandest hoss I ever laid eyes on. I reckon +no man, onless he was an Arab, ever seen as good a +one. But now thet's neither here nor there. . . . +We've got to hit the back trail."</p> + +<p>"Boys, I reckon I'll stick to Wildfire's tracks," said +Lin, in the same quiet tone.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p> + +<p>Bill swore at him, and the other hunter grew excited +and concerned.</p> + +<p>"Lin Slone, are you gone plumb crazy over thet red +hoss?"</p> + +<p>"I—reckon," replied Slone. The working of his +throat as he swallowed could be plainly seen by his +companions.</p> + +<p>Bill looked at his ally as if to confirm some sudden +understanding between them. They took Slone's attitude +gravely and they wagged their heads doubtfully. . . . +It was significant of the nature of riders that they +accepted his attitude and had consideration for his +feelings. For them the situation subtly changed. For +weeks they had been three wild-horse wranglers on a +hard chase after a valuable stallion. They had failed +to get even close to him. They had gone to the limit +of their endurance and of the outfit, and it was time to +turn back. But Slone had conceived that strange and +rare longing for a horse—a passion understood, if +not shared, by all riders. And they knew that he would +catch Wildfire or die in the attempt. From that moment +their attitude toward Slone changed as subtly +as had come the knowledge of his feeling. The gravity +and gloom left their faces. It seemed they might +have regretted what they had said about the futility +of catching Wildfire. They did not want Slone to +see or feel the hopelessness of his task.</p> + +<p>"I tell you, Lin," said Bill, "your hoss Nagger's as +good as when we started."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Aw, he's better," vouchsafed the other rider. +"Nagger needed to lose some weight. Lin, have you +got an extra set of shoes for him?"</p> + +<p>"No full set. Only three left," replied Lin, soberly.</p> + +<p>"Wal, thet's enough. You can keep Nagger shod. +An' <i>mebbe</i> thet red stallion will get sore feet an' go +lame. Then you'd stand a chance."</p> + +<p>"But Wildfire keeps travelin' the valleys—the soft +ground," said Slone.</p> + +<p>"No matter. He's leavin' the country, an' he's +bound to strike sandstone sooner or later. Then, by +gosh! mebbe he'll wear off them hoofs."</p> + +<p>"Say, can't he ring bells offen the rocks?" exclaimed +Bill.</p> + +<p>"Boys, do you think he's leavin' the country?" inquired +Slone, anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Sure he is," replied Bill. "He ain't the first stallion +I've chased off the Sevier range. An' I know. +It's a stallion thet makes for new country, when you +push him hard."</p> + +<p>"Yep, Lin, he's sure leavin'," added the other comrade. +"Why, he's traveled a bee line for days! I'll +bet he's seen us many a time. Wildfire's about as +smart as any man. He was born wild, an' his dam was +born wild, an' there you have it. The wildest of all +wild creatures—a wild stallion, with the intelligence +of a man! A grand hoss, Lin, but one thet has killed +stallions all over the Sevier range. A wild stallion<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +thet's a killer! I never liked him for thet. Could he +be broke?"</p> + +<p>"I'll break him," said Lin Slone, grimly. "It's +gettin' him thet's the job. I've got patience to break +a hoss. But patience can't catch a streak of lightnin'."</p> + +<p>"Nope; you're right," replied Bill. "If you have +some luck you'll get him—mebbe. If he wears out +his feet, or if you crowd him into a narrow cañon, or +run him into a bad place where he can't get by you. +Thet might happen. An' then, with Nagger, you stand +a chance. Did you ever tire thet hoss?"</p> + +<p>"Not yet."</p> + +<p>"An' how fur did you ever run him without a +break? Why, when we ketched thet sorrel last year +I rode Nagger myself—thirty miles, most at a hard +gallop. An' he never turned a hair!"</p> + +<p>"I've beat thet," replied Lin. "He could run hard +fifty miles—mebbe more. Honestly, I never seen +him tired yet. If only he was fast!"</p> + +<p>"Wal, Nagger ain't so slow, come to think of thet," +replied Bill, with a grunt. "He's good enough for +you not to want another hoss."</p> + +<p>"Lin, you're goin' to wear out Wildfire, an' then +trap him somehow—is thet the plan?" asked the other +comrade.</p> + +<p>"I haven't any plan. I'll just trail him, like a +cougar trails a deer."</p> + +<p>"Lin, if Wildfire gives you the slip he'll have to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +fly. You've got the best eyes for tracks of any +wrangler in Utah."</p> + +<p>Slone accepted the compliment with a fleeting, doubtful +smile on his dark face. He did not reply, and no +more was said by his comrades. They rolled with +backs to the fire. Slone put on more wood, for the +keen wind was cold and cutting; and then he lay down, +his head on his saddle, with a goatskin under him and +a saddle blanket over him.</p> + +<p>All three were soon asleep. The wind whipped the +sand and ashes and smoke over the sleepers. Coyotes +barked from near in darkness, and from the valley +ridge came the faint mourn of a hunting wolf. The +desert night grew darker and colder.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The Stewart brothers were wild-horse hunters for +the sake of trades and occasional sales. But Lin Slone +never traded nor sold a horse he had captured. The +excitement of the game, and the lure of the desert, +and the love of a horse were what kept him at the +profitless work. His type was rare in the uplands.</p> + +<p>These were the early days of the settlement of Utah, +and only a few of the hardiest and most adventurous +pioneers had penetrated the desert in the southern part +of that vast upland. And with them came some of +that wild breed of riders to which Slone and the Stewarts +belonged. Horses were really more important and +necessary than men; and this singular fact gave these +lonely riders a calling.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p> + +<p>Before the Spaniards came there were no horses in +the West. Those explorers left or lost horses all over +the southwest. Many of them were Arabian horses of +purest blood. American explorers and travelers, at +the outset of the nineteenth century, encountered countless +droves of wild horses all over the plains. Across +the Grand Cañon, however, wild horses were comparatively +few in number in the early days; and these had +probably come in by way of California.</p> + +<p>The Stewarts and Slone had no established mode of +catching wild horses. The game had not developed +fast enough for that. Every chase of horse or drove +was different; and once in many attempts they met +with success.</p> + +<p>A favorite method originated by the Stewarts was +to find a water hole frequented by the band of horses +or the stallion wanted, and to build round this hole a +corral with an opening for the horses to get in. Then +the hunters would watch the trap at night, and if the +horses went in to drink, a gate was closed across the +opening.</p> + +<p>Another method of the Stewarts was to trail a +coveted horse up on a mesa or highland, places which +seldom had more than one trail of ascent and descent, +and there block the escape, and cut lines of cedars, into +which the quarry was run till captured. Still another +method, discovered by accident, was to shoot a horse +lightly in the neck and sting him. This last, called +creasing, was seldom successful, and for that matter in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> +any method ten times as many horses were killed as +captured.</p> + +<p>Lin Slone helped the Stewarts in their own way, +but he had no especial liking for their tricks. Perhaps +a few remarkable captures of remarkable horses +had spoiled Slone. He was always trying what the +brothers claimed to be impossible. He was a fearless +rider, but he had the fault of saving his mount, and +to kill a wild horse was a tragedy for him. He would +much rather have hunted alone, and he had been alone +on the trail of the stallion Wildfire when the Stewarts +had joined him.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Lin Slone awoke next morning and rolled out of +his blanket at his usual early hour. But he was not +early enough to say good-by to the Stewarts. They +were gone.</p> + +<p>The fact surprised him and somehow relieved him. +They had left him more than his share of the outfit, +and perhaps that was why they had slipped off before +dawn. They knew him well enough to know that he +would not have accepted it. Besides, perhaps they felt +a little humiliation at abandoning a chase which he +chose to keep up. Anyway, they were gone, apparently +without breakfast.</p> + +<p>The morning was clear, cool, with the air dark like +that before a storm, and in the east, over the steely +wall of stone, shone a redness growing brighter.</p> + +<p>Slone looked away to the west, down the trail taken<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> +by his comrades, but he saw nothing moving against +that cedar-dotted waste.</p> + +<p>"Good-by," he said, and he spoke as if he was saying +good-by to more than comrades.</p> + +<p>"I reckon I won't see Sevier Village soon again—an' +maybe never," he soliloquized.</p> + +<p>There was no one to regret him, unless it was old +Mother Hall, who had been kind to him on those rare +occasions when he got out of the wilderness. Still, it +was with regret that he gazed away across the red +valley to the west. Slone had no home. His father +and mother had been lost in the massacre of a wagon +train by Indians, and he had been one of the few +saved and brought to Salt Lake. That had happened +when he was ten years old. His life thereafter had +been hard, and but for his sturdy Texas training he +might not have survived. The last five years he had +been a horse hunter in the wild uplands of Nevada and +Utah.</p> + +<p>Slone turned his attention to the pack of supplies. +The Stewarts had divided the flour and the parched +corn equally, and unless he was greatly mistaken +they had left him most of the coffee and all of the +salt.</p> + +<p>"Now I hold that decent of Bill an' Abe," said +Slone, regretfully. "But I could have got along without +it better 'n they could."</p> + +<p>Then he swiftly set about kindling a fire and getting +a meal. In the midst of his task a sudden ruddy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> +brightness fell around him. Lin Slone paused in his +work to look up.</p> + +<p>The sun had risen over the eastern wall.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" he said, and drew a deep breath.</p> + +<p>The cold, steely, darkling sweep of desert had been +transformed. It was now a world of red earth and +gold rocks and purple sage, with everywhere the endless +straggling green cedars. A breeze whipped in, +making the fire roar softly. The sun felt warm on his +cheek. And at the moment he heard the whistle of +his horse.</p> + +<p>"Good old Nagger!" he said. "I shore won't +have to track you this mornin'."</p> + +<p>Presently he went off into the cedars to find <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Naggar'">Nagger</ins> +and the mustang that he used to carry a pack. Nagger +was grazing in a little open patch among the trees, but +the pack horse was missing. Slone seemed to know +in what direction to go to find the trail, for he came +upon it very soon. The pack horse wore hobbles, but +he belonged to the class that could cover a great deal +of ground when hobbled. Slone did not expect the +horse to go far, considering that the grass thereabouts +was good. But in a wild-horse country it was not +safe to give any horse a chance. The call of his wild +brethren was irresistible. Slone, however, found the +mustang standing quietly in a clump of cedars, and, +removing the hobbles, he mounted and rode back to +camp. Nagger caught sight of him and came at his +call.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> + +<p>This horse Nagger appeared as unique in his class +as Slone was rare among riders. Nagger seemed of +several colors, though black predominated. His coat +was shaggy, almost woolly, like that of a sheep. He +was huge, raw-boned, knotty, long of body and long +of leg, with the head of a war charger. His build +did not suggest speed. There appeared to be something +slow and ponderous about him, similar to an +elephant, with the same suggestion of power and endurance.</p> + +<p>Slone discarded the pack saddle and bags. The latter +were almost empty. He roped the tarpaulin on +the back of the mustang, and, making a small bundle +of his few supplies, he tied that to the tarpaulin. His +blanket he used for a saddle blanket on Nagger. Of +the utensils left by the Stewarts he chose a couple of +small iron pans, with long handles. The rest he left. +In his saddle bags he had a few extra horseshoes, +some nails, bullets for his rifle, and a knife with a heavy +blade.</p> + +<p>"Not a rich outfit for a far country," he mused. +Slone did not talk very much, and when he did he addressed +Nagger and himself simultaneously. Evidently +he expected a long chase, one from which he +would not return, and light as his outfit was it would +grow too heavy.</p> + +<p>Then he mounted and rode down the gradual slope, +facing the valley and the black, bold, flat mountain to +the southeast. Some few hundred yards from camp he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> +halted Nagger and bent over in the saddle to scrutinize +the ground.</p> + +<p>The clean-cut track of a horse showed in the bare, +hard sand. The hoof marks were large, almost oval, +perfect in shape, and manifestly they were beautiful to +Lin Slone. He gazed at them for a long time, and then +he looked across the dotted red valley up to the vast +ridgy steppes, toward the black plateau and beyond. +It was the look that an Indian gives to a strange country. +Then Slone slipped off the saddle and knelt to +scrutinize the horse tracks. A little sand had blown +into the depressions, and some of it was wet and some +of it was dry. He took his time about examining it, +and he even tried gently blowing other sand into the +tracks, to compare that with what was already there. +Finally he stood up and addressed Nagger.</p> + +<p>"Reckon we won't have to argue with Abe an' Bill +this mornin'," he said, with satisfaction. "Wildfire +made that track yesterday, before sunup."</p> + +<p>Thereupon Slone remounted and put Nagger to a +trot. The pack horse followed with an alacrity that +showed he had no desire for loneliness.</p> + +<p>As straight as a bee line Wildfire had left a trail +down into the floor of the valley. He had not stopped +to graze, and he had not looked for water. Slone had +hoped to find a water hole in one of the deep washes +in the red earth, but if there had been any water there +Wildfire would have scented it. He had not had a +drink for three days that Slone knew of. And Nagger<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> +had not drunk for forty hours. Slone had a canvas +water bag hanging over the pommel, but it was a +habit of his to deny himself, as far as possible, till his +horse could drink also. Like an Indian, Slone ate and +drank but little.</p> + +<p>It took four hours of steady trotting to reach the +middle and bottom of that wide, flat valley. A network +of washes cut up the whole center of it, and they +were all as dry as bleached bone. To cross these +Slone had only to keep Wildfire's trail. And it was +proof of Nagger's quality that he did not have to veer +from the stallion's course.</p> + +<p>It was hot down in the lowland. The heat struck +up, reflected from the sand. But it was a March sun, +and no more than pleasant to Slone. The wind rose, +however, and blew dust and sand in the faces of horse +and rider. Except lizards Slone did not see any living +things.</p> + +<p>Miles of low greasewood and sparse yellow sage +led to the first almost imperceptible rise of the valley +floor on that side. The distant cedars beckoned to +Slone. He was not patient, because he was on the +trail of Wildfire; but, nevertheless, the hours seemed +short.</p> + +<p>Slone had no past to think about, and the future held +nothing except a horse, and so his thoughts revolved +the possibilities connected with this chase of Wildfire. +The chase was hopeless in such country as he was +traversing, and if Wildfire chose to roam around valleys<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +like this one Slone would fail utterly. But the +stallion had long ago left his band of horses, and then, +one by one his favorite consorts, and now he was alone, +headed with unerring instinct for wild, untrammeled +ranges. He had been used to the pure, cold water and +the succulent grass of the cold desert uplands. Assuredly +he would not tarry in such barren lands as these.</p> + +<p>For Slone an ever-present and growing fascination +lay in Wildfire's clear, sharply defined tracks. It was +as if every hoof mark told him something. Once, far +up the interminable ascent, he found on a ridge top +tracks showing where Wildfire had halted and turned.</p> + +<p>"Ha, Nagger!" cried Slone, exultingly. "Look +there! He's begun facin' about. He's wonderin' if +we're still after him. He's worried. . . . But we'll +keep out of sight—a day behind."</p> + +<p>When Slone reached the cedars the sun was low +down in the west. He looked back across the fifty +miles of valley to the colored cliffs and walls. He +seemed to be above them now, and the cool air, with +tang of cedar and juniper, strengthened the impression +that he had climbed high.</p> + +<p>A mile or more ahead of him rose a gray cliff with +breaks in it and a line of dark cedars or piñons on the +level rims. He believed these breaks to be the mouths +of cañons, and so it turned out. Wildfire's trail led +into the mouth of a narrow cañon with very steep and +high walls. Nagger snorted his perception of water, +and the mustang whistled. Wildfire's tracks led to a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +point under the wall where a spring gushed forth. +There were mountain lion and deer tracks also, as well +as those of smaller game.</p> + +<p>Slone made camp here. The mustang was tired. +But Nagger, upon taking a long drink, rolled in the +grass as if he had just begun the trip. After eating, +Slone took his rifle and went out to look for deer. +But there appeared to be none at hand. He came +across many lion tracks, and saw, with apprehension, +where one had taken Wildfire's trail. Wildfire had +grazed up the cañon, keeping on and on, and he was +likely to go miles in a night. Slone reflected that as +small as were his own chances of getting Wildfire, they +were still better than those of a mountain lion. +Wildfire was the most cunning of all animals—a wild +stallion; his speed and endurance were incomparable; +his scent as keen as those animals that relied wholly +upon scent to warn them of danger; and as for sight, +it was Slone's belief that no hoofed creature, except the +mountain sheep used to high altitudes, could see as far +as a wild horse.</p> + +<p>It bothered Slone a little that he was getting into a +lion country. Nagger showed nervousness, something +unusual for him. Slone tied both horses with long +halters and stationed them on patches of thick grass. +Then he put a cedar stump on the fire and went to +sleep. Upon awakening and going to the spring he +was somewhat chagrined to see that deer had come +down to drink early. Evidently they were numerous.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> +A lion country was always a deer country, for the +lions followed the deer.</p> + +<p>Slone was packed and saddled and on his way before +the sun reddened the cañon wall. He walked the +horses. From time to time he saw signs of Wildfire's +consistent progress. The cañon narrowed and the +walls grew lower and the grass increased. There was +a decided ascent all the time. Slone could find no evidence +that the cañon had ever been traveled by hunters +or Indians. The day was pleasant and warm and still. +Every once in a while a little breath of wind would +bring a fragrance of cedar and piñon, and a sweet hint +of pine and sage. At every turn he looked ahead, expecting +to see the green of pine and the gray of sage. +Toward the middle of the afternoon, coming to a place +where Wildfire had taken to a trot, he put Nagger to +that gait, and by sundown had worked up to where +the cañon was only a shallow ravine. And finally it +turned once more, to lose itself in a level where straggling +pines stood high above the cedars, and great, +dark-green silver spruces stood above the pines. And +here were patches of sage, fresh and pungent, and long +reaches of bleached grass. It was the edge of a forest. +Wildfire's trail went on. Slone came at length +to a group of pines, and here he found the remains of +a camp fire, and some flint arrow-heads. Indians had +been in there, probably having come from the opposite +direction to Slone's. This encouraged him, for where +Indians could hunt so could he. Soon he was entering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +a forest where cedars and piñons and pines began to +grow thickly. Presently he came upon a faintly defined +trail, just a dim, dark line even to an experienced +eye. But it was a trail, and Wildfire had taken it.</p> + +<p>Slone halted for the night. The air was cold. And +the dampness of it gave him an idea there were snow +banks somewhere not far distant. The dew was already +heavy on the grass. He hobbled the horses and +put a bell on Nagger. A bell might frighten lions that +had never heard one. Then he built a fire and cooked +his meal.</p> + +<p>It had been long since he had camped high up among +the pines. The sough of the wind pleased him, like +music. There had begun to be prospects of pleasant +experience along with the toil of chasing Wildfire. +He was entering new and strange and beautiful country. +How far might the chase take him? He did not +care. He was not sleepy, but even if he had been it +developed that he must wait till the coyotes ceased +their barking round his camp fire. They came so close +that he saw their gray shadows in the gloom. But +presently they wearied of yelping at him and went +away. After that the silence, broken only by the wind +as it roared and lulled, seemed beautiful to Slone. He +lost completely that sense of vague regret which had +remained with him, and he forgot the Stewarts. And +suddenly he felt absolutely free, alone, with nothing +behind to remember, with wild, thrilling, nameless life +before him. Just then the long mourn of a timber<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> +wolf wailed in with the wind. Seldom had he heard +the cry of one of those night wanderers. There was +nothing like it—no sound like it to fix in the lone +camper's heart the great solitude and the wild.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>In the early morning when all was gray and the big, +dark pines were shadowy specters, Slone was awakened +by the cold. His hands were so numb that he had +difficulty starting a fire. He stood over the blaze, +warming them. The air was nipping, clear and thin, +and sweet with frosty fragrance.</p> + +<p>Daylight came while he was in the midst of his +morning meal. A white frost covered the ground and +crackled under his feet as he went out to bring in the +horses. He saw fresh deer tracks. Then he went +back to camp for his rifle. Keeping a sharp lookout +for game, he continued his search for the horses.</p> + +<p>The forest was open and parklike. There were no +fallen trees or evidences of fire. Presently he came to +a wide glade in the midst of which Nagger and the +pack mustang were grazing with a herd of deer. The +size of the latter amazed Slone. The deer he had +hunted back on the Sevier range were much smaller +than these. Evidently these were mule deer, closely +allied to the elk. They were so tame they stood facing +him curiously, with long ears erect. It was sheer murder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +to kill a deer standing and watching like that, but +Slone was out of meat and hungry and facing a long, +hard trip. He shot a buck, which leaped spasmodically +away, trying to follow the herd, and fell at the edge of +the glade. Slone cut out a haunch, and then, catching +the horses, he returned to camp, where he packed and +saddled, and at once rode out on the dim trail.</p> + +<p>The wilderness of the country he was entering was +evident in the fact that as he passed the glade where +he had shot the deer a few minutes before, there were +coyotes quarreling over the carcass.</p> + +<p>Slone could see ahead and on each side several hundred +yards, and presently he ascertained that the forest +floor was not so level as he had supposed. He had entered +a valley or was traversing a wide, gently sloping +pass. He went through thickets of juniper, and had +to go around clumps of quaking asp. The pines grew +larger and farther apart. Cedars and piñons had been +left behind, and he had met with no silver spruces after +leaving camp. Probably that point was the height of +a divide. There were banks of snow in some of the +hollows on the north side. Evidently the snow had +very recently melted, and it was evident also that the +depth of snow through here had been fully ten feet, +judging from the mutilation of the juniper trees where +the deer, standing on the hard, frozen crust, had +browsed upon the branches.</p> + +<p>The quiet of the forest thrilled Slone. And the only +movement was the occasional gray flash of a deer or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> +coyote across a glade. No birds of any species crossed +Slone's sight. He came, presently, upon a lion track +in the trail, made probably a day before. Slone grew +curious about it, seeing how it held, as he was holding, +to Wildfire's tracks. After a mile or so he made sure +the lion had been trailing the stallion, and for a second +he felt a cold contraction of his heart. Already he +loved Wildfire, and by virtue of all this toil of travel +considered the wild horse his property.</p> + +<p>"No lion could ever get close to Wildfire," he soliloquized, +with a short laugh. Of that he was absolutely +certain.</p> + +<p>The sun rose, melting the frost, and a breath of +warm air, laden with the scent of pine, moved heavily +under the huge, yellow trees. Slone passed a point +where the remains of an old camp fire and a pile of deer +antlers were further proof that Indians visited this +plateau to hunt. From this camp broader, more deeply +defined trails led away to the south and east. Slone +kept to the east trail, in which Wildfire's tracks and +those of the lion showed clearly. It was about the +middle of the forenoon when the tracks of the stallion +and lion left the trail to lead up a little draw where grass +grew thick. Slone followed, reading the signs of +Wildfire's progress, and the action of his pursuer, as +well as if he had seen them. Here the stallion had +plowed into a snow bank, eating a hole two feet deep; +then he had grazed around a little; then on and on; +there his splendid tracks were deep in the soft earth.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> +Slone knew what to expect when the track of the lion +veered from those of the horse, and he followed the +lion tracks. The ground was soft from the late melting +of snow, and Nagger sunk deep. The lion left a +plain track. Here he stole steadily along; there he left +many tracks at a point where he might have halted to +make sure of his scent. He was circling on the trail +of the stallion, with cunning intent of ambush. The +end of this slow, careful stalk of the lion, as told in his +tracks, came upon the edge of a knoll where he had +crouched to watch and wait. From this perch he had +made a magnificent spring—Slone estimating it to be +forty feet—but he had missed the stallion. There +were Wildfire's tracks again, slow and short, and then +deep and sharp where in the impetus of fright he had +sprung out of reach. A second leap of the lion, and +then lessening bounds, and finally an abrupt turn from +Wildfire's trail told the futility of that stalk. Slone +made certain that Wildfire was so keen that as he +grazed along he had kept to open ground.</p> + +<p>Wildfire had run for a mile, then slowed down to a +trot, and he had circled to get back to the trail he had +left. Slone believed the horse was just so intelligent. +At any rate, Wildfire struck the trail again, and turned +at right angles to follow it.</p> + +<p>Here the forest floor appeared perfectly level. +Patches of snow became frequent, and larger as Slone +went on. At length the patches closed up, and soon +extended as far as he could see. It was soft, affording<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> +difficult travel. Slone crossed hundreds of deer tracks, +and the trail he was on evidently became a deer runway.</p> + +<p>Presently, far down one of the aisles between the +great pines Slone saw what appeared to be a yellow +cliff, far away. It puzzled him. And as he went on +he received the impression that the forest dropped out +of sight ahead. Then the trees grew thicker, obstructing +his view. Presently the trail became soggy and he +had to help his horse. The mustang floundered in the +soft snow and earth. Cedars and piñons appeared +again, making travel still more laborious.</p> + +<p>All at once there came to Slone a strange consciousness +of light and wind and space and void. On the +instant his horse halted with a snort. Slone quickly +looked up. Had he come to the end of the world? An +abyss, a cañon, yawned beneath him, beyond all comparison +in its greatness. His keen eye, educated to +desert distance and dimension swept down and across, +taking in the tremendous truth, before it staggered his +comprehension. But a second sweeping glance, slower, +becoming intoxicated with what it beheld, saw gigantic +cliff steppes and yellow slopes dotted with cedars, leading +down to clefts filled with purple smoke, and these +led on and on to a ragged red world of rock, bare, shining, +bold, uplifted in mesa, dome, peak, and crag, clear +and strange in the morning light, still and sleeping like +death.</p> + +<p>This, then, was the great cañon, which had seemed +like a hunter's fable rather than truth. Slone's sight<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> +dimmed, blurring the spectacle, and he found that his +eyes had filled with tears. He wiped them away and +looked again and again, until he was confounded by +the vastness and grandeur and the vague sadness of the +scene. Nothing he had ever looked at had affected +him like this cañon, although the Stewarts had tried +to prepare him for it.</p> + +<p>It was the horse hunter's passion that reminded him +of his pursuit. The deer trail led down through a +break in the wall. Only a few rods of it could be seen. +This trail was passable, even though choked with snow. +But the depth beyond this wall seemed to fascinate +Slone and hold him back, used as he was to desert +trails. Then the clean mark of Wildfire's hoof brought +back the old thrill.</p> + +<p>"This place fits you, Wildfire," muttered Slone, dismounting.</p> + +<p>He started down, leading Nagger. The mustang +followed. Slone kept to the wall side of the trail, +fearing the horses might slip. The snow held firmly +at first and Slone had no trouble. The gap in the rim +rock widened to a slope thickly grown over with cedars +and piñons and manzanita. This growth made the +descent more laborious, yet afforded means at least for +Slone to go down with less danger. There was no +stopping. Once started, the horses had to keep on. +Slone saw the impossibility of ever climbing out while +that snow was there. The trail zigzagged down and +down. Very soon the yellow wall hung tremendously<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> +over him, straight up. The snow became thinner and +softer. The horses began to slip. They slid on their +haunches. Fortunately the slope grew less steep, and +Slone could see below where it reached out to comparatively +level ground. Still, a mishap might yet occur. +Slone kept as close to Nagger as possible, helping him +whenever he could do it. The mustang slipped, rolled +over, and then slipped past Slone, went down the slope +to bring up in a cedar. Slone worked down to him and +extricated him. Then the huge Nagger began to slide. +Snow and loose rock slid with him, and so did Slone. +The little avalanche stopped of its own accord, and +then Slone dragged Nagger on down and down, presently +to come to the end of the steep descent. Slone +looked up to see that he had made short work of a +thousand-foot slope. Here cedars and piñons grew +thickly enough to make a forest. The snow thinned +out to patches, and then failed. But the going remained +bad for a while as the horses sank deep in a +soft red earth. This eventually grew more solid and +finally dry. Slone worked out of the cedars to what +appeared a grassy plateau inclosed by the great green +and white slope with its yellow wall overhanging, and +distant mesas and cliffs. Here his view was restricted. +He was down on the first bench of the great cañon. +And there was the deer trail, a well-worn path keeping +to the edge of the slope. Slone came to a deep cut in +the earth, and the trail headed it, where it began at the +last descent of the slope. It was the source of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +cañon. He could look down to see the bare, worn +rock, and a hundred yards from where he stood the +earth was washed from its rims and it began to show +depth and something of that ragged outline which told +of violence of flood. The trail headed many cañons +like this, all running down across this bench, disappearing, +dropping invisibly. The trail swung to the +left under the great slope, and then presently it climbed +to a higher bench. Here were brush and grass and +huge patches of sage, so pungent that it stung Slone's +nostrils. Then he went down again, this time to come +to a clear brook lined by willows. Here the horses +drank long and Slone refreshed himself. The sun had +grown hot. There was fragrance of flowers he could +not see and a low murmur of a waterfall that was likewise +invisible. For most of the time his view was +shut off, but occasionally he reached a point where +through some break he saw towers gleaming red in the +sun. A strange place, a place of silence, and smoky +veils in the distance. Time passed swiftly. Toward +the waning of the afternoon he began to climb what +appeared to be a saddle of land, connecting the cañon +wall on the left with a great plateau, gold-rimmed and +pine-fringed, rising more and more in his way as he +advanced. At sunset Slone was more shut in than for +several hours. He could tell the time was sunset by the +golden light on the cliff wall again overhanging him. +The slope was gradual up to this pass to the saddle, +and upon coming to a spring and the first pine trees, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> +decided to halt for camp. The mustang was almost +exhausted.</p> + +<p>Thereupon he hobbled the horses in the luxuriant +grass round the spring, and then unrolled his pack. +Once as dusk came stealing down, while he was eating +his meal, Nagger whistled in fright. Slone saw a +gray, pantherish form gliding away into the shadows. +He took a quick shot at it, but missed.</p> + +<p>"It's a lion country, all right," he said. And then +he set about building a big fire on the other side of the +grassy plot, so as to have the horses between fires. He +cut all the venison into thin strips, and spent an hour +roasting them. Then he lay down to rest, and he +said: "Wonder where Wildfire is to-night? Am I +closer to him? Where's he headin' for?"</p> + +<p>The night was warm and still. It was black near +the huge cliff, and overhead velvety blue, with stars +of white fire. It seemed to him that he had become +more thoughtful and observing of the aspects of his +wild environment, and he felt a welcome consciousness +of loneliness. Then sleep came to him and the night +seemed short. In the gray dawn he arose refreshed.</p> + +<p>The horses were restive. Nagger snorted a welcome. +Evidently they had passed an uneasy night. +Slone found lion tracks at the spring and in sandy +places. Presently he was on his way up to the notch +between the great wall and the plateau. A growth of +thick scrub oak made travel difficult. It had not appeared +far up to that saddle, but it was far. There<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> +were straggling pine trees and huge rocks that obstructed +his gaze. But once up he saw that the saddle +was only a narrow ridge, curved to slope up on both +sides.</p> + +<p>Straight before Slone and under him opened the +cañon, blazing and glorious along the peaks and ramparts, +where the rising sun struck, misty and smoky and +shadowy down in those mysterious depths.</p> + +<p>It took an effort not to keep on gazing. But Slone +turned to the grim business of his pursuit. The trail +he saw leading down had been made by Indians. It +was used probably once a year by them; and also by +wild animals, and it was exceedingly steep and rough. +Wildfire had paced to and fro along the narrow ridge +of that saddle, making many tracks, before he had +headed down again. Slone imagined that the great +stallion had been daunted by the tremendous chasm, +but had finally faced it, meaning to put this obstacle +between him and his pursuers. It never occurred to +Slone to attribute less intelligence to Wildfire than +that. So, dismounting, Slone took Nagger's bridle and +started down. The mustang with the pack was reluctant. +He snorted and whistled and pawed the +earth. But he would not be left alone, so he followed.</p> + +<p>The trail led down under cedars that fringed a +precipice. Slone was aware of this without looking. +He attended only to the trail and to his horse. Only +an Indian could have picked out that course, and it was +cruel to put a horse to it. But Nagger was powerful,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> +sure-footed, and he would go anywhere that Slone led +him. Gradually Slone worked down and away from +the bulging rim wall. It was hard, rough work, and +risky because it could not be accomplished slowly. +Brush and rocks, loose shale and weathered slope, long, +dusty inclines of yellow earth, and jumbles of stone—these +made bad going for miles of slow, zigzag trail +down out of the cedars. Then the trail entered what +appeared to be a ravine.</p> + +<p>That ravine became a cañon. At its head it was a +dry wash, full of gravel and rocks. It began to cut +deep into the bowels of the earth. It shut out sight of +the surrounding walls and peaks. Water appeared +from under a cliff and, augmented by other springs, became +a brook. Hot, dry, and barren at its beginning, +this cleft became cool and shady and luxuriant with +grass and flowers and amber moss with silver blossoms. +The rocks had changed color from yellow to deep red. +Four hours of turning and twisting, endlessly down and +down, over bowlders and banks and every conceivable +roughness of earth and rock, finished the pack mustang; +and Slone mercifully left him in a long reach of cañon +where grass and water never failed. In this place +Slone halted for the noon hour, letting Nagger have his +fill of the rich grazing. Nagger's three days in grassy +upland, despite the continuous travel by day, had improved +him. He looked fat, and Slone had not yet +caught the horse resting. Nagger was iron to endure. +Here Slone left all the outfit except what was on his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> +saddle, and the sack containing the few pounds of +meat and supplies, and the two utensils. This sack +he tied on the back of his saddle, and resumed his +journey.</p> + +<p>Presently he came to a place where Wildfire had +doubled on his trail and had turned up a side cañon. +The climb out was hard on Slone, if not on Nagger. +Once up, Slone found himself upon a wide, barren +plateau of glaring red rock and clumps of greasewood +and cactus. The plateau was miles wide, shut in by +great walls and mesas of colored rock. The afternoon +sun beat down fiercely. A blast of wind, as if from a +furnace, swept across the plateau, and it was laden with +red dust. Slone walked here, where he could have +ridden. And he made several miles of up-and-down +progress over this rough plateau. The great walls of +the opposite side of the cañon loomed appreciably +closer. What, Slone wondered, was at the bottom of +this rent in the earth? The great desert river was +down there, of course, but he knew nothing of it. +Would that turn back Wildfire? Slone thought grimly +how he had always claimed Nagger to be part fish and +part bird. Wildfire was not going to escape.</p> + +<p>By and by only isolated mescal plants with long, +yellow-plumed spears broke the bare monotony of the +plateau. And Slone passed from red sand and gravel +to a red, soft shale, and from that to hard, red rock. +Here Wildfire's tracks were lost, the first time in seven +weeks. But Slone had his direction down that plateau<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> +with the cleavage lines of cañons to right and left. At +times Slone found a vestige of the old Indian trail, +and this made him doubly sure of being right. He did +not need to have Wildfire's tracks. He let Nagger +pick the way, and the horse made no mistake in finding +the line of least resistance. But that grew harder and +harder. This bare rock, like a file, would soon wear +Wildfire's hoofs thin. And Slone rejoiced. Perhaps +somewhere down in this awful chasm he and Nagger +would have if out with the stallion. Slone began to +look far ahead, beginning to believe that he might see +Wildfire. Twice he had seen Wildfire, but only at a +distance. Then he had resembled a running streak of +fire, whence his name, which Slone had given him.</p> + +<p>This bare region of rock began to be cut up into gullies. +It was necessary to head them or to climb in and +out. Miles of travel really meant little progress +straight ahead. But Slone kept on. He was hot and +Nagger was hot, and that made hard work easier. +Sometimes on the wind came a low thunder. Was it a +storm or an avalanche slipping or falling water? He +could not tell. The sound was significant and haunting.</p> + +<p>Of one thing he was sure—that he could not have +found his back trail. But he divined he was never to +retrace his steps on this journey. The stretch of +broken plateau before him grew wilder and bolder of +outline, darker in color, weirder in aspect and progress +across it grew slower, more dangerous. There were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> +many places Nagger should not have been put to—where +a slip meant a broken leg. But Slone could not +turn back. And something besides an indomitable +spirit kept him going. Again the sound resembling +thunder assailed his ears, louder this time. The plateau +appeared to be ending in a series of great capes +or promontories. Slone feared he would soon come +out upon a promontory from which he might see the +impossibility of further travel. He felt relieved down +in the gullies, where he could not see far. He climbed +out of one, presently, from which there extended a +narrow ledge with a slant too perilous for any horse. +He stepped out upon that with far less confidence than +Nagger. To the right was a bulge of low wall, and +a few feet to the left a dark precipice. The trail here +was faintly outlined, and it was six inches wide and +slanting as well. It seemed endless to Slone, that +ledge. He looked only down at his feet and listened +to Nagger's steps. The big horse trod carefully, but +naturally, and he did not slip. That ledge extended in +a long curve, turning slowly away from the precipice, +and ascending a little at the further end. Slone drew +a deep breath of relief when he led Nagger up on level +rock.</p> + +<p>Suddenly a strange yet familiar sound halted Slone, +as if he had been struck. The wild, shrill, high-pitched, +piercing whistle of a stallion! Nagger neighed a blast +in reply and pounded the rock with his iron-shod hoofs. +With a thrill Slone looked ahead.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p> + +<p>There, some few hundred yards distant, on a promontory, +stood a red horse.</p> + +<p>"It's Wildfire!" breathed Slone, tensely.</p> + +<p>He could not believe his sight. He imagined he was +dreaming. But as Nagger stamped and snorted defiance +Slone looked with fixed and keen gaze, and +knew that beautiful picture was no lie.</p> + +<p>Wildfire was as red as fire. His long mane, wild +in the wind, was like a whipping, black-streaked flame. +Silhouetted there against that cañon background he +seemed gigantic, a demon horse, ready to plunge into +fiery depths. He was looking back over his shoulder, +his head very high, and every line of him was instinct +with wildness. Again he sent out that shrill, air-splitting +whistle. Slone understood it to be a clarion +call to Nagger. If Nagger had been alone Wildfire +would have killed him. The red stallion was a killer +of horses. All over the Utah ranges he had left the +trail of a murderer. Nagger understood this, too, for +he whistled back in rage and terror. It took an iron +arm to hold him. Then Wildfire plunged, apparently +down, and vanished from Slone's sight.</p> + +<p>Slone hurried onward, to be blocked by a huge +crack in the rocky plateau. This he had to head. +And then another and like obstacle checked his haste +to reach that promontory. He was forced to go more +slowly. Wildfire had been close only as to sight. And +this was the great cañon that dwarfed distance and +magnified proximity. Climbing down and up, toiling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> +on, he at last learned patience. He had seen Wildfire +at close range. That was enough. So he plodded on, +once more returning to careful regard of Nagger. It +took an hour of work to reach the point where Wildfire +had disappeared.</p> + +<p>A promontory indeed it was, overhanging a valley +a thousand feet below. A white torrent of a stream +wound through it. There were lines of green cottonwoods +following the winding course. Then Slone saw +Wildfire slowly crossing the flat toward the stream. +He had gone down that cliff, which to Slone looked +perpendicular.</p> + +<p>Wildfire appeared to be walking lame. Slone, making +sure of this, suffered a pang. Then, when the +significance of such lameness dawned upon him he +whooped his wild joy and waved his hat. The red +stallion must have heard, for he looked up. Then he +went on again and waded into the stream, where he +drank long. When he started to cross, the swift current +drove him back in several places. The water +wreathed white around him. But evidently it was not +deep, and finally he crossed. From the other side he +looked up again at Nagger and Slone, and, going on, +he soon was out of sight in the cottonwoods.</p> + +<p>"How to get down!" muttered Slone.</p> + +<p>There was a break in the cliff wall, a bare stone slant +where horses had gone down and come up. That was +enough for Slone to know. He would have attempted +the descent if he were sure no other horse but Wildfire<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> +had ever gone down there. But Slone's hair began to +rise stiff on his head. A horse like Wildfire, and +mountain sheep and Indian ponies, were all very different +from Nagger. The chances were against Nagger.</p> + +<p>"Come on, old boy. If I can do it, you can," he +said.</p> + +<p>Slone had never seen a trail as perilous as this. He +was afraid for his horse. A slip there meant death. +The way Nagger trembled in every muscle showed his +feelings. But he never flinched. He would follow +Slone anywhere, providing Slone rode him or led him. +And here, as riding was impossible, Slone went before. +If the horse slipped there would be a double tragedy, +for Nagger would knock his master off the cliff. +Slone set his teeth and stepped down. He did not let +Nagger see his fear. He was taking the greatest risk +he had ever run.</p> + +<p>The break in the wall led to a ledge, and the ledge +dropped from step to step, and these had bare, slippery +slants between. Nagger was splendid on a bad trail. +He had methods peculiar to his huge build and great +weight. He crashed down over the stone steps, both +front hoofs at once. The slants he slid down on his +haunches with his forelegs stiff and the iron shoes +scraping. He snorted and heaved and grew wet with +sweat. He tossed his head at some of the places. But +he never hesitated and it was impossible for him to go +slowly. Whenever Slone came to corrugated stretches<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> +in the trail he felt grateful. But these were few. The +rock was like smooth red iron. Slone had never +seen such hard rock. It took him long to realize that +it was marble. His heart seemed a tense, painful knot +in his breast, as if it could not beat, holding back in the +strained suspense. But Nagger never jerked on the +bridle. He never faltered. Many times he slipped, +often with both front feet, but never with all four feet. +So he did not fall. And the red wall began to loom +above Sloan. Then suddenly he seemed brought to a +point where it was impossible to descend. It was a +round bulge, slanting fearfully, with only a few rough +surfaces to hold a foot. Wildfire had left a broad, +clear-swept mark at that place, and red hairs on some +of the sharp points. He had slid down. Below was +an offset that fortunately prevented further sliding. +Slone started to walk down this place, but when Nagger +began to slide Slone had to let go the bridle and +jump. Both he and the horse landed safely. Luck +was with them. And they went on, down and down, +to reach the base of the great wall, scraped and exhausted, +wet with sweat, but unhurt. As Slone gazed +upward he felt the impossibility of believing what he +knew to be true. He hugged and petted the horse. +Then he led on to the roaring stream.</p> + +<p>It was green water white with foam. Slone waded +in and found the water cool and shallow and very +swift. He had to hold to Nagger to keep from being +swept downstream. They crossed in safety. There<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> +in the sand showed Wildfire's tracks. And here were +signs of another Indian camp, half a year old.</p> + +<p>The shade of the cotton woods was pleasant. Slone +found this valley oppressively hot. There was no wind +and the sand blistered his feet through his boots. +Wildfire held to the Indian trail that had guided him +down into this wilderness of worn rock. And that +trail crossed the stream at every turn of the twisting, +narrow valley. Slone enjoyed getting into the water. +He hung his gun over the pommel and let the water roll +him. A dozen times he and Nagger forded the rushing +torrent. Then they came to a boxlike closing of the +valley to cañon walls, and here the trail evidently followed +the stream bed. There was no other way. +Slone waded in, and stumbled, rolled, and floated ahead +of the sturdy horse. Nagger was wet to his breast, +but he did not fall. This gulch seemed full of a hollow +rushing roar. It opened out into a wide valley. +And Wildfire's tracks took to the left side and began +to climb the slope.</p> + +<p>Here the traveling was good, considering what had +been passed. Once up out of the valley floor Slone +saw Wildfire far ahead, high on the slope. He did +not appear to be limping, but he was not going fast. +Slone watched as he climbed. What and where would +be the end of this chase?</p> + +<p>Sometimes Wildfire was plain in his sight for a moment, +but usually he was hidden by rocks. The slope +was one great talus, a jumble of weathered rock, fallen<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> +from what appeared a mountain of red and yellow +wall. Here the heat of the sun fell upon him like fire. +The rocks were so hot Slone could not touch them with +bare hand. The close of the afternoon was approaching, +and this slope was interminably long. Still, it was +not steep, and the trail was good.</p> + +<p>At last from the height of slope Wildfire appeared, +looking back and down. Then he was gone. Slone +plodded upward. Long before he reached that summit +he heard the dull rumble of the river. It grew to +be a roar, yet it seemed distant. Would the great desert +river stop Wildfire in his flight? Slone doubted it. +He surmounted the ridge, to find the cañon opening in +a tremendous gap, and to see down, far down, a glittering, +sun-blasted slope merging into a deep, black gulch +where a red river swept and chafed and roared.</p> + +<p>Somehow the river was what he had expected to +see. A force that had cut and ground this cañon could +have been nothing but a river like that. The trail led +down, and Slone had no doubt that it crossed the river +and led up out of the cañon. He wanted to stay there +and gaze endlessly and listen. At length he began +the descent. As he proceeded it seemed that the roar +of the river lessened. He could not understand why +this was so. It took half an hour to reach the last +level, a ghastly, black, and iron-ribbed cañon bed, with +the river splitting it. He had not had a glimpse of +Wildfire on this side of the divide, but he found his +tracks, and they led down off the last level, through a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> +notch in the black bank of marble to a sand bar and the +river.</p> + +<p>Wildfire had walked straight off the sand into the +water. Slone studied the river and shore. The water +ran slow, heavily, in sluggish eddies. From far up +the cañon came the roar of a rapid, and from below +the roar of another, heavier and closer. The river appeared +tremendous, in ways Slone felt rather than +realized, yet it was not swift. Studying the black, +rough wall of rock above him, he saw marks where the +river had been sixty feet higher than where he stood +on the sand. It was low, then. How lucky for him +that he had gotten there before flood season! He believed +Wildfire had crossed easily, and he knew Nagger +could make it. Then he piled and tied his supplies +and weapons high on the saddle, to keep them dry, and +looked for a place to take to the water.</p> + +<p>Wildfire had sunk deep before reaching the edge. +Manifestly he had lunged the last few feet. Slone +found a better place, and waded in, urging Nagger. +The big horse plunged, almost going under, and began +to swim. Slone kept upstream beside him. He found, +presently, that the water was thick and made him +tired, so it was necessary to grasp a stirrup and be +towed. The river appeared only a few hundred feet +wide, but probably it was wider than it looked. +Nagger labored heavily near the opposite shore; still, +he landed safely upon a rocky bank. There were +patches of sand in which Wildfire's tracks showed so<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> +fresh that the water had not yet dried out of +them.</p> + +<p>Slone rested his horse before attempting to climb +out of that split in the rock. However, Wildfire had +found an easy ascent. On this side of the cañon the +bare rock did not predominate. A clear trail led up +a dusty, gravelly slope, upon which scant greasewood +and cactus appeared. Half an hour's climbing brought +Slone to where he could see that he was entering a +vast valley, sloping up and narrowing to a notch in +the dark cliffs, above which towered the great red wall +and about that the slopes of cedar and the yellow +rim rock.</p> + +<p>And scarcely a mile distant, bright in the westering +sunlight, shone the red stallion, moving slowly.</p> + +<p>Slone pressed on steadily. Just before dark he came +to an ideal spot to camp. The valley had closed up, +so that the lofty walls cast shadows that met. A +clump of cottonwoods surrounding a spring, abundance +of rich grass, willows and flowers lining the banks, +formed an oasis in the bare valley. Slone was tired +out from the day of ceaseless toil down and up, and +he could scarcely keep his eyes open. But he tried to +stay awake. The dead silence of the valley, the dry +fragrance, the dreaming walls, the advent of night low +down, when up on the ramparts the last red rays of +the sun lingered, the strange loneliness—these were +sweet and comforting to him.</p> + +<p>And that night's sleep was as a moment. He opened<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> +his eyes to see the crags and towers and peaks and +domes, and the lofty walls of that vast, broken chaos +of cañons across the river. They were now emerging +from the misty gray of dawn, growing pink and lilac +and purple under the rising sun.</p> + +<p>He arose and set about his few tasks, which, being +soon finished, allowed him an early start.</p> + +<p>Wildfire had grazed along no more than a mile in the +lead. Slone looked eagerly up the narrowing cañon, +but he was not rewarded by a sight of the stallion. As +he progressed up a gradually ascending trail he became +aware of the fact that the notch he had long looked up +to was where the great red walls closed in and almost +met. And the trail zigzagged up this narrow vent, so +steep that only a few steps could be taken without rest. +Slone toiled up for an hour—an age—till he was +wet, burning, choked, with a great weight on his chest. +Yet still he was only halfway up that awful break between +the walls. Sometimes he could have tossed a +stone down upon a part of the trail, only a few rods +below, yet many, many weary steps of actual toil. As +he got farther up the notch widened. What had been +scarcely visible from the valley below was now colossal +in actual dimensions. The trail was like a twisted +mile of thread between two bulging mountain walls +leaning their ledges and fronts over this tilted pass.</p> + +<p>Slone rested often. Nagger appreciated this and +heaved gratefully at every halt. In this monotonous +toil Slone forgot the zest of his pursuit. And when<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> +Nagger suddenly snorted in fright Slone was not prepared +for what he saw.</p> + +<p>Above him ran a low, red wall, around which evidently +the trail led. At the curve, which was a promontory, +scarcely a hundred feet in an air line above him, +he saw something red moving, bobbing, coming out +into view. It was a horse.</p> + +<p>Wildfire—no farther away than the length of three +lassos!</p> + +<p>There he stood looking down. He fulfilled all of +Slone's dreams. Only he was bigger. But he was so +magnificently proportioned that he did not seem heavy. +His coat was shaggy and red. It was not glossy. +The color was what made him shine. His mane was +like a crest, mounting, then falling low. Slone had +never seen so much muscle on a horse. Yet his outline +was graceful, beautiful. The head was indeed that of +the wildest of all wild creatures—a stallion born +wild—and it was beautiful, savage, splendid, everything +but noble. Slone thought that if a horse could +express hate, surely Wildfire did then. It was certain +that he did express curiosity and fury.</p> + +<p>Slone shook a gantleted fist at the stallion, as if the +horse were human. That was a natural action for a +rider of his kind. Wildfire turned away, showed +bright against the dark background, and then disappeared.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>That was the last Slone saw of Wildfire for three +days.</p> + +<p>It took all of this day to climb out of the cañon. +The second was a slow march of thirty miles into a +scrub cedar and piñon forest, through which the great +red and yellow walls of the cañon could be seen. That +night Slone found a water hole in a rocky pocket and a +little grass for Nagger. The third day's travel consisted +of forty miles or more through level pine forest, +dry and odorous, but lacking the freshness and beauty +of the forest on the north side of the cañon. On this +south side a strange feature was that all the water, +when there was any, ran away from the rim. Slone +camped this night at a muddy pond in the woods, where +Wildfire's tracks showed plainly.</p> + +<p>On the following day Slone rode out of the forest +into a country of scanty cedars, bleached and stunted, +and out of this to the edge of a plateau, from which +the shimmering desert flung its vast and desolate distances, +forbidding and menacing. This was not the +desert upland country of Utah, but a naked and bony +world of colored rock and sand—a painted desert of +heat and wind and flying sand and waterless wastes and +barren ranges. But it did not daunt Slone. For far +down on the bare, billowing ridges moved a red speck,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> +at a snail's pace, a slowly moving dot of color which +was Wildfire.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>On open ground like this, Nagger, carrying two hundred +and fifty pounds, showed his wonderful quality. +He did not mind the heat nor the sand nor the glare +nor the distance nor his burden. He did not tire. He +was an engine of tremendous power.</p> + +<p>Slone gained upon Wildfire, and toward evening of +that day he reached to within half a mile of the stallion. +And he chose to keep that far behind. That night he +camped where there was dry grass, but no water.</p> + +<p>Next day he followed Wildfire down and down, over +the endless swell of rolling red ridges, bare of all but +bleached white grass and meager greasewood, always +descending in the face of that painted desert of bold +and ragged steppes. Slone made fifty miles that day, +and gained the valley bed, where a slender stream ran +thin and spread over a wide sandy bottom. It was +salty water, but it was welcome to both man and beast.</p> + +<p>The following day he crossed, and the tracks of +Wildfire were still wet on the sand bars. The stallion +was slowing down. Slone saw him, limping along, +not far in advance. There was a ten-mile stretch of +level ground, blown hard as rock, from which the sustenance +had been bleached, for not a spear of grass +grew there. And following that was a tortuous passage +through a weird region of clay dunes, blue and +violet and heliotrope and lavender, all worn smooth<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> +by rain and wind. Wildfire favored the soft ground +now. He had deviated from his straight course. And +he was partial to washes and dips in the earth where +water might have lodged. And he was not now scornful +of a green-scummed water hole with its white +margin of alkali. That night Slone made camp with +Wildfire in plain sight. The stallion stopped when +his pursuers stopped. And he began to graze on the +same stretch with Nagger. How strange this seemed +to Slone!</p> + +<p>Here at this camp was evidence of Indians. Wildfire +had swung round to the north in his course. Like +any pursued wild animal, he had begun to circle. And +he had pointed his nose toward the Utah he had left.</p> + +<p>Next morning Wildfire was not in sight, but he had +left his tracks in the sand. Slone trailed him with +Nagger at a trot. Toward the head of this sandy +flat Slone came upon old cornfields, and a broken dam +where the water had been stored, and well-defined trails +leading away to the right. Somewhere over there in +the desert lived Indians. At this point Wildfire abandoned +the trail he had followed for many days and +cut out more to the north. It took all the morning +hours to climb three great steppes and benches that +led up to the summit of a mesa, vast in extent. It +turned out to be a sandy waste. The wind rose and +everywhere were moving sheets of sand, and in the +distance circular yellow dust devils, rising high like +water spouts, and back down in the sun-scorched valley<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +a sandstorm moved along majestically, burying the +desert in its yellow pall.</p> + +<p>Then two more days of sand and another day of a +slowly rising ground growing from bare to gray and +gray to green, and then to the purple of sage and cedar—these +three grinding days were toiled out with only +one water hole.</p> + +<p>And Wildfire was lame and in distress and Nagger +was growing gaunt and showing strain; and Slone, haggard +and black and worn, plodded miles and miles on +foot to save his horse.</p> + +<p>Slone felt that it would be futile to put the chase to +a test of speed. Nagger could never head that stallion. +Slone meant to go on and on, always pushing Wildfire, +keeping him tired, wearied, and worrying him, till a +section of the country was reached where he could +drive Wildfire into some kind of a natural trap. The +pursuit seemed endless. Wildfire kept to open country +where he could not be surprised.</p> + +<p>There came a morning when Slone climbed to a +cedared plateau that rose for a whole day's travel, and +then split into a labyrinthine maze of cañons. There +were trees, grass, water. It was a high country, cool +and wild, like the uplands he had left. For days he +camped on Wildfire's trail, always relentlessly driving +him, always watching for the trap he hoped to +find. And the red stallion spent much of this time +of flight in looking backward. Whenever Slone came +in sight of him he had his head over his shoulder,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> +watching. And on the soft ground of these cañons +he had begun to recover from his lameness. But this +did not worry Slone. Sooner or later Wildfire would +go down into a high-walled wash, from which there +would be no outlet; or he would wander into a box +cañon; or he would climb out on a mesa with no place +to descend, unless he passed Slone; or he would get +cornered on a soft, steep slope where his hoofs would +sink deep and make him slow. The nature of the +desert had changed. Slone had entered a wonderful +region, the like of which he had not seen—a high +plateau criss-crossed in every direction by narrow +cañons with red walls a thousand feet high.</p> + +<p>And one of the strange turning cañons opened into +a vast valley of monuments.</p> + +<p>The plateau had weathered and washed away, leaving +huge sections of stone walls, all standing isolated, +different in size and shape, but all clean-cut, bold, with +straight lines. They stood up everywhere, monumental, +towering, many-colored, lending a singular and +beautiful aspect to the great green and gray valley, +billowing away to the north, where dim, broken battlements +mounted to the clouds.</p> + +<p>The only living thing in Slone's sight was Wildfire. +He shone red down on the green slope.</p> + +<p>Slone's heart swelled. This was the setting for that +grand horse—a perfect wild range. But also it +seemed the last place where there might be any chance +to trap the stallion. Still that did not alter Slone's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> +purpose, though it lost to him the joy of former hopes. +He rode down the slope, out upon the billowing floor +of the valley. Wildfire looked back to see his pursuers, +and then the solemn stillness broke to a wild, +piercing whistle.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Day after day, camping where night found him, +Slone followed the stallion, never losing sight of him +till darkness had fallen. The valley was immense and +the monuments miles apart. But they always seemed +close together and near him. The air magnified everything. +Slone lost track of time. The strange, solemn, +lonely days and the silent, lonely nights, and the +endless pursuit, and the wild, weird valley—these completed +the work of years on Slone and he became satisfied, +unthinking, almost savage.</p> + +<p>The toil and privation had worn him down and he +was like iron. His garments hung in tatters; his boots +were ripped and soleless. Long since his flour had +been used up, and all his supplies except the salt. He +lived on the meat of rabbits, but they were scarce, +and the time came when there were none. Some days +he did not eat. Hunger did not make him suffer. He +killed a desert bird now and then, and once a wildcat +crossing the valley. Eventually he felt his strength +diminishing, and then he took to digging out the pack +rats and cooking them. But these, too, were scarce. +At length starvation faced Slone. But he knew he +would not starve. Many times he had been within<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +rifle shot of Wildfire. And the grim, forbidding +thought grew upon him that he must kill the stallion. +The thought seemed involuntary, but his mind rejected +it. Nevertheless, he knew that if he could not catch +the stallion he would kill him. That had been the end +of many a desperate rider's pursuit of a coveted horse.</p> + +<p>While Slone kept on his merciless pursuit, never letting +Wildfire rest by day, time went on just as relentlessly. +Spring gave way to early summer. The hot +sun bleached the grass; water holes failed out in the +valley, and water could be found only in the cañons; +and the dry winds began to blow the sand. It was a +sandy valley, green and gray only at a distance, and +out toward the north there were no monuments, and +the slow heave of sand lifted toward the dim walls.</p> + +<p>Wildfire worked away from this open valley, back +to the south end, where the great monuments loomed, +and still farther back, where they grew closer, till at +length some of them were joined by weathered ridges +to the walls of the surrounding plateau. For all that +Slone could see, Wildfire was in perfect condition. +But Nagger was not the horse he had been. Slone +realized that in one way or another the pursuit was +narrowing down to the end.</p> + +<p>He found a water hole at the head of a wash in a +split in the walls, and here he let Nagger rest and +graze one whole day—the first day for a long time +that he had not kept the red stallion in sight. That +day was marked by the good fortune of killing a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> +rabbit, and while eating it his gloomy, fixed mind admitted +that he was starving. He dreaded the next +sunrise. But he could not hold it back. There, behind +the dark monuments, standing sentinel-like, the +sky lightened and reddened and burnt into gold and +pink, till out of the golden glare the sun rose glorious. +And Slone, facing the league-long shadows of the +monuments, rode out again into the silent, solemn day, +on his hopeless quest.</p> + +<p>For a change Wildfire had climbed high up a slope +of talus, through a narrow pass, rounded over with +drifting sand. And Slone gazed down into a huge +amphitheater full of monuments, like all that strange +country. A basin three miles across lay beneath him. +Walls and weathered slants of rock and steep slopes +of reddish-yellow sand inclosed this oval depression. +The floor was white, and it seemed to move gently or +radiate with heat waves. Studying it, Slone made out +that the motion was caused by wind in long bleached +grass. He had crossed small areas of this grass in +different parts of the region.</p> + +<p>Wildfire's tracks led down into this basin, and presently +Slone, by straining his eyes, made out the red +spot that was the stallion.</p> + +<p>"He's lookin' to quit the country," soliloquized +Slone, as he surveyed the scene.</p> + +<p>With keen, slow gaze Slone studied the lay of wall +and slope, and when he had circled the huge depression +he made sure that Wildfire could not get out<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> +except by the narrow pass through which he had gone +in. Slone sat astride Nagger in the mouth of this +pass—a wash a few yards wide, walled by broken, +rough rock on one side and an insurmountable slope +on the other.</p> + +<p>"If this hole was only little, now," sighed Slone, as +he gazed at the sweeping, shimmering oval floor, "I +might have a chance. But down there—we couldn't +get near him."</p> + +<p>There was no water in that dry bowl. Slone reflected +on the uselessness of keeping Wildfire down +there, because Nagger could not go without water as +long as Wildfire. For the first time Slone hesitated. +It seemed merciless to Nagger to drive him down into +this hot, windy hole. The wind blew from the west, +and it swooped up the slope, hot, with the odor of dry, +dead grass.</p> + +<p>But that hot wind stirred Slone with an idea, and +suddenly he was tense, excited, glowing, yet grim and +hard.</p> + +<p>"Wildfire, I'll make you run with your namesake in +that high grass," called Slone. The speech was full of +bitter failure, of regret, of the hardness of a rider who +could not give up the horse to freedom.</p> + +<p>Slone meant to ride down there and fire the long +grass. In that wind there would indeed be wildfire to +race with the red stallion. It would perhaps mean his +death; at least it would chase him out of that hole, +where to follow him would be useless.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'd make you hump now to get away if I could +get behind you," muttered Slone. He saw that if he +could fire the grass on the other side the wind of flame +would drive Wildfire straight toward him. The slopes +and walls narrowed up to the pass, but high grass grew +to within a few rods of where Slone stood. But it +seemed impossible to get behind Wildfire.</p> + +<p>"At night—then—I could get round him," said +Slone, thinking hard and narrowing his gaze to scan +the circle of wall and slope. "Why not? . . . No +wind at night. That grass would burn slow till mornin'—till +the wind came up—an' it's been west for +days."</p> + +<p>Suddenly Slone began to pound the patient Nagger +and to cry out to him in wild exultance.</p> + +<p>"Old horse, we've got him! We've got him! +We'll put a rope on him before this time to-morrow!"</p> + +<p>Slone yielded to his strange, wild joy, but it did not +last long, soon succeeding to sober, keen thought. He +rode down into the bowl a mile, making absolutely certain +that Wildfire could not climb out on that side. +The far end, beyond the monuments, was a sheer wall +of rock. Then he crossed to the left side. Here the +sandy slope was almost too steep for even him to go +up. And there was grass that would burn. He returned +to the pass assured that Wildfire had at last +fallen into a trap the like Slone had never dreamed +of. The great horse was doomed to run into living +flame or the whirling noose of a lasso.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then Slone reflected. Nagger had that very morning +had his fill of good water—the first really satisfying +drink for days. If he was rested that day, on the +morrow he would be fit for the grueling work possibly +in store for him. Slone unsaddled the horse and +turned him loose, and with a snort he made down the +gentle slope for the grass. Then Slone carried his +saddle to a shady spot afforded by a slab of rock and +a dwarf cedar, and here he composed himself to rest +and watch and think and wait.</p> + +<p>Wildfire was plainly in sight no more than two miles +away. Gradually he was grazing along toward the +monuments and the far end of the great basin. Slone +believed, because the place was so large, that Wildfire +thought there was a way out on the other side or over +the slopes or through the walls. Never before had +the farsighted stallion made a mistake. Slone suddenly +felt the keen, stabbing fear of an outlet somewhere. +But it left him quickly. He had studied those +slopes and walls. Wildfire could not get out, except +by the pass he had entered, unless he could fly.</p> + +<p>Slone lay in the shade, his head propped on his +saddle, and while gazing down into the shimmering +hollow he began to plan. He calculated that he must +be able to carry fire swiftly across the far end of the +basin, so that he would not be absent long from the +mouth of the pass. Fire was always a difficult matter, +since he must depend only on flint and steel. He +decided to wait till dark, build a fire with dead cedar<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> +sticks, and carry a bundle of them with burning ends. +He felt assured that the wind caused by riding would +keep them burning. After he had lighted the grass +all he had to do was to hurry back to his station and +there await developments.</p> + +<p>The day passed slowly, and it was hot. The heat-waves +rose in dark, wavering lines and veils from the +valley. The wind blew almost a gale. Thin, curling +sheets of sand blew up over the crests of the slopes, +and the sound it made was a soft, silken rustling, very +low. The sky was a steely blue above and copper close +over the distant walls.</p> + +<p>That afternoon, toward the close, Slone ate the last +of the meat. At sunset the wind died away and the +air cooled. There was a strip of red along the wall +of rock and on the tips of the monuments, and it +lingered there for long, a strange, bright crown. Nagger +was not far away, but Wildfire had disappeared, +probably behind one of the monuments.</p> + +<p>When twilight fell Slone went down after Nagger +and, returning with him, put on bridle and saddle. +Then he began to search for suitable sticks of wood. +Farther back in the pass he found stunted dead cedars, +and from these secured enough for his purpose. He +kindled a fire and burned the ends of the sticks into +red embers. Making a bundle of these, he put them +under his arm, the dull, glowing ends backward, and +then mounted his horse.</p> + +<p>It was just about dark when he faced down into the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> +valley. When he reached level ground he kept to the +edge of the left slope and put Nagger to a good trot. +The grass and brush were scant here, and the color of +the sand was light, so he had no difficulty in traveling. +From time to time his horse went through grass, and +its dry, crackling rustle, showing how it would burn, +was music to Slone. Gradually the monuments began +to loom up, bold and black against the blue sky, with +stars seemingly hanging close over them. Slone had +calculated that the basin was smaller than it really was, +in both length and breadth. This worried him. Wildfire +might see or hear or scent him, and make a break +back to the pass and thus escape. Slone was glad when +the huge, dark monuments were indistinguishable from +the black, frowning wall. He had to go slower here, +because of the darkness. But at last he reached the +slow rise of jumbled rock that evidently marked the +extent of weathering on that side. Here he turned +to the right and rode out into the valley. The floor +was level and thickly overgrown with long, dead grass +and dead greasewood, as dry as tinder. It was easy +to account for the dryness; neither snow nor rain had +visited that valley for many months. Slone whipped +one of the sticks in the wind and soon had the smouldering +end red and showering sparks. Then he dropped +the stick in the grass, with curious intent and a strange +feeling of regret.</p> + +<p>Instantly the grass blazed with a little sputtering +roar. Nagger snorted. "Wildfire!" exclaimed Slone.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> +That word was a favorite one with riders, and now +Slone used it both to call out his menace to the stallion +and to express his feeling for that blaze, already running +wild.</p> + +<p>Without looking back, Slone rode across the valley, +dropping a glowing stick every quarter of a mile. +When he reached the other side there were a dozen fires +behind him, burning slowly, with white smoke rising +lazily. Then he loped Nagger along the side back to +the sandy ascent, and on up to the mouth of the pass. +There he searched for tracks. Wildfire had not gone +out, and Slone experienced relief and exultation. He +took up a position in the middle of the narrowest part +of the pass, and there, with Nagger ready for anything, +he once more composed himself to watch and wait.</p> + +<p>Far across the darkness of the valley, low down, +twelve lines of fire, widely separated, crept toward one +another. They appeared thin and slow, with only an +occasional leaping flame. And some of the black +spaces must have been monuments, blotting out the +creeping snail lines of red. Slone watched, strangely +fascinated.</p> + +<p>"What do you think of that?" he said, aloud, and +he meant his query for Wildfire.</p> + +<p>As he watched the lines perceptibly lengthened and +brightened and pale shadows of smoke began to appear. +Over at the left of the valley the two brightest fires, +the first he had started, crept closer and closer together. +They seemed long in covering distance. But not a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> +breath of wind stirred, and besides they really might +move swiftly, without looking so to Slone. When the +two lines met a sudden and larger blaze rose.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said the rider, and then he watched the other +lines creeping together. How slowly fire moved, he +thought. The red stallion would have every chance to +run between those lines, if he dared. But a wild horse +fears nothing like fire. This one would not run the +gantlet of flames. Nevertheless Slone felt more and +more relieved as the lines closed. The hours of the +night dragged past until at length one long, continuous +line of fire spread level across the valley, its bright, +red line broken only where the monuments of stone +were silhouetted against it.</p> + +<p>The darkness of the valley changed. The light of +the moon changed. The radiance of the stars changed. +Either the line of fire was finding denser fuel to consume +or it was growing appreciably closer, for the +flames began to grow, to leap, and to flare.</p> + +<p>Slone strained his ears for the thud of hoofs on +sand.</p> + +<p>The time seemed endless in its futility of results, but +fleeting after it had passed; and he could tell how the +hours fled by the ever-recurring need to replenish the +little fire he kept burning in the pass.</p> + +<p>A broad belt of valley grew bright in the light, and +behind it loomed the monuments, weird and dark, with +columns of yellow and white smoke wreathing them.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Slone's sensitive ear vibrated to a thrilling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +sound. He leaned down to place his ear to the sand. +Rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs made him leap to his +feet, reaching for his lasso with right hand and a gun +with his left.</p> + +<p>Nagger lifted his head, sniffed the air, and snorted. +Slone peered into the black belt of gloom that lay +below him. It would be hard to see a horse there, +unless he got high enough to be silhouetted against that +line of fire now flaring to the sky. But he heard the +beat of hoofs, swift, sharp, louder—louder. The +night shadows were deceptive. That wonderful light +confused him, made the place unreal. Was he dreaming? +Or had the long chase and his privations unhinged +his mind? He reached for Nagger. No! +The big black was real, alive, quivering, pounding the +sand. He scented an enemy.</p> + +<p>Once more Slone peered down into the void or what +seemed a void. But it, too, had changed, lightened. +The whole valley was brightening. Great palls of curling +smoke rose white and yellow, to turn back as the +monuments met their crests, and then to roll upward, +blotting out the stars. It was such a light as he had +never seen, except in dreams. Pale moonlight and +dimmed starlight and wan dawn all vague and strange +and shadowy under the wild and vivid light of burning +grass.</p> + +<p>In the pale path before Slone, that fanlike slope of +sand which opened down into the valley, appeared a +swiftly moving black object, like a fleeing phantom.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> +It was a phantom horse. Slone felt that his eyes, deceived +by his mind, saw racing images. Many a wild +chase he had lived in dreams on some far desert. But +what was that beating in his ears—sharp, swift, even, +rhythmic? Never had his ears played him false. Never +had he heard things in his dreams. That running +object was a horse and he was coming like the wind. +Slone felt something grip his heart. All the time and +endurance and pain and thirst and suspense and longing +and hopelessness—the agony of the whole endless +chase—closed tight on his heart in that instant.</p> + +<p>The running horse halted just in the belt of light +cast by the burning grass. There he stood sharply defined, +clear as a cameo, not a hundred paces from Slone. +It was Wildfire.</p> + +<p>Slone uttered an involuntary cry. Thrill on thrill +shot through him. Delight and hope and fear and +despair claimed him in swift, successive flashes. And +then again the ruling passion of a rider held him—the +sheer glory of a grand and unattainable horse. +For Slone gave up Wildfire in that splendid moment. +How had he ever dared to believe he could capture that +wild stallion? Slone looked and looked, filling his +mind, regretting nothing, sure that the moment was +reward for all he had endured.</p> + +<p>The weird lights magnified Wildfire and showed him +clearly. He seemed gigantic. He shone black against +the fire. His head was high, his mane flying. Behind +him the fire flared and the valley-wide column of smoke<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> +rolled majestically upward, and the great monuments +seemed to retreat darkly and mysteriously as the flames +advanced beyond them. It was a beautiful, unearthly +spectacle, with its silence the strangest feature.</p> + +<p>But suddenly Wildfire broke that silence with a +whistle which to Slone's overstrained faculties seemed +a blast as piercing as the splitting sound of lightning. +And with the whistle Wildfire plunged up toward the +pass.</p> + +<p>Slone yelled at the top of his lungs and fired his gun +before he could terrorize the stallion and drive him +back down the slope. Soon Wildfire became again +a running black object, and then he disappeared.</p> + +<p>The great line of fire had gotten beyond the monuments +and now stretched unbroken across the valley +from wall to slope. Wildfire could never pierce that +line of flames. And now Slone saw, in the paling sky +to the east, that dawn was at hand.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>Slone looked grimly glad when simultaneously with +the first red flash of sunrise a breeze fanned his cheek. +All that was needed now was a west wind. And here +came the assurance of it.</p> + +<p>The valley appeared hazy and smoky, with slow, +rolling clouds low down where the line of fire moved. +The coming of daylight paled the blaze of the grass, +though here and there Slone caught flickering glimpses +of dull red flame. The wild stallion kept to the center +of the valley, restlessly facing this way and that, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> +never toward the smoke. Slone made sure that Wildfire +gradually gave ground as the line of smoke slowly +worked toward him.</p> + +<p>Every moment the breeze freshened, grew steadier +and stronger, until Slone saw that it began to clear the +valley of the low-hanging smoke. There came a time +when once more the blazing line extended across from +slope to slope.</p> + +<p>Wildfire was cornered, trapped. Many times Slone +nervously uncoiled and recoiled his lasso. Presently +the great chance of his life would come—the hardest +and most important throw he would ever have with +a rope. He did not miss often, but then he missed +sometimes, and here he must be swift and sure. It +annoyed him that his hands perspired and trembled +and that something weighty seemed to obstruct his +breathing. He muttered that he was pretty much +worn out, not in the best of condition for a hard fight +with a wild horse. Still he would capture Wildfire; +his mind was unalterably set there. He anticipated +that the stallion would make a final and desperate rush +past him; and he had his plan of action all outlined. +What worried him was the possibility of Wildfire's +doing some unforeseen feat at the very last. Slone +was prepared for hours of strained watching, and +then a desperate effort, and then a shock that might +kill Wildfire and cripple Nagger, or a long race and +fight.</p> + +<p>But he soon discovered that he was wrong about the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> +long watch and wait. The wind had grown strong +and was driving the fire swiftly. The flames, fanned +by the breeze, leaped to a formidable barrier. In less +than an hour, though the time seemed only a few +moments to the excited Slone, Wildfire had been driven +down toward the narrowing neck of the valley, and +he had begun to run, to and fro, back and forth. Any +moment, then, Slone expected him to grow terrorized +and to come tearing up toward the pass.</p> + +<p>Wildfire showed evidence of terror, but he did not +attempt to make the pass. Instead he went at the +right-hand slope of the valley and began to climb. +The slope was steep and soft, yet the stallion climbed +up and up. The dust flew in clouds; the gravel rolled +down, and the sand followed in long streams. Wildfire +showed his keenness by zigzagging up the slope.</p> + +<p>"Go ahead, you red devil!" yelled Slone. He was +much elated. In that soft bank Wildfire would tire +out while not hurting himself.</p> + +<p>Slone watched the stallion in admiration and pity +and exultation. Wildfire did not make much headway, +for he slipped back almost as much as he gained. +He attempted one place after another where he failed. +There was a bank of clay, some few feet high, and he +could not round it at either end or surmount it in the +middle. Finally he literally pawed and cut a path, +much as if he were digging in the sand for water. +When he got over that he was not much better off. +The slope above was endless and grew steeper, more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> +difficult toward the top. Slone knew absolutely that +no horse could climb over it. He grew apprehensive, +however, for Wildfire might stick up there on the +slope until the line of fire passed. The horse apparently +shunned any near proximity to the fire, and performed +prodigious efforts to escape.</p> + +<p>"He'll be ridin' an avalanche pretty soon," muttered +Slone.</p> + +<p>Long sheets of sand and gravel slid down to spill +thinly over the low bank. Wildfire, now sinking to his +knees, worked steadily upward till he had reached a +point halfway up the slope, at the head of a long, yellow +bank of treacherous-looking sand. Here he was halted +by a low bulge, which he might have surmounted had +his feet been free. But he stood deep in the sand. +For the first time he looked down at the sweeping fire, +and then at Slone.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the bank of sand began to slide with him. +He snorted in fright. The avalanche started slowly +and was evidently no mere surface slide. It was deep. +It stopped—then started again—and again stopped. +Wildfire appeared to be sinking deeper and deeper. +His struggles only embedded him more firmly. Then +the bank of sand, with an ominous, low roar, began +to move once more. This time it slipped swiftly. The +dust rose in a cloud, almost obscuring the horse. +Long streams of gravel rattled down, and waterfalls +of sand waved over the steppes of the slope.</p> + +<p>Just as suddenly the avalanche stopped again. Slone<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> +saw, from the great oval hole it had left above, that it +was indeed deep. That was the reason it did not slide +readily. When the dust cleared away Slone saw the +stallion, sunk to his flanks in the sand, utterly helpless.</p> + +<p>With a wild whoop Slone leaped off Nagger, and, a +lasso in each hand, he ran down the long bank. The +fire was perhaps a quarter of a mile distant, and, since +the grass was thinning out, it was not coming so fast +as it had been. The position of the stallion was halfway +between the fire and Slone, and a hundred yards +up the slope.</p> + +<p>Like a madman Slone climbed up through the dragging, +loose sand. He was beside himself with a fury +of excitement. He fancied his eyes were failing him, +that it was not possible the great horse really was up +there, helpless in the sand. Yet every huge stride +Slone took brought him closer to a fact he could not +deny. In his eagerness he slipped, and fell, and +crawled, and leaped, until he reached the slide which +held Wildfire prisoner.</p> + +<p>The stallion might have been fast in quicksand, up +to his body, for all the movement he could make. He +could move only his head. He held that up, his eyes +wild, showing the whites, his foaming mouth wide +open, his teeth gleaming. A sound like a scream rent +the air. Terrible fear and hate were expressed in that +piercing neigh. And shaggy, wet, dusty red, with all +of brute savageness in the look and action of his head, +he appeared hideous.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p> + +<p>As Slone leaped within roping distance the avalanche +slipped a foot or two, halted, slipped once more, and +slowly started again with that low roar. He did not +care whether it slipped or stopped. Like a wolf he +leaped closer, whirling his rope. The loop hissed +round his head and whistled as he flung it. And when +fiercely he jerked back on the rope, the noose closed +tight round Wildfire's neck.</p> + +<p>"I—got—a rope—on him!" cried Slone, in +hoarse pants.</p> + +<p>He stared, unbelieving. It was unreal, that sight—unreal +like the slow, grinding movement of the +avalanche under him. Wildfire's head seemed a demon +head of hate. It reached out, mouth agape, to bite, to +rend. That horrible scream could not be the scream of +a horse.</p> + +<p>Slone was a wild-horse hunter, a rider, and when +that second of incredulity flashed by, then came the +moment of triumph. No moment could ever equal +that one, when he realized he stood there with a rope +around that grand stallion's neck. All the days and +the miles and the toil and the endurance and the hopelessness +and the hunger were paid for in that moment. +His heart seemed too large for his breast.</p> + +<p>"I tracked—you!" he cried, savagely. "I +stayed—with you! An' I got a rope—on you! +An'—I'll ride you—you red devil!"</p> + +<p>The passion of the man was intense. That endless, +racking pursuit had brought out all the hardness the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> +desert had engendered in him. Almost hate, instead +of love, spoke in Slone's words. He hauled on the lasso, +pulling the stallion's head down and down. The +action was the lust of capture as well as the rider's instinctive +motive to make the horse fear him. Life +was unquenchably wild and strong in that stallion; it +showed in the terror which made him hideous. And +man and beast somehow resembled each other in that +moment which was inimical to noble life.</p> + +<p>The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacherously +loosing its hold for a long plunge. The line of +fire below ate at the bleached grass and the long column +of smoke curled away on the wind.</p> + +<p>Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with +the right he swung the other rope, catching the noose +round Wildfire's nose. Then letting go of the first +rope he hauled on the other, pulling the head of the +stallion far down. Hand over hand Slone closed in +on the horse. He leaped on Wildfire's head, pressed +it down, and, holding it down on the sand with his +knees, with swift fingers he tied the nose in a hackamore—an +improvised halter. Then, just as swiftly, +he bound his scarf tight round Wildfire's head, blindfolding +him.</p> + +<p>"All so easy!" exclaimed Slone, under his breath. +"Who would believe it! Is it a dream?"</p> + +<p>He rose and let the stallion have a free head.</p> + +<p>"Wildfire, I got a rope on you—an' a hackamore—an' +a blinder," said Slone. "An' if I had a bridle<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> +I'd put that on you. Who'd ever believe you'd catch +yourself, draggin' in the sand?"</p> + +<p>Slone, finding himself falling on the sand, grew alive +to the augmented movement of the avalanche. It had +begun to slide, to heave and bulge and crack. Dust +rose in clouds from all around. The sand appeared +to open and let him sink to his knees. The rattle of +gravel was drowned in a soft roar. Then he shot +down swiftly, holding the lassos, keeping himself +erect, and riding as if in a boat. He felt the successive +steppes of the slope, and then the long incline below, +and then the checking and rising and spreading of +the avalanche as it slowed down on the level. All +movement then was checked violently. He appeared +to be half buried in sand. While he struggled to extricate +himself the thick dust blew away and, settled so +that he could see. Wildfire lay before him, at the edge +of the slide, and now he was not so deeply embedded +as he had been up on the slope. He was struggling +and probably soon would have been able to get out. +The line of fire was close now, but Slone did not fear +that.</p> + +<p>At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, +obedient, but snorting, with ears laid back. He halted. +A second whistle started him again. Slone finally dug +himself out of the sand, pulled the lassos out, and ran +the length of them toward Nagger. The black +showed both fear and fight. His eyes rolled and he +half shied away.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Come on!" called Slone, harshly.</p> + +<p>He got a hand on the horse, pulled him round, and, +mounting in a flash, wound both lassos round the pommel +of the saddle.</p> + +<p>"Haul him out, Nagger, old boy!" cried Slone, and +he dug spurs into the black.</p> + +<p>One plunge of Nagger's slid the stallion out of the +sand. Snorting, wild, blinded, Wildfire got up, shaking +in every limb. He could not see his enemies. The +blowing smoke, right in his nose, made scent impossible. +But in the taut lassos he sensed the direction of +his captors. He plunged, rearing at the end of the +plunge, and struck out viciously with his hoofs. Slone, +quick with spur and bridle, swerved Nagger aside and +Wildfire, off his balance, went down with a crash. +Slone dragged him, stretched him out, pulled him over +twice before he got forefeet planted. Once up, he +reared again, screeching his rage, striking wildly with +his hoofs. Slone wheeled aside and toppled him over +again.</p> + +<p>"Wildfire, it's no fair fight," he called, grimly. +"But you led me a chase. An' you learn right now +I'm boss!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i100.png" width="500" height="381" alt="Telling the story" title="Telling the story" /> +</div> + + +<h2>III.—The Hydrophobic Skunk<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></h2> + +<h3><i>By Irvin S. Cobb</i></h3> + + +<div class='cap'>THE Hydrophobic Skunk resides at the extreme +bottom of the Grand Cañon and, next +to a Southern Republican who never asked for +a Federal office, is the rarest of living creatures. He +is so rare that nobody ever saw him—that is, nobody +except a native. I met plenty of tourists who had seen +people who had seen him, but never a tourist who had +seen him with his own eyes. In addition to being +rare, he is highly gifted.</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p> +<p>I think almost anybody will agree with me that the +common, ordinary skunk has been most richly dowered +by Nature. To adorn a skunk with any extra qualifications +seems as great a waste of the raw material +as painting the lily or gilding refined gold. He is already +amply equipped for outdoor pursuits. Nobody +intentionally shoves him round; everybody gives him as +much room as he seems to need. He commands respect—nay, +more than that, respect and veneration—wherever +he goes. Joy riders never run him down +and foot passengers avoid crowding him into a corner. +You would think Nature had done amply well by the +skunk; but no—the Hydrophobic Skunk comes along +and upsets all these calculations. Besides carrying +the traveling credentials of an ordinary skunk, he is +rabid in the most rabidissimus form. He is not mad +just part of the time, like one's relatives by marriage—and +not mad most of the time, like the old-fashioned +railroad ticket agent—but mad all the time—incurably, +enthusiastically and unanimously mad! +He is mad and he is glad of it.</p> + +<p>We made the acquaintance of the Hydrophobic +Skunk when we rode down Hermit Trail. The casual +visitor to the Grand Cañon first of all takes the rim +drive; then he essays Bright Angel Trail, which is +sufficiently scary for his purposes until he gets used to +it; and after that he grows more adventurous and +tackles Hermit Trail, which is a marvel of corkscrew +convolutions, gimleting its way down this red abdominal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> +wound of a cañon to the very gizzard of the world. +Here, Johnny, our guide, felt moved to speech, and +we hearkened to his words and hungered for more, +for Johnny knows the ranges of the Northwest as a +city dweller knows his own little side street. In the +fall of the year Johnny comes down to the Cañon and +serves as a guide a while; and then, when he gets so he +just can't stand associating with tourists any longer, +he packs his war bags and journeys back to the Northern +Range and enjoys the company of cows a spell. +Cows are not exactly exciting, but they don't ask fool +questions.</p> + +<p>A highly competent young person is Johnny and a +cow-puncher of parts. Most of the Cañon guides are +cow-punchers—accomplished ones, too, and of high +standing in the profession. With a touch of reverence +Johnny pointed out to us Sam Scovel, the greatest +bronco buster of his time, now engaged in piloting +tourists.</p> + +<p>"Can he ride?" echoed Johnny in answer to our +question. "Scovel could ride an earthquake if she +stood still long enough for him to mount! He rode +Steamboat—not Young Steamboat, but Old Steamboat! +He rode Rocking Chair, and he's the only man +that ever did that and was not called on in a couple of +days to attend his own funeral."</p> + +<p>We went on and on at a lazy mule trot, hearing the +unwritten annals of the range from one who had seen +them enacted at first hand. Pretty soon we passed a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> +herd of burros with mealy, dusty noses and spotty +hides, feeding on prickly pears and rock lichens; and +just before sunset we slid down the last declivity out +upon the plateau and came to a camp as was a camp!</p> + +<p>This was roughing it de luxe with a most de-luxey +vengeance! Here were three tents, or rather three +canvas houses, with wooden half walls; and they were +spick-and-span inside and out, and had glass windows +in them and doors and matched wooden floors. . . . +The mess tent was provided with a table with a clean +cloth to go over it, and there were china dishes and +china cups and shiny knives, forks and spoons. . . . +Bill was in charge of the camp—a dark, rangy, good-looking +leading man of a cowboy, wearing his blue +shirt and his red neckerchief with an air.</p> + +<p>That Johnny certainly could cook! Served on china +dishes upon a cloth-covered table, we had mounds of +fried steaks and shoals of fried bacon; and a bushel, +more or less, of sheepherder potatoes; and green peas +and sliced peaches out of cans; and sour-dough biscuits +as light as kisses and much more filling; and fresh +butter and fresh milk; and coffee as black as your hat +and strong as sin. How easy it is for civilized man to +become primitive and comfortable in his way of eating, +especially if he has just ridden ten miles on a buckboard +and nine more on a mule and is away down at +the bottom of the Grand Cañon—and there is nobody +to look on disapprovingly when he takes a bite that +would be a credit to a steam shovel!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></p> + +<p>Despite all reports to the contrary, I wish to state +that it is no trouble at all to eat green peas off a knife-blade—you +merely mix them in with potatoes for a +cement; and fried steak—take it from an old steak +eater—tastes best when eaten with those tools of Nature's +own providing, both hands and your teeth. An +hour passed—busy, yet pleasant—and we were both +gorged to the gills and had reared back with our cigars +lit to enjoy a third jorum of black coffee apiece, when +Johnny, speaking in an offhand way to Bill, who was +still hiding away biscuits inside of himself like a parlor +prestidigitator, said:</p> + +<p>"Seen any of them old Hydrophobies the last day +or two?"</p> + +<p>"Not so many," said Bill casually. "There was a +couple out last night pirootin' round in the moonlight. +I reckon, though, there'll be quite a flock of 'em out +to-night. A new moon always seems to fetch 'em up +from the river."</p> + +<p>Both of us quit blowing on our coffee and we put the +cups down. I think I was the one who spoke.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," I asked, "but what did you +say would be out to-night?"</p> + +<p>"We were just speakin' to one another about them +Hydrophoby Skunks," said Bill apologetically. "This +here Cañon is where they mostly hang out and frolic +'round."</p> + +<p>I laid down my cigar, too. I admit I was interested.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh!" I said softly—like that. "Is it? Do +they?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Johnny. "I reckin there's liable to be +one come shovin' his old nose into that door any +minute. Or probably two—they mostly travels in +pairs—sets, as you might say."</p> + +<p>"You'd know one the minute you saw him, though," +said Bill. "They're smaller than a regular skunk and +spotted where the other kind is striped. And they got +little red eyes. You won't have no trouble at all recognizin' +one."</p> + +<p>It was at this juncture that we both got up and +moved back by the stove. It was warmer there and the +chill of evening seemed to be settling down noticeably.</p> + +<p>"Funny thing about Hydrophoby Skunks," went on +Johnny after a moment of pensive thought—"mad, +you know!"</p> + +<p>"What makes them mad?" The two of us asked +the question together.</p> + +<p>"Born that way!" explained Bill—"mad from +the start, and won't never do nothin' to get shut of +it."</p> + +<p>"Ahem—they never attack humans, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>"Don't they?" said Johnny, as if surprised at such +ignorance. "Why, humans is their favorite pastime! +Humans is just pie to a Hydrophoby Skunk. It ain't +really any fun to be bit by a Hydrophoby Skunk +neither." He raised his coffee cup to his lips and imbibed +deeply.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Which you certainly said something then, +Johnny," stated Bill. "You see," he went on, turning +to us, "they aim to catch you asleep and they creep up +right soft and take holt of you—take holt of a year +usually—and clamp their teeth and just hang on for +further orders. Some says they hang on till it thunders, +same as snappin' turtles. But that's a lie, I judge, +because there's weeks on a stretch down here when it +don't thunder. All the cases I ever heard of they let +go at sunup."</p> + +<p>"It is right painful at the time," said Johnny, taking +up the thread of the narrative; "and then in nine days +you go mad yourself. Remember that fellow the +Hydrophoby Skunk bit down here by the rapids, +Bill? Let's see now—what was that hombre's +name?"</p> + +<p>"Williams," supplied Bill—"Heck Williams. I +saw him at Flagstaff when they took him there to the +hospital. That guy certainly did carry on regardless. +First he went mad and his eyes turned red, and he got +so he didn't have no real use for water—well, them +prospectors don't never care much about water anyway—and +then he got to snappin' and bitin' and foamin' +so's they had to strap him down to his bed. He got +loose though."</p> + +<p>"Broke loose, I suppose?" I said.</p> + +<p>"No, he bit loose," said Bill with the air of one who +would not deceive you even in a matter of small details.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Do you mean to say he bit those leather straps in +two?"</p> + +<p>"No, sir; he couldn't reach them," explained Bill, +"so he bit the bed in two. Not in one bite, of course," +he went on. "It took him several. I saw him after +he was laid out. He really wasn't no credit to himself +as a corpse."</p> + +<p>I'm not sure, but I think my companion and I were +holding hands by now. Outside we could hear that +little lost echo laughing to itself. It was no time to be +laughing either. Under certain circumstances I don't +know of a lonelier place anywhere on earth than that +Grand Cañon.</p> + +<p>Presently my friend spoke, and it seemed to me his +voice was a mite husky. Well, he had a bad cold.</p> + +<p>"You said they mostly attack persons who are sleeping +out, didn't you?"</p> + +<p>"That's right, too," said Johnny, and Bill nodded in +affirmation.</p> + +<p>"Then, of course, since we sleep indoors everything +will be all right," I put in.</p> + +<p>"Well, yes and no," answered Johnny. "In the +early part of the evening a Hydrophoby is liable to do +a lot of prowlin' round outdoors; but toward mornin' +they like to get into camps—they dig up under the +side walls or come up through the floor—and they +seem to prefer to get in bed with you. They're cold-blooded, +I reckin, same as rattlesnakes. Cool nights +always do drive 'em in, seems like."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It's going to be sort of coolish to-night," said Bill +casually.</p> + +<p>It certainly was. I don't remember a chillier night +in years. My teeth were chattering a little—from +cold—before we turned in. I retired with all my +clothes on, including my boots and leggings, and I +wished I had brought along my ear muffs. I also buttoned +my watch into my lefthand shirt pocket, the idea +being if for any reason I should conclude to move during +the night I would be fully equipped for traveling. +The door would not stay closely shut—the door-jamb +had sagged a little and the wind kept blowing the door +ajar. But after a while we dozed off.</p> + +<p>It was one twenty-seven <span class="smcap">a. m.</span> when I woke with a +violent start. I know this was the exact time because +that was when my watch stopped. I peered about me +in the darkness. The door was wide open—I could +tell that. Down on the floor there was a dragging, +scuffling sound, and from almost beneath me a pair of +small red eyes peered up phosphorescently.</p> + +<p>"He's here!" I said to my companion as I emerged +from my blankets; and he, waking instantly, seemed +instinctively to know whom I meant. I used to +wonder at the ease with which a cockroach can climb +a perfectly smooth wall and run across the ceiling. I +know now that to do this is the easiest thing in the +world—if you have the proper incentive behind you. +I had gone up one wall of the tent and had crossed over +and was in the act of coming down the other side when<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> +Bill burst in, his eyes blurred with sleep, a lighted +lamp in one hand and a gun in the other.</p> + +<p>I never was so disappointed in my life because it +wasn't a Hydrophobic Skunk at all. It was a pack rat, +sometimes called a trade rat, paying us a visit. The +pack or trade rat is also a denizen of the Grand Cañon. +He is about four times as big as an ordinary rat and has +an appetite to correspond. He sometimes invades +your camp and makes free with your things, but he +never steals anything outright—he merely trades with +you; hence his name. He totes off a side of meat or +a bushel of meal and brings a cactus stalk in; or he will +confiscate your saddlebags and leave you in exchange +a nice dry chip. He is honest, but from what I can +gather he never gets badly stuck on a deal.</p> + +<p>Next morning at breakfast Johnny and Bill were doing +a lot of laughing between them over something or +other.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i110.png" width="500" height="285" alt="The Ole Virginia" title="The Ole Virginia" /> +</div> + + +<h2>IV.—The Ole Virginia<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></h2> + +<h3><i>By Stewart Edward White</i></h3> + + +<div class='cap'>THE ring around the sun had thickened all day +long, and the turquoise blue of the Arizona +sky had filmed. Storms in the dry countries +are infrequent, but heavy; and this surely meant storm. +We had ridden since sunup over broad mesas, down +and out of deep cañons, along the base of the mountains +in the wildest parts of the territory. The cattle +were winding leisurely toward the high country; the +jack rabbits had disappeared; the quail lacked; we did +not see a single antelope in the open.</div> + +<p>"It's a case of hold up," the Cattleman ventured his +opinion. "I have a ranch over in the Double R. +Charley and Windy Bill hold it down. We'll tackle +it. What do you think?"</p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p> +<p>The four cowboys agreed. We dropped into a low, +broad watercourse, ascended its bed to big cottonwoods +and flowing water, followed it into box cañons between +rim rock carved fantastically and painted like a Moorish +façade, until at last in a widening below a rounded +hill, we came upon an adobe house, a fruit tree, and a +round corral. This was the Double R.</p> + +<p>Charley and Windy Bill welcomed us with soda biscuits. +We turned our horses out, spread our beds on +the floor, filled our pipes, and squatted on our heels. +Various dogs of various breeds investigated us. It +was very pleasant, and we did not mind the ring +around the sun.</p> + +<p>"Somebody else coming," announced the Cattleman +finally.</p> + +<p>"Uncle Jim," said Charley, after a glance.</p> + +<p>A hawk-faced old man with a long white beard and +long white hair rode out from the cottonwoods. He +had on a battered broad hat abnormally high of crown, +carried across his saddle a heavy "eight square" rifle, +and was followed by a half-dozen lolloping hounds.</p> + +<p>The largest and fiercest of the latter, catching sight +of our group, launched himself with lightning rapidity +at the biggest of the ranch dogs, promptly nailed that +canine by the back of the neck, shook him violently a +score of times, flung him aside, and pounced on the +next. During the ensuing few moments that hound +was the busiest thing in the West. He satisfactorily +whipped four dogs, pursued two cats up a tree, upset<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> +the Dutch oven and the rest of the soda biscuits, stampeded +the horses, and raised a cloud of dust adequate +to represent the smoke of battle. We others were too +paralyzed to move. Uncle Jim sat placidly on his +white horse, his thin knees bent to the ox-bow stirrups, +smoking.</p> + +<p>In ten seconds the trouble was over, principally because +there was no more trouble to make. The hound +returned leisurely, licking from his chops the hair of +his victims. Uncle Jim shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Trailer," said he sadly, "is a little severe."</p> + +<p>We agreed heartily, and turned in to welcome Uncle +Jim with a fresh batch of soda biscuits.</p> + +<p>The old man was one of the typical "long hairs." +He had come to the Galiuro Mountains in '69, and +since '69 he had remained in the Galiuro Mountains, +spite of man or the devil. At present he possessed +some hundreds of cattle, which he was reputed to water, +in a dry season, from an ordinary dish pan. In times +past he had prospected.</p> + +<p>That evening, the severe Trailer having dropped to +slumber, he held forth on big-game hunting and dogs, +quartz claims and Apaches.</p> + +<p>"Did you ever have any very close calls?" I asked.</p> + +<p>He ruminated a few moments, refilled his pipe with +some awful tobacco, and told the following experience:</p> + +<p>"In the time of Geronimo I was living just about +where I do now; and that was just about in line with +the raiding. You see, Geronimo, and Ju, and old<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> +Loco used to pile out of the reservation at Camp +Apache, raid south to the line, slip over into Mexico +when the soldiers got too promiscuous, and raid there +until they got ready to come back. Then there was +always a big medicine talk. Says Geronimo:</p> + +<p>"'I am tired of the warpath. I will come back +from Mexico with all my warriors, if you will escort +me with soldiers and protect my people.'</p> + +<p>"'All right,' says the General, being only too glad +to get him back at all.</p> + +<p>"So, then, in ten minutes there wouldn't be a buck +in camp, but next morning they shows up again, each +with about fifty head of hosses.</p> + +<p>"'Where'd you get those hosses?' asks the General, +suspicious.</p> + +<p>"'Had 'em pastured in the hills,' answers Geronimo.</p> + +<p>"'I can't take all those hosses with me; I believe +they're stolen!' says the General.</p> + +<p>"'My people cannot go without their hosses,' says +Geronimo.</p> + +<p>"So, across the line they goes, and back to the reservation. +In about a week there's fifty-two frantic +Greasers wanting to know where's their hosses. The +army is nothing but an importer of stolen stock, and +knows it, and can't help it.</p> + +<p>"Well, as I says, I'm between Camp Apache and +the Mexican line, so that every raiding party goes +right on past me. The point is that I'm a thousand<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> +feet or so above the valley, and the renegades is in +such a hurry about that time that they never stop to +climb up and collect me. Often I've watched them +trailing down the valley in a cloud of dust. Then, in +a day or two, a squad of soldiers would come up and +camp at my spring for a while. They used to send +soldiers to guard every water hole in the country so +the renegades couldn't get water. After a while, +from not being bothered none, I got to thinking I +wasn't worth while with them.</p> + +<p>"Me and Johnny Hooper were pecking away at the +Ole Virginia mine then. We'd got down about sixty +feet, all timbered, and was thinking of crosscutting. +One day Johnny went to town, and that same day I +got in a hurry and left my gun at camp.</p> + +<p>"I worked all the morning down at the bottom of +the shaft, and when I see by the sun it was getting +along towards noon, I put in three good shots, tamped +'em down, lit the fuses, and started to climb out.</p> + +<p>"It ain't noways pleasant to light a fuse in a shaft, +and then have to climb out a fifty-foot ladder, with it +burning behind you. I never did get used to it. You +keep thinking, 'Now, suppose there's a flaw in that +fuse, or something, and she goes off in six seconds +instead of two minutes? Where'll you be then?' +It would give you a good boost towards your home on +high, anyway.</p> + +<p>"So I climbed fast, and stuck my head out the top +without looking—and then I froze solid enough.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> +There, about fifty feet away, climbing up the hill on +mighty tired hosses, was a dozen of the ugliest +Chiricahuas you ever don't want to meet, and in addition +a Mexican renegade named Maria, who was +worse than any of 'em. I see at once their hosses was +tired out, and they had a notion of camping at my water +hole, not knowing nothing about the Ole Virginia mine.</p> + +<p>"For two bits I'd have let go all holts and dropped +backwards, trusting to my thick head for easy lighting. +Then I heard a little fizz and sputter from below. At +that my hair riz right up so I could feel the breeze +blow under my hat. For about six seconds I stood +there like an imbecile, grinning amiably. Then one +of the Chiricahuas made a sort of grunt, and I sabed +that they'd seen the original exhibit your Uncle Jim +was making of himself.</p> + +<p>"Then that fuse gave another sputter and one of +the Apaches said, 'Un dah.' That means 'white +man.' It was harder to turn my head than if I'd had +a stiff neck; but I managed to do it, and I see that my +ore dump wasn't more than ten foot away. I mighty +near overjumped it; and the next I knew I was on one +side of it and those Apaches on the other. Probably +I flew; leastways I don't seem to remember jumping.</p> + +<p>"That didn't seem to do me much good. The renegades +were grinning and laughing to think how easy +a thing they had; and I couldn't rightly think up any +arguments against the notion—at least from their +standpoint. They were chattering away to each other<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +in Mexican for the benefit of Maria. Oh, they had +me all distributed, down to my suspender buttons! +And me squatting behind that ore dump about as formidable +as a brush rabbit!</p> + +<p>"Then, all at once, one of my shots went off down +in the shaft.</p> + +<p>"'Boom!' says she, plenty big; and a slather of +rocks and stones come out of the mouth, and began to +dump down promiscuous on the scenery. I got one +little one in the shoulder blade, and found time to wish +my ore dump had a roof. But those renegades caught +it square in the thick of trouble. One got knocked +out entirely for a minute, by a nice piece of country +rock in the head.</p> + +<p>"'Otra vez!' yells I, which means 'again.'</p> + +<p>"'Boom!' goes the Ole Virginia prompt as an +answer.</p> + +<p>"I put in my time dodging, but when I gets a chance +to look, the Apaches has all got to cover and is looking +scared.</p> + +<p>"'Otra vez!' yells I again.</p> + +<p>"'Boom!' says the Ole Virginia.</p> + +<p>"This was the biggest shot of the lot, and she surely +cut loose. I ought to have been halfway up the hill +watching things from a safe distance, but I wasn't. +Lucky for me the shaft was a little on the drift, so she +didn't quite shoot my way. But she distributed about +a ton over those renegades. They sort of half got +to their feet uncertain.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p> + +<p>"'Otra vez!' yells I once more, as bold as if I +could keep her shooting all day.</p> + +<p>"It was just a cold, raw blazer; and if it didn't go +through I could see me as an Apache parlor ornament. +But it did. Those Chiricahuas give one yell and +skipped. It was surely a funny sight, after they got +aboard their war ponies, to see them trying to dig out +on horses too tired to trot.</p> + +<p>"I didn't stop to get all the laughs, though. In +fact, I give one jump off that ledge, and I lit a-running. +A quarter-hoss couldn't have beat me to that shack. +There I grabbed my good old gun, old Meat-in-the-pot, +and made a climb for the tall country."</p> + +<p>Uncle Jim stopped with an air of finality, and began +lazily to refill his pipe. From the open mud fireplace +he picked a coal. Outside, the rain, faithful to the +prophecy of the wide-ringed sun, beat fitfully against +the roof.</p> + +<p>"That was the closest call I ever had," said he at +last.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i118.png" width="500" height="159" alt="The Weight of Obligation" title="The Weight of Obligation" /> +</div> + + +<h2>V.—The Weight of Obligation<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></h2> + +<h3><i>By Rex Beach</i></h3> + + +<div class='cap'>This is the story of a burden, the tale of a load +that irked a strong man's shoulders. To +those who do not know the North it may +seem strange, but to those who understand the humors +of men in solitude, and the extravagant vagaries that +steal in upon their minds, as fog drifts with the night, +it will not appear unusual. There are spirits in the +wilderness, eerie forces which play pranks; some droll +or whimsical, others grim.</div> + +<p>Johnny Cantwell and Mortimer Grant were partners, +trail mates, brothers in soul if not in blood. The +ebb and flood of frontier life had brought them together, +its hardships had united them until they were +as one. They were something of a mystery to each +other, neither having surrendered all his confidence, +and because of this they retained their mutual attraction. +They had met by accident, but they remained +together by desire.</p> + +<p>The spirit of adventure bubbled merrily within them,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> +and it led them into curious byways. It was this which +sent them northward from the States in the dead of +winter, on the heels of the Stony River strike; it was +this which induced them to land at Katmai instead of +Illiamna, whither their land journey should have commenced.</p> + +<p>"There are two routes over the coast range," the +captain of the <i>Dora</i> told them, "and only two. Illiamna +Pass is low and easy, but the distance is longer +than by way of Katmai. I can land you at either +place."</p> + +<p>"Katmai is pretty tough, isn't it?" Grant inquired.</p> + +<p>"We've understood it's the worst pass in Alaska." +Cantwell's eyes were eager.</p> + +<p>"It's awful! Nobody travels it except natives, and +they don't like it. Now, Illiamna—"</p> + +<p>"We'll try Katmai. Eh, Mort?"</p> + +<p>"Sure! They don't come hard enough for us, Cap. +We'll see if it's as bad as it's painted."</p> + +<p>So, one gray January morning they were landed on +a frozen beach, their outfit was flung ashore through +the surf, the lifeboat pulled away, and the <i>Dora</i> disappeared +after a farewell toot of her whistle. Their +last glimpse of her showed the captain waving good-by +and the purser flapping a red tablecloth at them from +the after-deck.</p> + +<p>"Cheerful place, this," Grant remarked, as he noted +the desolate surroundings of dune and hillside.</p> + +<p>The beach itself was black and raw where the surf<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> +washed it, but elsewhere all was white, save for the +thickets of alder and willow which protruded nakedly. +The bay was little more than a hollow scooped out of +the Alaskan range; along the foothills behind there was +a belt of spruce and cottonwood and birch. It was +a lonely and apparently unpeopled wilderness in which +they had been set down.</p> + +<p>"Seems good to be back in the North again, doesn't +it?" said Cantwell, cheerily. "I'm tired of the booze, +and the street cars, and the dames, and all that civilized +stuff. I'd rather be broke in Alaska—with you—than +a banker's son, back home."</p> + +<p>Soon a globular Russian half-breed, the Katmai +trader, appeared among the dunes, and with him were +some native villagers. That night the partners slept +in a snug log cabin, the roof of which was chained +down with old ships' cables. Petellin, the fat little +trader, explained that roofs in Katmai had a way of +sailing off to seaward when the wind blew. +He listened to their plan of crossing the divide and +nodded.</p> + +<p>It could be done, of course, he agreed, but they were +foolish to try it, when the Illiamna route was open. +Still, now that they were here, he would find dogs for +them, and a guide. The village hunters were out after +meat, however, and until they returned the white men +would need to wait in patience.</p> + +<p>There followed several days of idleness, during +which Cantwell and Grant amused themselves around<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +the village, teasing the squaws, playing games with the +boys, and flirting harmlessly with the girls, one of +whom, in particular, was not unattractive. She was +perhaps three-quarters Aleut, the other quarter being +plain coquette, and, having been educated at the town +of Kodiak, she knew the ways and the wiles of the +white man.</p> + +<p>Cantwell approached her, and she met his extravagant +advances more than halfway. They were getting +along nicely together when Grant, in a spirit of fun, +entered the game and won her fickle smiles for himself. +He joked his partner unmercifully, and Johnny +accepted defeat gracefully, never giving the matter a +second thought.</p> + +<p>When the hunters returned, dogs were bought, a +guide was hired, and, a week after landing, the friends +were camped at timber line awaiting a favorable moment +for their dash across the range. Above them, +white hillsides rose in irregular leaps to the gash in +the saw-toothed barrier which formed the pass; below +them a short valley led down to Katmai and the sea. +The day was bright, the air clear, nevertheless after the +guide had stared up at the peaks for a time he shook +his head, then reëntered the tent and lay down. The +mountains were "smoking"; from their tops streamed +a gossamer veil which the travelers knew to be drifting +snow clouds carried by the wind. It meant delay, but +they were patient.</p> + +<p>They were up and going on the following morning,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> +however, with the Indian in the lead. There was no +trail; the hills were steep; in places they were forced +to unload the sled and hoist their outfit by means of +ropes, and as they mounted higher the snow deepened. +It lay like loose sand, only lighter; it shoved ahead of +the sled in a feathery mass; the dogs wallowed in it and +were unable to pull, hence the greater part of the work +devolved upon the men. Once above the foothills and +into the range proper, the going became more level, +but the snow remained knee-deep.</p> + +<p>The Indian broke trail stolidly; the partners strained +at the sled, which hung back like a leaden thing. By +afternoon the dogs had become disheartened and refused +to heed the whip. There was neither fuel nor +running water, and therefore the party did not pause +for luncheon. The men were sweating profusely from +their exertions and had long since become parched +with thirst, but the dry snow was like chalk and +scoured their throats.</p> + +<p>Cantwell was the first to show the effects of his unusual +exertions, for not only had he assumed a lion's +share of the work, but the last few months of easy living +had softened his muscles, and in consequence his +vitality was quickly spent. His undergarments were +drenched; he was fearfully dry inside; a terrible thirst +seemed to penetrate his whole body; he was forced to +rest frequently.</p> + +<p>Grant eyed him with some concern, finally inquiring, +"Feel bad, Johnny?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> + +<p>Cantwell nodded. Their fatigue made both men +economical of language.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?"</p> + +<p>"Thirsty!" The former could barely speak.</p> + +<p>"There won't be any water till we get across. +You'll have to stand it."</p> + +<p>They resumed their duties; the Indian "swish-swished" +ahead, as if wading through a sea of swan's-down; +the dogs followed listlessly; the partners leaned +against the stubborn load.</p> + +<p>A faint breath finally came out of the north, causing +Grant and the guide to study the sky anxiously. Cantwell +was too weary to heed the increasing cold. The +snow on the slopes above began to move; here and +there, on exposed ridges, it rose in clouds and puffs; the +cleancut outlines of the hills became obscured as by a +fog; the languid wind bit cruelly.</p> + +<p>After a time Johnny fell back upon the sled and exclaimed: +"I'm—all in, Mort. Don't seem to have +the—guts." He was pale, his eyes were tortured. +He scooped a mitten full of snow and raised it to his +lips, then spat it out, still dry.</p> + +<p>"Here! Brace up!" In a panic of apprehension +at this collapse Grant shook him; he had never known +Johnny to fail like this. "Take a drink; it'll do you +good." He drew a bottle from one of the dunnage +bags and Cantwell seized it avidly. It was wet; it +would quench his thirst, he thought. Before Mort +could check him he had drunk a third of the contents.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p> + +<p>The effect was almost instantaneous, for Cantwell's +stomach was empty and his tissues seemed to absorb +the liquor like a dry sponge; his fatigue fell away, he +became suddenly strong and vigorous again. But before +he had gone a hundred yards the reaction followed. +First his mind grew thick, then his limbs became +unmanageable and his muscles flabby. He was +drunk. Yet it was a strange and dangerous intoxication, +against which he struggled desperately. He +fought it for perhaps a quarter of a mile before it +mastered him; then he gave up.</p> + +<p>Both men knew that stimulants are never taken on +the trail, but they had never stopped to reason why, +and even now they did not attribute Johnny's breakdown +to the brandy. After a while he stumbled and +fell, then, the cool snow being grateful to his face, he +sprawled there motionless until Mort dragged him to +the sled. He stared at his partner in perplexity and +laughed foolishly. The wind was increasing, darkness +was near, they had not yet reached the Bering +slope.</p> + +<p>Something in the drunken man's face frightened +Grant and, extracting a ship's biscuit from the grub +box, he said, hurriedly: "Here, Johnny. Get something +under your belt, quick."</p> + +<p>Cantwell obediently munched the hard cracker, but +there was no moisture on his tongue; his throat was +paralyzed; the crumbs crowded themselves from the +corners of his lips. He tried with limber fingers to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> +stuff them down, or to assist the muscular action of +swallowing, but finally expelled them in a cloud. Mort +drew the parka hood over his partner's head, for the +wind cut like a scythe and the dogs were turning tail +to it, digging holes in the snow for protection. The +air about them was like yeast; the light was fading.</p> + +<p>The Indian snowshoed his way back, advising a +quick camp until the storm abated, but to this suggestion +Grant refused to listen, knowing only too well the +peril of such a course. Nor did he dare take Johnny +on the sled, since the fellow was half asleep already, +but instead whipped up the dogs and urged his companion +to follow as best he could.</p> + +<p>When Cantwell fell, for a second time, he returned, +dragged him forward, and tied his wrists firmly, yet +loosely, to the load.</p> + +<p>The storm was pouring over them now, like water +out of a spout; it seared and blinded them; its touch +was like that of a flame. Nevertheless they struggled +on into the smother, making what headway they could. +The Indian led, pulling at the end of a rope; Grant +strained at the sled and hoarsely encouraged the dogs; +Cantwell stumbled and lurched in the rear like an unwilling +prisoner. When he fell his companion lifted +him, then beat him, cursed him, tried in every way to +rouse him from his lethargy.</p> + +<p>After an interminable time they found they were descending +and this gave them heart to plunge ahead more +rapidly. The dogs began to trot as the sled overran<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> +them; they rushed blindly into gullies, fetching up at +the bottom in a tangle, and Johnny followed in a nerveless, +stupefied condition. He was dragged like a sack +of flour for his legs were limp and he lacked muscular +control, but every dash, every fall, every quick descent +drove the sluggish blood through his veins and cleared +his brain momentarily. Such moments were fleeting, +however; much of the time his mind was a blank, and +it was only by a mechanical effort that he fought off +unconsciousness.</p> + +<p>He had vague memories of many beatings at Mort's +hands, of the slippery clean-swept ice of a stream over +which he limply skidded, of being carried into a tent +where a candle flickered and a stove roared. Grant +was holding something hot to his lips, and then—</p> + +<p>It was morning. He was weak and sick; he felt +as if he had awakened from a hideous dream. "I +played out, didn't I?" he queried, wonderingly.</p> + +<p>"You sure did," Grant laughed. "It was a tight +squeak, old boy. I never thought I'd get you through."</p> + +<p>"Played out! I—can't understand it." Cantwell +prided himself on his strength and stamina, therefore +the truth was unbelievable. He and Mort had long +been partners, they had given and taken much at each +other's hands, but this was something altogether different. +Grant had saved his life, at risk of his own; +the older man's endurance had been the greater and he +had used it to good advantage. It embarrassed Johnny +tremendously to realize that he had proved unequal to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> +his share of the work, for he had never before experienced +such an obligation. He apologized repeatedly +during the few days he lay sick, and meanwhile Mort +waited upon him like a mother.</p> + +<p>Cantwell was relieved when at last they had abandoned +camp, changed guides at the next village, and +were on their way along the coast, for somehow he felt +very sensitive about his collapse. He was, in fact, extremely +ashamed of himself.</p> + +<p>Once he had fully recovered he had no further +trouble, but soon rounded into fit condition and showed +no effects of his ordeal. Day after day he and Mort +traveled through the solitudes, their isolation broken +only by occasional glimpses of native villages, where +they rested briefly and renewed their supply of dog +feed.</p> + +<p>But although the younger man was now as well and +strong as ever, he was uncomfortably conscious that +his trail mate regarded him as the weaker of the two +and shielded him in many ways. Grant performed +most of the unpleasant tasks, and occasionally cautioned +Johnny about overdoing. This protective attitude at +first amused, then offended Cantwell, it galled him until +he was upon the point of voicing his resentment, but +reflected that he had no right to object, for, judging by +past performances, he had proved his inferiority. This +uncomfortable realization forever arose to prevent open +rebellion, but he asserted himself secretly by robbing +Grant of his self-appointed tasks. He rose first in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> +mornings, he did the cooking, he lengthened his turns +ahead of the dogs, he mended harness after the day's +hike had ended. Of course the older man objected, +and for a time they had a good-natured rivalry as to +who should work and who should rest—only it was +not quite so good-natured on Cantwell's part as he +made it appear.</p> + +<p>Mort broke out in friendly irritation one day: +"Don't try to do everything, Johnny. Remember I'm +no cripple."</p> + +<p>"Humph! You proved that. I guess it's up to +me to do your work."</p> + +<p>"Oh, forget that day on the pass, can't you?"</p> + +<p>Johnny grunted a second time, and from his tone it +was evident that he would never forget, unpleasant +though the memory remained. Sensing his sullen resentment, +the other tried to rally him, but made a bad +job of it. The humor of men in the open is not delicate; +their wit and their words become coarsened in direct +proportion as they revert to the primitive; it is +one effect of the solitudes.</p> + +<p>Grant spoke extravagantly, mockingly, of his own +superiority in a way which ordinarily would have +brought a smile to Cantwell's lips, but the latter did not +smile. He taunted Johnny humorously on his lack of +physical prowess, his lack of good looks and manly +qualities—something which had never failed to result +in a friendly exchange of badinage; he even teased +him about his defeat with the Katmai girl.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p> + +<p>Cantwell did respond finally, but afterward he found +himself wondering if Mort could have been in earnest. +He dismissed the thought with some impatience. But +men on the trail have too much time for their +thoughts; there is nothing in the monotonous routine +of the day's work to distract them, so the partner who +had played out dwelt more and more upon his debt +and upon his friend's easy assumption of preëminence. +The weight of obligation began to chafe him, lightly at +first, but with ever-increasing discomfort. He began to +think that Grant honestly considered himself the better +man, merely because chance had played into his +hands.</p> + +<p>It was silly, even childish, to dwell on the subject, +he reflected, and yet he could not banish it from his +mind. It was always before him, in one form or another. +He felt the strength in his lean muscles, and +sneered at the thought that Mort should be deceived. +If it came to a physical test he felt sure he could break +his slighter partner with his bare hands, and as for endurance—well, +he was hungry for a chance to demonstrate +it.</p> + +<p>They talked little; men seldom converse in the +wastes, for there is something about the silence of the +wilderness which discourages speech. And no land +is so grimly silent, so hushed and soundless, as the +frozen North. For days they marched through desolation, +without glimpse of human habitation, without +sight of track or trail, without sound of a human voice<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> +to break the monotony. There was no game in the +country, with the exception of an occasional bird or +rabbit, nothing but the white hills, the fringe of alder +tops along the watercourses, and the thickets of gnarled, +unhealthy spruce in the smothered valleys.</p> + +<p>Their destination was a mysterious stream at the +headwaters of the unmapped Kuskokwim, where rumor +said there was gold, and whither they feared other men +were hastening from the mining country far to the +north.</p> + +<p>Now it is a penalty of the White Country that men +shall think of women; Cantwell began to brood upon +the Katmai girl, for she was the last; her eyes were +haunting and distance had worked its usual enchantment. +He reflected that Mort had shouldered him +aside and won her favor, then boasted of it. Johnny +awoke one night with a dream of her, and lay quivering.</p> + +<p>"She was only a squaw," he said, half aloud. "If +I'd really tried—"</p> + +<p>Grant lay beside him, snoring, the heat of their +bodies intermingled. The waking man tried to compose +himself, but his partner's stertorous breathing irritated +him beyond measure; for a long time he remained +motionless, staring into the gray blurr of the +tent top. He had played out. He owed his life to +the man who had cheated him of the Katmai girl, and +that man knew it. He had become a weak, helpless +thing, dependent upon another's strength, and that +other now accepted his superiority as a matter of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> +course. The obligation was insufferable, and—it was +unjust. The North had played him a devilish trick, +it had betrayed him, it had bound him to his benefactor +with chains of gratitude which were irksome. Had +they been real chains they could have galled him no +more than at this moment.</p> + +<p>As time passed the men spoke less frequently to +each other. Grant joshed his mate roughly, once or +twice, masking beneath an assumption of jocularity +his own vague irritation at the change that had come +over them. It was as if he had probed at an open +wound with clumsy fingers.</p> + +<p>Cantwell had by this time assumed most of those +petty camp tasks which provoke tired trailers, those +humdrum duties which are so trying to exhausted +nerves, and of course they wore upon him as they wear +upon every man. But, once he had taken them over, +he began to resent Grant's easy relinquishment; it +rankled him to realize how willingly the other allowed +him to do the cooking, the dish-washing, the fire-building, +the bed-making. Little monotonies of this kind +form the hardest part of winter travel, they are the +rocks upon which friendships founder and partnerships +are wrecked. Out on the trail, nature equalizes +the work to a great extent, and no man can shirk unduly, +but in camp, inside the cramped confines of a +tent pitched on boughs laid over the snow, it is very +different. There one must busy himself while the +other rests and keeps his legs out of the way if possible.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> +One man sits on the bedding at the rear of the shelter, +and shivers, while the other squats over a tantalizing +fire of green wood, blistering his face and parboiling +his limbs inside his sweaty clothing. Dishes must be +passed, food divided, and it is poor food, poorly prepared +at best. Sometimes men criticize and voice +longings for better grub and better cooking. Remarks +of this kind have been known to result in tragedies, +bitter words and flaming curses—then, perhaps, wild +actions, memories of which the later years can never +erase.</p> + +<p>It is but one prank of the wilderness, one grim manifestation +of its silent forces.</p> + +<p>Had Grant been unable to do his part Cantwell would +have willingly accepted the added burden, but Mort was +able, he was nimble and "handy," he was the better +cook of the two; in fact, he was the better man in every +way—or so he believed. Cantwell sneered at the last +thought, and the memory of his debt was like bitter +medicine.</p> + +<p>His resentment—in reality nothing more than a +phase of insanity begot of isolation and silence—could +not help but communicate itself to his companion, +and there resulted a mutual antagonism, which +grew into a dislike, then festered into something more, +something strange, reasonless, yet terribly vivid and +amazingly potent for evil. Neither man ever mentioned +it—their tongues were clenched between their +teeth and they held themselves in check with harsh<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> +hands—but it was constantly in their minds, nevertheless. +No man who has not suffered the manifold irritations +of such an intimate association can appreciate +the gnawing canker of animosity like this. It was +dangerous because there was no relief from it: the two +were bound together as by gyves; they shared each +other's every action and every plan; they trod in each +other's tracks, slept in the same bed, ate from the same +plate. They were like prisoners ironed to the same +staple.</p> + +<p>Each fought the obsession in his own way, but it is +hard to fight the impalpable, hence their sick fancies +grew in spite of themselves. Their minds needed food +to prey upon, but found none. Each began to criticize +the other silently, to sneer at his weaknesses, to meditate +derisively upon his peculiarities. After a time +they no longer resisted the advance of these poisonous +thoughts, but welcomed it.</p> + +<p>On more than one occasion the embers of their wrath +were upon the point of bursting into flame, but each +realized that the first ill-considered word would serve +to slip the leash from those demons that were +straining to go free, and so managed to restrain himself.</p> + +<p>The crisis came one crisp morning when a dog team +whirled around a bend in the river and a white man +hailed them. He was the mail carrier, on his way out +from Nome, and he brought news of the "inside."</p> + +<p>"Where are you boys bound for?" he inquired<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> +when greetings were over and gossip of the trail had +passed.</p> + +<p>"We're going to the Stony River strike," Grant told +him.</p> + +<p>"Stony River? Up the Kuskokwim?"</p> + +<p>"Yes!"</p> + +<p>The mail man laughed. "Can you beat that? +Ain't you heard about Stony River?"</p> + +<p>"No!"</p> + +<p>"Why, it's a fake—no such place."</p> + +<p>There was a silence; the partners avoided each +other's eyes.</p> + +<p>"MacDonald, the fellow that started it, is on his +way to Dawson. There's a gang after him, too, and +if he's caught it'll go hard with him. He wrote the letters—to +himself—and spread the news just to raise +a grubstake. He cleaned up big before they got onto +him. He peddled his tips for real money."</p> + +<p>"Yes!" Grant spoke quietly. "Johnny bought +one. That's what brought us from Seattle. We went +out on the last boat and figured we'd come in from this +side before the break-up. So—fake!"</p> + +<p>"Gee! You fellers bit good." The mail carrier +shook his head. "Well! You'd better keep going +now; you'll get to Nome before the season opens. Better +take dogfish from Bethel—it's four bits a pound +on the Yukon. Sorry I didn't hit your camp last +night; we'd 'a' had a visit. Tell the gang that you saw +me." He shook hands ceremoniously, yelled at his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> +panting dogs, and went swiftly on his way, waving a +mitten on high as he vanished around the next bend.</p> + +<p>The partners watched him go, then Grant turned to +Johnny, and repeated: "Fake! MacDonald stung +you."</p> + +<p>Cantwell's face went as white as the snow behind +him, his eyes blazed. "Why did you tell him I bit?" +he demanded harshly.</p> + +<p>"Hunh! <i>Didn't</i> you bite? Two thousand miles +afoot; three months of Hades; for nothing. That's +biting some."</p> + +<p>"<i>Well!</i>" The speaker's face was convulsed, and +Grant's flamed with an answering anger. They glared +at each other for a moment. "Don't blame me. You +fell for it, too."</p> + +<p>"I——" Mort checked his rushing words.</p> + +<p>"Yes, <i>you!</i> Now, what are you going to do about +it? Welsh?"</p> + +<p>"I'm going through to Nome." The sight of his +partner's rage had set Mort to shaking with a furious +desire to fly at his throat, but fortunately, he retained a +spark of sanity.</p> + +<p>"Then shut up, and quit chewing the rag. You—talk +too much."</p> + +<p>Mort's eyes were bloodshot; they fell upon the carbine +under the sled lashings, and lingered there, then +wavered. He opened his lips, reconsidered, spoke +softly to the team, then lifted the heavy dog whip and +smote the Malemutes with all his strength.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></p> + +<p>The men resumed their journey without further +words, but each was cursing inwardly.</p> + +<p>"So! I talk too much," Grant thought. The accusation +struck in his mind and he determined to speak +no more.</p> + +<p>"He blames me," Cantwell reflected, bitterly. +"I'm in wrong again and he couldn't keep his mouth +shut. A fine partner, he is!"</p> + +<p>All day they plodded on, neither trusting himself +to speak. They ate their evening meal like mutes; they +avoided each other's eyes. Even the guide noticed the +change and looked on curiously.</p> + +<p>There were two robes and these the partners shared +nightly, but their hatred had grown so during the past +few hours that the thought of lying side by side, limb +to limb, was distasteful.</p> + +<p>Yet neither dared suggest a division of the bedding, +for that would have brought further words and resulted +in the crash which they longed for, but feared. +They stripped off their furs, and lay down beside each +other with the same repugnance they would have felt +had there been a serpent in the couch.</p> + +<p>This unending malevolent silence became terrible. +The strain of it increased, for each man now had something +definite to cherish in the words and the looks that +had passed. They divided the camp work with scrupulous +nicety, each man waited upon himself and asked +no favors. The knowledge of his debt forever chafed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> +Cantwell; Grant resented his companion's lack of gratitude.</p> + +<p>Of course they spoke occasionally—it was beyond +human endurance to remain entirely dumb—but they +conversed in monosyllables, about trivial things, and +their voices were throaty, as if the effort choked them. +Meanwhile they continued to glow inwardly at a white +heat.</p> + +<p>Cantwell no longer felt the desire merely to match +his strength against Grant's; the estrangement had become +too wide for that; a physical victory would have +been flat and tasteless; he craved some deeper satisfaction. +He began to think of the ax—just how or when +or why he never knew. It was a thin-bladed, polished +thing of frosty steel, and the more he thought of it the +stronger grew his impulse to rid himself once for all +of that presence which exasperated him. It would be +very easy, he reasoned; a sudden blow, with the weight +of his shoulders behind it—he fancied he could feel +the bit sink into Grant's flesh, cleaving bone and cartilages +in its course—a slanting downward stroke, +aimed at the neck where it joined the body, and he +would be forever satisfied. It would be ridiculously +simple. He practiced in the gloom of evening as he +felled spruce trees for firewood; he guarded the ax +religiously; it became a living thing which urged +him on to violence. He saw it standing by the tent fly +when he closed his eyes to sleep; he dreamed of it; he +sought it out with his eyes when he first awoke. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> +slid it loosely under the sled lashings every morning, +thinking that its use could not long be delayed.</p> + +<p>As for Grant, the carbine dwelt forever in his mind, +and his fingers itched for it. He secretly slipped a +cartridge into the chamber, and when an occasional +ptarmigan offered itself for a target he saw the white +spot on the breast of Johnny's reindeer parka, dancing +ahead of the Lyman bead.</p> + +<p>The solitude had done its work; the North had +played its grim comedy to the final curtain, making +sport of men's affections and turning love to rankling +hate. But into the mind of each man crept a certain +craftiness. Each longed to strike, but feared to face +the consequences. It was lonesome, here among the +white hills and the deathly silences, yet they reflected +that it would be still more lonesome if they were left +to keep step with nothing more substantial than a +memory. They determined, therefore, to wait until +civilization was nearer, meanwhile rehearsing the moment +they knew was inevitable. Over and over in +their thoughts each of them enacted the scene, ending +it always with the picture of a prostrate man in a +patch of trampled snow which grew crimson as the +other gloated.</p> + +<p>They paused at Bethel Mission long enough to load +with dried salmon, then made the ninety-mile portage +over lake and tundra to the Yukon. There they got +their first touch of the "inside" world. They camped +in a barabora where white men had slept a few nights<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> +before, and heard their own language spoken by native +tongues. The time was growing short now, and they +purposely dismissed their guide, knowing that the trail +was plain from there on. When they hitched up, on +the next morning, Cantwell placed the ax, bit down, +between the tarpaulin and the sled rail, leaving the +helve projecting where his hand could reach it. Grant +thrust the barrel of the rifle beneath a lashing, with +the butt close by the handle-bars, and it was loaded.</p> + +<p>A mile from the village they were overtaken by +an Indian and his squaw, traveling light behind hungry +dogs. The natives attached themselves to the white +men and hung stubbornly to their heels, taking advantage +of their tracks. When night came they +camped alongside, in the hope of food. They announced +that they were bound for St. Michaels, and +in spite of every effort to shake them off they remained +close behind the partners until that point was reached.</p> + +<p>At St. Michaels there were white men, practically +the first Johnny and Mort had encountered since landing +at Katmai, and for a day at least they were sane. +But there were still three hundred miles to be traveled, +three hundred miles of solitude and haunting thoughts. +Just as they were about to start, Cantwell came upon +Grant and the A. C. agent, and heard his name pronounced, +also the word "Katmai." He noted that +Mort fell silent at his approach, and instantly his anger +blazed afresh. He decided that the latter had been +telling the story of their experience on the pass and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> +boasting of his service. So much the better, he +thought, in a blind rage; that which he planned doing +would appear all the more like an accident, for who +would dream that a man could kill the person to +whom he owed his life?</p> + +<p>That night he waited for a chance.</p> + +<p>They were camped in a dismal hut on a wind-swept +shore; they were alone. But Grant was waiting also, +it seemed. They lay down beside each other, ostensibly +to sleep; their limbs touched; the warmth from +their bodies intermingled, but they did not close their +eyes.</p> + +<p>They were up and away early, with Nome drawing +rapidly nearer. They had skirted an ocean, foot by +foot; Bering Sea lay behind them, now, and its northern +shore swung westward to their goal. For two +months they had lived in silent animosity, feeding on +bitter food while their elbows rubbed.</p> + +<p>Noon found them floundering through one of those +unheralded storms which make coast travel so hazardous. +The morning had turned off gray, the sky was of +a leaden hue which blended perfectly with the snow +underfoot, there was no horizon, it was impossible to +see more than a few yards in any direction. The trail +soon became obliterated and their eyes began to play +tricks. For all they could distinguish, they might +have been suspended in space; they seemed to be treading +the measures of an endless dance in the center of +a whirling cloud. Of course it was cold, for the wind<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> +off the open sea was damp, but they were not men to +turn back.</p> + +<p>They soon discovered that their difficulty lay not in +facing the storm, but in holding to the trail. That +narrow, two-foot causeway, packed by a winter's +travel and frozen into a ribbon of ice by a winter's +frosts, afforded their only avenue of progress, for the +moment they left it the sled plowed into the loose snow, +well-nigh disappearing and bringing the dogs to a +standstill. It was the duty of the driver, in such case, +to wallow forward, right the load if necessary, and +lift it back into place. These mishaps were forever +occurring, for it was impossible to distinguish the +trail beneath its soft covering. However, if the +driver's task was hard it was no more trying than that +of the man ahead, who was compelled to feel out and +explore the ridge of hardened snow and ice with +his feet, after the fashion of a man walking a plank +in the dark. Frequently he lunged into the drifts with +one foot, or both; his glazed mukluk soles slid about, +causing him to bestride the invisible hogback, or again +his legs crossed awkwardly, throwing him off his balance. +At times he wandered away from the path entirely +and had to search it out again. These exertions +were very wearing and they were dangerous, also, for +joints are easily dislocated, muscles twisted, and tendons +strained.</p> + +<p>Hour after hour the march continued, unrelieved +by any change, unbroken by any speck or spot of color.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> +The nerves of their eyes, wearied by constant nearsighted +peering at the snow, began to jump so that +vision became untrustworthy. Both travelers appreciated +the necessity of clinging to the trail, for, once +they lost it, they knew they might wander about indefinitely +until they chanced to regain it or found their +way to the shore, while always to seaward was the +menace of open water, of air holes, or cracks which +might gape beneath their feet like jaws. Immersion +in this temperature, no matter how brief, meant death.</p> + +<p>The monotony of progress through this unreal, +leaden world became almost unbearable. The repeated +strainings and twistings they suffered in walking +the slippery ridge reduced the men to weariness; +their legs grew clumsy and their feet uncertain. Had +they found a camping place they would have stopped, +but they dared not forsake the thin thread that linked +them with safety to go and look for one, not knowing +where the shore lay. In storms of this kind men +have lain in their sleeping bags for days within a +stone's throw of a road-house or village. Bodies have +been found within a hundred yards of shelter after +blizzards have abated.</p> + +<p>Cantwell and Grant had no choice, therefore, except +to bore into the welter of drifting flakes.</p> + +<p>It was late in the afternoon when the latter met +with an accident. Johnny, who had taken a spell at +the rear, heard him cry out, saw him stagger, struggle +to hold his footing, then sink into the snow. The dogs<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> +paused instantly, lay down, and began to strip the ice +pellets from between their toes.</p> + +<p>Cantwell spoke harshly, leaning upon the handle-bars: +"Well! What's the idea?"</p> + +<p>It was the longest sentence of the day.</p> + +<p>"I've—hurt myself." Mort's voice was thin and +strange; he raised himself to a sitting posture, and +reached beneath his parka, then lay back weakly. He +writhed, his face was twisted with pain. He continued +to lie there, doubled into a knot of suffering. A +groan was wrenched from between his teeth.</p> + +<p>"Hurt? How?" Johnny inquired, dully.</p> + +<p>It seemed very ridiculous to see that strong man +kicking around in the snow.</p> + +<p>"I've ripped something loose—here." Mort's +palms were pressed in upon his groin, his fingers were +clutching something. "Ruptured—I guess." He +tried again to rise, but sank back. His cap had fallen +off and his forehead glistened with sweat.</p> + +<p>Cantwell went forward and lifted him. It was the +first time in many days that their hands had touched, +and the sensation affected him strangely. He struggled +to repress a devilish mirth at the thought that +Grant had played out—it amounted to that and nothing +less; the trail had delivered him into his enemy's +hands, his hour had struck. Johnny determined to +square the debt now, once for all, and wipe his own +mind clean of that poison which corroded it. His +muscles were strong, his brain clear, he had never felt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> +his strength so irresistible as at this moment, while +Mort, for all his boasted superiority, was nothing but +a nerveless thing hanging limp against his breast. +Providence had arranged it all. The younger man +was impelled to give raucous voice to his glee, and yet—his +helpless burden exerted an odd effect upon him.</p> + +<p>He deposited his foe upon the sled and stared at +the face he had not met for many days. He saw how +white it was, how wet and cold, how weak and dazed, +then as he looked he cursed inwardly, for the triumph +of his moment was spoiled.</p> + +<p>The ax was there, its polished bit showed like a +piece of ice, its helve protruded handily, but there was +no need of it now; his fingers were all the weapons +Johnny needed; they were more than sufficient, in +fact, for Mort was like a child.</p> + +<p>Cantwell was a strong man, and, although the North +had coarsened him, yet underneath the surface was a +chivalrous regard for all things weak, and this the +trail madness had not affected. He had longed for +this instant, but now that it had come he felt no enjoyment, +since he could not harm a sick man and waged +no war on cripples. Perhaps, when Mort had rested, +they could settle their quarrel; this was as good a +place as any. The storm hid them, they would leave +no traces, there could be no interruption.</p> + +<p>But Mort did not rest. He could not walk; movement +brought excruciating pain.</p> + +<p>Finally Cantwell heard himself saying: "Better<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> +wrap up and lie still for a while. I'll get the dogs +underway." His words amazed him dully. They +were not at all what he had intended to say.</p> + +<p>The injured man demurred, but the other insisted +gruffly, then brought him his mittens and cap, slapping +the snow out of them before rousing the team to +motion. The load was very heavy now, the dogs had +no footprints to guide them, and it required all of +Cantwell's efforts to prevent capsizing. Night approached +swiftly, the whirling snow particles continued +to flow past upon the wind, shrouding the earth in an +impenetrable pall.</p> + +<p>The journey soon became a terrible ordeal, a slow, +halting progress that led nowhere and was accomplished +at the cost of tremendous exertion. Time +after time Johnny broke trail, then returned and urged +the huskies forward to the end of his tracks. When +he lost the path he sought it out, laboriously hoisted +the sledge back into place, and coaxed his four-footed +helpers to renewed effort. He was drenched with +perspiration, his inner garments were steaming, his +outer ones were frozen into a coat of armor; when he +paused he chilled rapidly. His vision was untrustworthy, +also, and he felt snow blindness coming on. +Grant begged him more than once to unroll the bedding +and prepare to sleep out the storm; he even urged +Johnny to leave him and make a dash for his own +safety, but at this the younger man cursed and told +him to hold his tongue.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></p> + +<p>Night found the lone driver slipping, plunging, +lurching ahead of the dogs, or shoving at the handle-bars +and shouting at the dogs. Finally, during a +pause for rest he heard a sound which roused him. +Out of the gloom to the right came the faint complaining +howl of a malemute; it was answered by his own +dogs, and the next moment they had caught a scent +which swerved them shoreward and led them scrambling +through the drifts. Two hundred yards, and a +steep bank loomed above, up and over which they +rushed, with Cantwell yelling encouragement; then a +light showed, and they were in the lee of a low-roofed +hut.</p> + +<p>A sick native, huddled over a Yukon stove, made +them welcome to his mean abode, explaining that his +wife and son had gone to Unalaklik for supplies.</p> + +<p>Johnny carried his partner to the one unoccupied +bunk and stripped his clothes from him. With his +own hands he rubbed the warmth back into Mortimer's +limbs, then swiftly prepared hot food, and, holding +him in the hollow of his aching arm, fed him, a little +at a time. He was like to drop from exhaustion, but +he made no complaint. With one folded robe he made +the hard boards comfortable, then spread the other as +a covering. For himself he sat beside the fire and +fought his weariness. When he dozed off and the +cold awakened him, he renewed the fire; he heated +beef tea, and, rousing Mort, fed it to him with a teaspoon. +All night long, at intervals, he tended the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> +sick man, and Grant's eyes followed him with an expression +that brought a fierce pain to Cantwell's throat.</p> + +<p>"You're mighty good—after the rotten way I +acted," the former whispered once.</p> + +<p>And Johnny's big hand trembled so that he spilled +the broth.</p> + +<p>His voice was low and tender as he inquired, "Are +you resting easier now?"</p> + +<p>The other nodded.</p> + +<p>"Maybe you're not hurt badly, after—all. God! +That would be awful——" Cantwell choked, turned +away, and, raising his arms against the log wall, buried +his face in them.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The morning broke clear; Grant was sleeping. As +Johnny stiffly mounted the creek bank with a bucket +of water he heard a jingle of sleighbells and saw a +sled with two white men swing in toward the cabin.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" he called, then heard his own name pronounced.</p> + +<p>"Johnny Cantwell, by all that's holy!"</p> + +<p>The next moment he was shaking hands vigorously +with two old friends from Nome.</p> + +<p>"Martin and me are bound for Saint Mikes," one of +them explained. "Where the deuce did you come +from, Johnny?"</p> + +<p>"The 'outside.' Started for Stony River, but—"</p> + +<p>"Stony River!" The newcomers began to laugh +loudly and Cantwell joined them. It was the first<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> +time he had laughed for weeks. He realized the fact +with a start, then recollected also his sleeping partner, +and said:</p> + +<p>"Sh-h! Mort's inside, asleep!"</p> + +<p>During the night everything had changed for Johnny +Cantwell; his mental attitude, his hatred, his whole +reasonless insanity. Everything was different now, +even his debt was canceled, the weight of obligation +was removed, and his diseased fancies were completely +cured.</p> + +<p>"Yes! Stony River," he repeated, grinning +broadly. "I bit!"</p> + +<p>Martin burst forth, gleefully: "They caught MacDonald +at Holy Cross and ran him out on a limb. +He'll never start another stampede. Old man Baker +gun-branded him."</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with Mort?" inquired the +second traveler.</p> + +<p>"He's resting up. Yesterday, during the storm he—" +Johnny was upon the point of saying "played +out," but changed it to "had an accident. We +thought it was serious, but a few days' rest'll bring +him around all right. He saved me at Katmai, coming +in. I petered out and threw up my tail, but he +got me through. Come inside and tell him the news."</p> + +<p>"Sure thing."</p> + +<p>"Well, well!" Martin said. "So you and Mort +are still partners, eh?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Still</i> partners?" Johnny took up the pail of water.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> +"Well, rather! We'll always be partners." His voice +was young and full and hearty as he continued: +"Why, Mort's the best fellow in the world. I'd lay +down my life for him."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i150.png" width="500" height="260" alt="That Spot" title="That Spot" /> +</div> + + +<h2>VI.—That Spot<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></h2> + +<h3><i>By Jack London</i></h3> + + +<div class='cap'>I DON'T think much of Stephen Mackaye any +more, though I used to swear by him. I know +that in those days I loved him more than my +brother. If ever I meet Stephen Mackaye again, I +shall not be responsible for my actions. It passes beyond +me that a man with whom I shared food and +blanket, and with whom I mushed over the Chilcoot +Trail, should turn out the way he did. I always sized +Steve up as a square man, a kindly comrade, without +an iota of anything vindictive or malicious in his nature. +I shall never trust my judgment in men again. +Why, I nursed that man through typhoid fever; we +starved together on the headwaters of the Stewart; +and he saved my life on the Little Salmon. And now, +after the years we were together, all I can say of Stephen +Mackaye is that he is the meanest man I ever knew.</div> + +<p>We started for the Klondike in the fall rush of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> +1897, and we started too late to get over Chilcoot +Pass before the freeze-up. We packed our outfit on +our backs part way over, when the snow began to fly, +and then we had to buy dogs in order to sled it the +rest of the way. That was how we came to get +that Spot. Dogs were high, and we paid one hundred +and ten dollars for him. He looked worth it. I say +<i>looked</i>, because he was one of the finest-appearing dogs +I ever saw. He weighed sixty pounds, and he had all +the lines of a good sled animal. We never could +make out his breed. He wasn't husky, nor Malemute, +nor Hudson Bay; he looked like all of them and he +didn't look like any of them; and on top of it all he +had some of the white man's dog in him, for on one +side, in the thick of the mixed yellow-brown-red-and-dirty-white +that was his prevailing color, there was a +spot of coal-black as big as a water bucket. That was +why we called him Spot.</p> + +<p>He was a good looker all right. When he was in +condition his muscles stood out in bunches all over +him. And he was the strongest-looking brute I ever +saw in Alaska, also the most intelligent-looking. To +run your eyes over him, you'd think he could outpull +three dogs of his own weight. Maybe he could, but +I never saw it. His intelligence didn't run that way. +He could steal and forage to perfection; he had an +instinct that was positively gruesome for divining +when work was to be done and for making a sneak +accordingly; and for getting lost and not staying lost<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> +he was nothing short of inspired. But when it came +to work, the way that intelligence dribbled out of him +and left him a mere clot of wobbling, stupid jelly +would make your heart bleed.</p> + +<p>There are times when I think it wasn't stupidity. +Maybe, like some men I know, he was too wise to +work. I shouldn't wonder if he put it all over us with +that intelligence of his. Maybe he figured it all out +and decided that a licking now and again and no work +was a whole lot better than work all the time and no +licking. He was intelligent enough for such a computation. +I tell you, I've sat and looked into that +dog's eyes till the shivers ran up and down my spine +and the marrow crawled like yeast, what of the intelligence +I saw shining out. I can't express myself +about that intelligence. It is beyond mere words. I +saw it, that's all. At times it was like gazing into a +human soul, to look into his eyes; and what I saw there +frightened me and started all sorts of ideas in my own +mind of reincarnation and all the rest. I tell you I +sensed something big in that brute's eyes; there was a +message there, but I wasn't big enough myself to catch +it. Whatever it was (I know I'm making a fool of +myself)—whatever it was, it baffled me. I can't +give an inkling of what I saw in that brute's eyes; it +wasn't light, it wasn't color; it was something that +moved, away back, when the eyes themselves weren't +moving. And I guess I didn't see it move, either; I +only sensed that it moved. It was an expression,—that's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> +what it was,—and I got an impression of it. +No; it was different from a mere expression; it was +more than that. I don't know what it was, but it gave +me a feeling of kinship just the same. Oh, no, not +sentimental kinship. It was, rather, a kinship of +equality. Those eyes never pleaded like a deer's eyes. +They challenged. No, it wasn't defiance. It was just +a calm assumption of equality. And I don't think it +was deliberate. My belief is that it was unconscious +on his part. It was there because it was there, and +it couldn't help shining out. No, I don't mean shine. +It didn't shine; it <i>moved</i>. I know I'm talking rot, but +if you'd looked into that animal's eyes the way I +have, you'd understand. Steve was affected the same +way I was. Why, I tried to kill that Spot once—he +was no good for anything; and I fell down on it. I +led him out into the brush, and he came along slow +and unwilling. He knew what was going on. I +stopped in a likely place, put my foot on the rope, and +pulled my big Colt's. And that dog sat down and +looked at me. I tell you he didn't plead. He just +looked. And I saw all kinds of incomprehensible +things moving, yes, <i>moving</i>, in those eyes of his. I +didn't really see them move; I thought I saw them, for, +as I said before, I guess I only sensed them. And I +want to tell you right now that it got beyond me. It +was like killing a man, a conscious, brave man who +looked calmly into your gun as much as to say, "Who's +afraid?" Then, too, the message seemed so near that,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> +instead of pulling the trigger quick, I stopped to see +if I could catch the message. There it was, right before +me, glimmering all around in those eyes of his. +And then it was too late. I got scared. I was trembly +all over, and my stomach generated a nervous palpitation +that made me seasick. I just sat down and +looked at that dog, and he looked at me, till I thought I +was going crazy. Do you want to know what I did? +I threw down the gun and ran back to camp with the +fear of God in my heart. Steve laughed at me. But +I notice that Steve led Spot into the woods, a week +later, for the same purpose, and that Steve came back +alone, and a little later Spot drifted back, too.</p> + +<p>At any rate, Spot wouldn't work. We paid a hundred +and ten dollars for him from the bottom of our +sack, and he wouldn't work. He wouldn't even tighten +the traces. Steve spoke to him the first time we put +him in harness, and he sort of shivered, that was all. +Not an ounce on the traces. He just stood still and +wobbled, like so much jelly. Steve touched him with +the whip. He yelped, but not an ounce. Steve +touched him again, a bit harder, and he howled—the +regular long wolf howl. Then Steve got mad and +gave him half a dozen, and I came on the run from the +tent.</p> + +<p>I told Steve he was brutal with the animal, and we +had some words—the first we'd ever had. He threw +the whip down in the snow and walked away mad. I +picked it up and went to it. That Spot trembled and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> +wobbled and cowered before ever I swung the lash, +and with the first bite of it he howled like a lost soul. +Next he lay down in the snow. I started the rest of +the dogs, and they dragged him along, while I threw +the whip into him. He rolled over on his back and +bumped along, his four legs waving in the air, himself +howling as though he was going through a sausage machine. +Steve came back and laughed at me, and I +apologized for what I'd said.</p> + +<p>There was no getting any work out of that Spot; +and to make up for it, he was the biggest pig-glutton +of a dog I ever saw. On top of that, he was the +cleverest thief. These was no circumventing him. +Many a breakfast we went without our bacon because +Spot had been there first. And it was because of +him that we nearly starved to death up the Stewart. +He figured out the way to break into our meat cache, +and what he didn't eat, the rest of the team did. +But he was impartial. He stole from everybody. He +was a restless dog, always very busy snooping around +or going somewhere. And there was never a camp +within five miles that he didn't raid. The worst of +it was that they always came back on us to pay his +board bill, which was just, being the law of the land; +but it was mighty hard on us, especially that first winter +on the Chilcoot, when we were busted, paying for +whole hams and sides of bacon that we never ate. He +could fight, too, that Spot. He could do everything +but work. He never pulled a pound, but he was the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> +boss of the whole team. The way he made those dogs +stand around was an education. He bullied them, and +there was always one or more of them fresh-marked +with his fangs. But he was more than a bully. He +wasn't afraid of anything that walked on four legs; +and I've seen him march, single-handed, into a strange +team, without any provocation whatever, and put the +<i>kibosh</i> on the whole outfit. Did I say he could eat? +I caught him eating the whip once. That's straight. +He started in at the lash, and when I caught him he +was down to the handle, and still going.</p> + +<p>But he was a good looker. At the end of the first +week we sold him for seventy-five dollars to the +Mounted Police. They had experienced dog drivers, +and we knew that by the time he'd covered the six +hundred miles to Dawson he'd be a good sled dog. I +say we <i>knew</i>, for we were just getting acquainted with +that Spot. A little later we were not brash enough to +know anything where he was concerned. A week +later we woke up in the morning to the dangedest dog +fight we'd ever heard. It was that Spot come back +and knocking the team into shape. We ate a pretty +depressing breakfast, I can tell you; but cheered up two +hours afterward when we sold him to an official +courier, bound in to Dawson with government dispatches. +That Spot was only three days in coming +back, and, as usual, celebrated his arrival with a rough-house.</p> + +<p>We spent the winter and spring, after our own outfit +was across the pass, freighting other people's outfits;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> +and we made a fat stake. Also, we made money +out of Spot. If we sold him once, we sold him twenty +times. He always came back, and no one asked for +their money. We didn't want the money. We'd have +paid handsomely for any one to take him off our hands +for keeps. We had to get rid of him, and we couldn't +give him away, for that would have been suspicious. +But he was such a fine looker that we never had any +difficulty in selling him. "Unbroke," we'd say, and +they'd pay any old price for him. We sold him as low +as twenty-five dollars, and once we got a hundred and +fifty for him. That particular party returned him in +person, refused to take his money back, and the way +he abused us was something awful. He said it was +cheap at the price to tell us what he thought of us; +and we felt he was so justified that we never talked +back. But to this day I've never quite regained all the +old self-respect that was mine before that man talked +to me.</p> + +<p>When the ice cleared out of the lakes and river, we +put our outfit in a Lake Bennet boat and started for +Dawson. We had a good team of dogs, and of course +we piled them on top the outfit. That Spot was along—there +was no losing him; and a dozen times, the first +day, he knocked one or another of the dogs overboard +in the course of fighting with them. It was close +quarters, and he didn't like being crowded.</p> + +<p>"What that dog needs is space," Steve said the second +day. "Let's maroon him."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p> + +<p>We did, running the boat in at Caribou Crossing for +him to jump ashore. Two of the other dogs, good +dogs, followed him; and we lost two whole days trying +to find them. We never saw those two dogs again; +but the quietness and relief we enjoyed made us decide, +like the man who refused his hundred and fifty, that +it was cheap at the price. For the first time in months +Steve and I laughed and whistled and sang. We were +as happy as clams. The dark days were over. The +nightmare had been lifted. That Spot was gone.</p> + +<p>Three weeks later, one morning, Steve and I were +standing on the river bank at Dawson. A small boat +was just arriving from Lake Bennett. I saw Steve +give a start, and heard him say something that was not +nice and that was not under his breath. Then I +looked; and there, in the bow of the boat, with ears +pricked up, sat Spot. Steve and I sneaked immediately, +like beaten curs, like cowards, like absconders from +justice. It was this last that the lieutenant of police +thought when he saw us sneaking. He surmised that +there were law officers in the boat who were after +us. He didn't wait to find out, but kept us in sight, +and in the M.&.M. saloon got us in a corner. We had +a merry time explaining, for we refused to go back to +the boat and meet Spot; and finally he held us under +guard of another policeman while he went to the boat. +After we got clear of him, we started for the cabin, +and when we arrived, there was that Spot sitting on +the stoop waiting for us. Now how did he know we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> +lived there? There were forty thousand people in +Dawson that summer, and how did he <i>savvy</i> our cabin +out of all the cabins? How did he know we were in +Dawson, anyway? I leave it to you. But don't forget +what I have said about his intelligence and that immortal +something I have seen glimmering in his eyes.</p> + +<p>There was no getting rid of him any more. There +were too many people in Dawson who had bought him +up on Chilcoot, and the story got around. Half a +dozen times we put him on board steamboats going +down the Yukon; but he merely went ashore at the +first landing and trotted back up the bank. We +couldn't sell him, we couldn't kill him (both Steve and +I had tried), and nobody else was able to kill him. +He bore a charmed life. I've seen him go down in a +dog fight on the main street with fifty dogs on top of +him, and when they were separated, he'd appear on all +his four legs, unharmed, while two of the dogs that +had been on top of him would be lying dead.</p> + +<p>I saw him steal a chunk of moose meat from Major +Dinwiddie's cache so heavy that he could just keep one +jump ahead of Mrs. Dinwiddie's squaw cook, who was +after him with an ax. As he went up the hill, after +the squaw gave out, Major Dinwiddie himself came +out and pumped his Winchester into the landscape. +He emptied his magazine twice, and never touched that +Spot. Then a policeman came along and arrested +him for discharging firearms inside the city limits. +Major Dinwiddie paid his fine, and Steve and I paid<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> +him for the moose meat at the rate of a dollar a pound, +bones and all. That was what he paid for it. Meat +was high that year.</p> + +<p>I am only telling what I saw with my own eyes. +And now I'll tell you something, also. I saw that +Spot fall through a water hole. The ice was three +and a half feet thick, and the current sucked him under +like a straw. Three hundred yards below was the +big water hole used by the hospital. Spot crawled out +of the hospital water hole, licked off the water, bit out +the ice that had formed between his toes, trotted up the +bank, and whipped a big Newfoundland belonging to +the Gold Commissioner.</p> + +<p>In the fall of 1898, Steve and I poled up the Yukon +on the last water, bound for Stewart River. We took +the dogs along, all except Spot. We figured we'd +been feeding him long enough. He'd cost us more +time and trouble and money and grub than we'd got +by selling him on the Chilcoot—especially grub. So +Steve and I tied him down in the cabin and pulled +our freight. We camped that night at the mouth of +Indian River, and Steve and I were pretty facetious +over having shaken him. Steve was a funny cuss, and +I was just sitting up in the blankets and laughing when +a tornado hit camp. The way that Spot walked into +those dogs and gave them what-for was hair-raising. +Now how did he get loose? It's up to you. I haven't +any theory. And how did he get across the Klondike +River? That's another facer. And anyway, how did<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> +he know we had gone up the Yukon? You see, we +went by water, and he couldn't smell our tracks. +Steve and I began to get superstitious about that dog. +He got on our nerves, too; and, between you and me, +we were just a mite afraid of him.</p> + +<p>The freeze-up came on when we were at the mouth +of Henderson Creek, and we traded him off for two +sacks of flour to an outfit that was bound up White +River after copper. Now that whole outfit was lost. +Never trace nor hide nor hair of men, dogs, sleds, or +anything was ever found. They dropped clean out of +sight. It became one of the mysteries of the country. +Steve and I plugged away up the Stewart, and six +weeks afterward that Spot crawled into camp. He +was a perambulating skeleton, and could just drag +along; but he got there. And what I want to know is +who told him we were up the Stewart? We could +have gone a thousand other places. How did he +know? You tell me, and I'll tell you.</p> + +<p>No losing him. At the Mayo he started a row with +an Indian dog. The buck who owned the dog took a +swing at Spot with an ax, missed him, and killed his +own dog. Talk about magic and turning bullets aside—I, +for one, consider it a blamed sight harder to turn +an ax aside with a big buck at the other end of it. +And I saw him do it with my own eyes. That buck +didn't want to kill his own dog. You've got to show +me.</p> + +<p>I told you about Spot breaking into our meat cache.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> +It was nearly the death of us. There wasn't any more +meat to be killed, and meat was all we had to live on. +The moose had gone back several hundred miles and +the Indians with them. There we were. Spring was +on, and we had to wait for the river to break. We +got pretty thin before we decided to eat the dogs, and +we decided to eat Spot first. Do you know what that +dog did? He sneaked. Now how did he know our +minds were made up to eat him? We sat up nights +laying for him, but he never came back, and we ate +the other dogs. We ate the whole team.</p> + +<p>And now for the sequel. You know what it is +when a big river breaks up and a few billion tons of +ice go out, jamming and milling and grinding. Just +in the thick of it, when the Stewart went out, rumbling +and roaring, we sighted Spot out in the middle. He'd +got caught as he was trying to cross up above somewhere. +Steve and I yelled and shouted and ran up +and down the bank, tossing our hats in the air. +Sometimes we'd stop and hug each other, we were +that boisterous, for we saw Spot's finish. He didn't +have a chance in a million. He didn't have any chance +at all. After the ice-run, we got into a canoe and paddled +down to the Yukon, and down the Yukon to Dawson, +stopping to feed up for a week at the cabins at +the mouth of Henderson Creek. And as we came in +to the bank at Dawson, there sat that Spot, waiting +for us, his ears pricked up, his tail wagging, his mouth +smiling, extending a hearty welcome to us. Now how<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> +did he get out of that ice? How did he know we were +coming to Dawson, to the very hour and minute, to be +out there on the bank waiting for us?</p> + +<p>The more I think of that Spot, the more I am convinced +that there are things in this world that go beyond +science. On no scientific grounds can that Spot +be explained. It's psychic phenomena, or mysticism, +or something of that sort, I guess, with a lot of theosophy +thrown in. The Klondike is a good country. +I might have been there yet, and become a millionaire, +if it hadn't been for Spot. He got on my nerves. I +stood him for two years altogether, and then I guess +my stamina broke. It was the summer of 1899 when +I pulled out. I didn't say anything to Steve. I just +sneaked. But I fixed it up all right. I wrote Steve +a note, and enclosed a package of "rough-on-rats," +telling him what to do with it. I was worn down to +skin and bone by that Spot, and I was that nervous +that I'd jump and look around when there wasn't +anybody within hailing distance. But it was astonishing +the way I recuperated when I got quit of him. I +got back twenty pounds before I arrived in San Francisco, +and by the time I'd crossed the ferry to Oakland +I was my old self again, so that even my wife looked +in vain for any change in me.</p> + +<p>Steve wrote to me once, and his letter seemed irritated. +He took it kind of hard because I'd left him +with Spot. Also, he said he'd used the "rough-on-rats," +per directions, and that there was nothing doing.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> +A year went by. I was back in the office and prospering +in all ways—even getting a bit fat. And then +Steve arrived. He didn't look me up. I read his +name in the steamer list, and wondered why. But I +didn't wonder long. I got up one morning and found +that Spot chained to the gate-post and holding up the +milkman. Steve went north to Seattle, I learned, that +very morning. I didn't put on any more weight. My +wife made me buy him a collar and tag, and within an +hour he showed his gratitude by killing her pet Persian +cat. There is no getting rid of that Spot. He will +be with me until I die, for he'll never die. My appetite +is not so good since he arrived, and my wife says +I am looking peaked. Last night that Spot got into +Mr. Harvey's hen house (Harvey is my next door +neighbor) and killed nineteen of his fancy-bred chickens. +I shall have to pay for them. My neighbors on +the other side quarreled with my wife and then moved +out. Spot was the cause of it. And that is why I am +disappointed in Stephen Mackaye. I had no idea he +was so mean a man.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i165.png" width="500" height="307" alt="When Lincoln Licked a Bully" title="When Lincoln Licked a Bully" /> +</div> + + +<h2>VII.—When Lincoln Licked a Bully<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></h2> + +<h3><i>By Irving Bacheller</i></h3> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>In "A Man For the Ages" Irving Bacheller tells the story +of Abraham Lincoln's life and career in the form of a novel. +He represents that the book is written by the grandson of one +Samson Traylor, who is presented as a friend of Lincoln's. +The story that follows is an abbreviation of the account of +the journey of Samson Traylor and his wife and two children +and their dog, Sambo, in 1831, from Vergennes, Vermont, +to the Illinois country; and the part "Abe" Lincoln, +a clerk in Denton Offut's store at New Salem, had in building +a log cabin for them upon their arrival there; and concludes +by telling how Lincoln licked a bully.</i>—<span class="smcap">The Editor.</span></p></div> + + +<div class='cap'>IN the early summer of 1831 Samson Traylor and +his wife, Sarah, and two children left their old +home near the village of Vergennes, Vermont, and +began their travels toward the setting sun with four +chairs, a bread board and rolling-pin, a feather bed and +blankets, a small looking-glass, a skillet, an ax, a pack<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> +basket with a pad of sole leather on the same, a water +pail, a box of dishes, a tub of salt pork, a rifle, a teapot, +a sack of meal, sundry small provisions and a +violin, in a double wagon drawn by oxen. . . . A +young black shepherd dog with tawny points and the +name of Sambo followed the wagon or explored the +fields and woods it passed.</div> + +<p>The boy Josiah—familiarly called Joe—sits beside +his mother. He is a slender, sweet-faced boy. +He is looking up wistfully at his mother. The little +girl Betsey sits between him and her father.</p> + +<p>That evening they stopped at the house of an old +friend some miles up the dusty road to the north.</p> + +<p>"Here we are—goin' west," Samson shouted to +the man at the doorstep.</p> + +<p>He alighted and helped his family out of the wagon.</p> + +<p>"You go right in—I'll take care o' the oxen," said +the man.</p> + +<p>Samson started for the house with the girl under +one arm and the boy under the other. A pleasant-faced +woman greeted them with a hearty welcome at +the door.</p> + +<p>"You poor man! Come right in," she said.</p> + +<p>"Poor! I'm the richest man in the world," said he. +"Look at the gold on that girl's head—curly, fine +gold, too—the best there is. She's Betsey—my little +toy woman—half past seven years old—blue eyes—helps +her mother get tired every day. Here's my +toy man Josiah—yes, brown hair and brown eyes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> +like Sarah—heart o' gold—helps his mother, too—six +times one year old."</p> + +<p>"What pretty faces!" said the woman as she +stooped and kissed them.</p> + +<p>"Yes, ma'am. Got 'em from the fairies," Samson +went on. "They have all kinds o' heads for little +folks, an' I guess they color 'em up with the blood o' +roses an' the gold o' buttercups an' the blue o' violets. +Here's this wife o' mine. She's richer'n I am. She +owns all of us. We're her slaves."</p> + +<p>"Looks as young as she did the day she was married—nine +years ago," said the woman.</p> + +<p>"Exactly!" Samson exclaimed. "Straight as an +arrow and proud! I don't blame her. She's got +enough to make her proud I say. I fall in love again +every time I look into her big brown eyes."</p> + +<p>The talk and laughter brought the dog into the +house.</p> + +<p>"There's Sambo, our camp follower," said Samson. +"He likes us, one and all, but he often feels +sorry for us because we cannot feel the joy that lies +in buried bones and the smell of a liberty pole or a +gate post."</p> + +<p>They had a joyous evening and a restful night with +these old friends and resumed their journey soon after +daylight. They ferried across the lake at Burlington +and fared away over the mountains and through the +deep forest on the Chateaugay trail. . . .</p> + +<p>They had read a little book called <i>The Country of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> +Sangamon</i>. The latter was a word of the Pottawatomies +meaning "land of plenty." It was the name +of a river in Illinois draining "boundless, flowery +meadows of unexampled beauty and fertility, belted +with timber, blessed with shady groves, covered with +game and mostly level, without a stick or a stone to +vex the plowman." Thither they were bound to take +up a section of government land.</p> + +<p>They stopped for a visit with Elisha Howard and +his wife, old friends of theirs, who lived in the village +of Malone, which was in Franklin County, New York. +There they traded their oxen for a team of horses. +They were large gray horses named Pete and Colonel. +The latter was fat and good-natured. His chief interest +in life was food. Pete was always looking for +food and perils. Colonel was the near horse. Now +and then Samson threw a sheepskin over his back and +put the boy on it and tramped along within arm's reach +of Joe's left leg. This was a great delight to the little +lad.</p> + +<p>They proceeded at a better pace to the Black River +country, toward which, in the village of Canton, they +tarried again for a visit with Captain Moody and Silas +Wright, both of whom had taught school in the town +of Vergennes.</p> + +<p>They proceeded through DeKalb, Richville and +Gouverneur and Antwerp and on to the Sand Plains. +They had gone far out of their way for a look at +these old friends of theirs.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span></p> + +<p>Every day the children would ask many questions, +as they rode along, mainly about the beasts and birds +in the dark shadows of the forest through which they +passed. These were answered patiently by their father +and mother and every answer led to other queries.</p> + +<p>"You're a funny pair," said their father one day. +"You have to turn over every word we say to see +what's under it. I used to be just like ye, used to go +out in the lot and tip over every stick and stone I could +lift to see the bugs and crickets run. You're always +hopin' to see a bear or a panther or a fairy run out +from under my remarks."</p> + +<p>"Wonder why we don't see no bears?" Joe asked.</p> + +<p>"'Cause they always see us first or hear us comin'," +said his father. "If you're goin' to see ol' Uncle Bear +ye got to pay the price of admission."</p> + +<p>"What's that?" Joe asked.</p> + +<p>"Got to go still and careful so you'll see him first. +If this old wagon didn't talk so loud and would kind +o' go on its tiptoes maybe we'd see him. He don't +like to be seen. Seems so he was kind o' shamed of +himself, an' I wouldn't wonder if he was. He's done +a lot o' things to be 'shamed of."</p> + +<p>"What's he done?" Joe asked.</p> + +<p>"Ketched sheep and pigs and fawns and run off +with 'em."</p> + +<p>"What does he do with 'em?"</p> + +<p>"Eats 'em up. Now you quit. Here's a lot o' +rocks and mud and I got to tend to business. You<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> +tackle yer mother and chase her up and down the hills +a while and let me get my breath."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>On the twenty-ninth day after their journey began +they came in sight of the beautiful green valley of the +Mohawk. As they looked from the hills they saw the +roof of the forest dipping down to the river shores +and stretching far to the east and west and broken, +here and there, by small clearings. Soon they could +see the smoke and spires of the thriving village of +Utica.</p> + +<p>Here they bought provisions and a tin trumpet for +Joe, and a doll with a real porcelain face for Betsey, +and turned into the great main thoroughfare of the +north leading eastward to Boston and westward to a +shore of the midland seas. This road was once the +great trail of the Iroquois, by them called the Long +House, because it had reached from the Hudson to +Lake Erie, and in their day had been well roofed with +foliage. Here the travelers got their first view of a +steam engine. The latter stood puffing and smoking +near the village of Utica, to the horror and amazement +of the team and the great excitement of those +in the wagon. The boy clung to his father for fear of +it.</p> + +<p>Samson longed to get out of the wagon and take a +close look at the noisy monster, but his horses were +rearing in their haste to get away, and even a short +stop was impossible. Sambo, with his tail between his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span> +legs, ran ahead, in a panic, and took refuge in some +bushes by the roadside.</p> + +<p>"What was that, father?" the boy asked when the +horses had ceased to worry over this new peril.</p> + +<p>"A steam engyne," he answered. "Sarah, did ye +get a good look at it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; if that don't beat all the newfangled notions +I ever heard of," she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"It's just begun doin' business," said Samson.</p> + +<p>"What does it do?" Joe asked.</p> + +<p>"On a railroad track it can grab hold of a house +full o' folks and run off with it. Goes like the wind, +too."</p> + +<p>"Does it eat 'em up?" Joe asked.</p> + +<p>"No. It eats wood and oil and keeps yellin' for +more. I guess it could eat a cord o' wood and wash +it down with half a bucket o' castor oil in about five +minutes. It snatches folks away to some place and +drops 'em. I guess it must make their hair stand up +and their teeth chatter."</p> + +<p>"Does it hurt anybody?" Joe asked hopefully.</p> + +<p>"Well, sir, if anybody wanted to be hurt and got in +its way, I rather guess he'd succeed purty well. It's +powerful. Why, if a man was to ketch hold of the +tail of a locomotive, and hang on, it would jerk the +toe nails right off him."</p> + +<p>Joe began to have great respect for locomotives.</p> + +<p>Soon they came in view of the famous Erie Canal,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> +hard by the road. Through it the grain of the far +West had just begun moving eastward in a tide that +was flowing from April to December. Big barges, +drawn by mules and horses on its shore, were cutting +the still waters of the canal. They stopped and looked +at the barges and the long tow ropes and the tugging +animals.</p> + +<p>"There is a real artificial river, hundreds o' miles +long, handmade of the best material, water tight, no +snags or rocks or other imperfections, durability guaranteed," +said Samson. "It has made the name of +DeWitt Clinton known everywhere."</p> + +<p>"I wonder what next!" Sarah exclaimed.</p> + +<p>They met many teams and passed other movers +going west, and some prosperous farms on a road +wider and smoother than any they had traveled. They +camped that night, close by the river, with a Connecticut +family on its way to Ohio with a great load of +household furniture on one wagon and seven children +in another. There were merry hours for the young, +and pleasant visiting between the older folk that evening +at the fireside. There was much talk among the +latter about the great Erie Canal.</p> + +<p>So they fared along through Canandaigua and +across the Genesee to the village of Rochester and on +through Lewiston and up the Niagara River to the +Falls, and camped where they could see the great water +flood and hear its muffled thunder. . . .</p> + +<p>"Children," said Samson, "I want you to take a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> +good look at that. It's the most wonderful thing in +the world and maybe you'll never see it again."</p> + +<p>"The Indians used to think that the Great Spirit was +in this river," said Sarah.</p> + +<p>"Kind o' seems to me they were right," Samson remarked +thoughtfully. "Kind o' seems as if the great +spirit of America was in that water. It moves on in +the way it wills and nothing can stop it. Everything +in its current goes along with it. . . ."</p> + +<p>They had the lake view and its cool breeze on their +way to Silver Creek, Dunkirk and Erie, and a rough +way it was in those days.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>They fared along through Indiana and over the +wide savannas of Illinois, and on the ninety-seventh +day of their journey they drove through rolling, +grassy, flowering prairies and up a long, hard hill to the +small log cabin settlement of New Salem, Illinois, on +the shore of the Sangamon. They halted about noon +in the middle of this little prairie village, opposite a +small clapboarded house. A sign hung over its door +which bore the rudely lettered words: "Rutledge's +Tavern."</p> + +<p>A long, slim, stoop-shouldered young man sat in the +shade of an oak tree that stood near a corner of the +tavern, with a number of children playing around him. +He had sat leaning against the tree trunk reading a +book. He had risen as they came near and stood +looking at them, with the book under his arm. . . .<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p> + +<p>He wore a hickory shirt without a collar or coat or +jacket. One suspender held up his coarse, linsey +trousers, the legs of which fitted closely and came only +to a blue yarn zone above his heavy cowhide shoes. +Samson writes that he "fetched a sneeze and wiped +his big nose with a red handkerchief" as he stood +surveying them in silence, while Dr. John Allen, who +had sat on the doorstep reading a paper—a kindly-faced +man of middle age with a short white beard +under his chin—greeted them cheerfully.</p> + +<p>The withering sunlight of a day late in August fell +upon the dusty street, now almost deserted. Faces at +the doors and windows of the little houses were looking +out at them. Two ragged boys and a ginger-colored +dog came running toward the wagon. The +latter and Sambo surveyed each other with raised hair +and began scratching the earth, straight-legged, whining +meanwhile, and in a moment began to play together. +A man in blue jeans who sat on the veranda +of a store opposite, leaning against its wall, stopped +whittling and shut his jacknife.</p> + +<p>"Where do ye hail from?" the Doctor asked.</p> + +<p>"Vermont," said Samson.</p> + +<p>"All the way in that wagon?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>"I guess you're made o' the right stuff," said the +Doctor. "Where ye bound?"</p> + +<p>"Don't know exactly. Going to take up a claim +somewhere."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There's no better country than right here. This +is the Canaan of America. We need people like you. +Unhitch your team and have some dinner and we'll +talk things over after you're rested. I'm the doctor +here and I ride all over this part o' the country. I +reckon I know it pretty well."</p> + +<p>A woman in a neat calico dress came out of the +door—a strong built and rather well favored woman +with blond hair and dark eyes.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Rutledge, these are travelers from the East," +said the Doctor. "Give 'em some dinner, and if they +can't pay for it, I can. They've come all the way from +Vermont."</p> + +<p>"Good land! Come right in an' rest yerselves. +Abe, you show the gentleman where to put his horses +an' lend him a hand."</p> + +<p>Abe extended his long arm toward Samson and said +"Howdy" as they shook hands.</p> + +<p>"When his big hand got hold of mine, I kind of felt +his timber," Samson writes. "I says to myself, +'There's a man it would be hard to tip over in a +rassle.'"</p> + +<p>"What's yer name? How long ye been travelin'? +My conscience! Ain't ye wore out?" the hospitable +Mrs. Rutledge was asking as she went into the house +with Sarah and the children. "You go and mix up +with the little ones and let yer mother rest while I git +dinner," she said to Joe and Betsey, and added as she +took Sarah's shawl and bonnet: "You lop down<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> +an' rest yerself while I'm flyin' around the fire."</p> + +<p>"Come all the way from Vermont?" Abe asked as +he and Samson were unhitching.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>"By jing!" the slim giant exclaimed. "I reckon +you feel like throwin' off yer harness an' takin' a roll +in the grass."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The tavern was the only house in New Salem with +stairs in it. Stairs so steep, as Samson writes, that +"they were first cousins to the ladder." There were +four small rooms above them. Two of these were +parted by a partition of cloth hanging from the rafters. +In each was a bed and bedstead and smaller beds on the +floor. In case there were a number of adult guests +the bedstead was screened with sheets hung upon +strings.</p> + +<p>In one of these rooms the travelers had a night of +refreshing sleep.</p> + +<p>After riding two days with the Doctor, Samson +bought the claim of one Isaac Gollaher to a half section +of land a little more than a mile from the western end +of the village. He chose a site for his house on the +edge of an open prairie.</p> + +<p>"Now we'll go over and see Abe," said Dr. Allen, +after the deal was made. "He's the best man with an +ax and a saw in this part of the country. He clerks +for Mr. Offut. Abe Lincoln is one of the best fellows +that ever lived—a rough diamond just out of the great<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> +mine of the West, that only needs to be cut and polished."</p> + +<p>Denton Offut's store was a small log structure about +twenty by twenty which stood near the brow of the +hill east of Rutledge's Tavern. When they entered it +Abe lay at full length on the counter, his head resting +on a bolt of blue denim as he studied a book in his +hand. He wore the same shirt and one suspender and +linsey trousers which he had worn in the dooryard of +the tavern, but his feet were covered only by his blue +yarn socks.</p> + +<p>Abe laid aside his book and rose to a sitting +posture.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Traylor," said Doctor Allen, "has just acquired +an interest in all our institutions. He has +bought the Gollaher tract and is going to build a house +and some fences. Abe, couldn't you help get the timber +out in a hurry so we can have a raising within a +week? You know the art of the ax better than any +of us."</p> + +<p>Abe looked at Samson.</p> + +<p>"I reckon he and I would make a good team with +the ax," he said. "He looks as if he could push a +house down with one hand and build it up with the +other. You can bet I'll be glad to help in any way I +can."</p> + +<p>Next morning at daylight two parties went out in +the woods to cut timber for the home of the newcomers. +In one party were Harry Needles carrying two<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span> +axes and a well-filled luncheon pail; Samson with a saw +in his hand and the boy Joe on his back; Abe with saw +and ax and a small jug of root beer and a book tied in +a big red handkerchief and slung around his neck. +When they reached the woods Abe cut a pole for the +small boy and carried him on his shoulder to the creek +and said:</p> + +<p>"Now you sit down here and keep order in this little +frog city. If you hear a frog say anything improper +you fetch him a whack. Don't allow any nonsense. +We'll make you Mayor of Frog City."</p> + +<p>The men fell to with axes and saws while Harry +limbed the logs and looked after the Mayor. Their +huge muscles flung the sharp axes into the timber and +gnawed through it with a saw. Many big trees fell before +noontime when they stopped for luncheon. While +they were eating Abe said:</p> + +<p>"I reckon we better saw out a few boards this afternoon. +Need 'em for the doors. We'll tote a couple of +logs up on the side o' that knoll, put 'em on skids an' +whip 'em up into boards with the saw."</p> + +<p>Samson took hold of the middle of one of the logs +and raised it from the ground.</p> + +<p>"I guess we can carry 'em," he said.</p> + +<p>"Can ye shoulder it?" Abe asked.</p> + +<p>"Easy," said Samson as he raised an end of the log, +stepped beneath it and, resting its weight on his back, +soon got his shoulder near its center and swung it clear +of the ground and walked with it to the knollside where<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> +he let it fall with a resounding thump that shook the +ground. Abe stopped eating and watched every move +in this remarkable performance. The ease with which +the big Vermonter had so defied the law of gravitation +with that unwieldly stick amazed him.</p> + +<p>"That thing'll weigh from seven to eight hundred +pounds," said he. "I reckon you're the stoutest man +in this part o' the state an' I'm quite a man myself. +I've lifted a barrel o' whisky and put my mouth to the +bung hole. I never drink it."</p> + +<p>"Say," he added as he sat down and began eating +a doughnut. "If you ever hit anybody take a sledge +hammer or a crowbar. It wouldn't be decent to use +your fist."</p> + +<p>"Don't talk when you've got food in your mouth," +said Joe who seemed to have acquired a sense of responsibility +for the manners of Abe.</p> + +<p>"I reckon you're right," Abe laughed. "A man's +ideas ought not to be mingled with cheese and doughnuts."</p> + +<p>"Once in a while I like to try myself in a lift," said +Samson. "It feels good. I don't do it to show off. +I know there's a good many men stouter than I be. I +guess you're one of 'em."</p> + +<p>"No, I'm too stretched out—my neck is too far +from the ground," Abe answered. "I'm like a crowbar. +If I can get my big toe or my fingers under anything +I can pry some."</p> + +<p>After luncheon he took off his shoes and socks.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p> + +<p>"When I'm working hard I always try to give my +feet a rest and my brain a little work at noontime," he +remarked. "My brain is so far behind the procession +I have to keep putting the gad on it. Give me twenty +minutes of Kirkham and I'll be with you again."</p> + +<p>He lay down on his back under a tree with his book +in hand and his feet resting on the tree trunk well above +him. Soon he was up and at work again.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>When they were getting ready to go home that afternoon +Joe got into a great hurry to see his mother. It +seemed to him that ages had elapsed since he had seen +her—a conviction which led to noisy tears.</p> + +<p>Abe knelt before him and comforted the boy. Then +he wrapped him in his jacket and swung him in the air +and started for home with Joe astride his neck.</p> + +<p>Samson says in his diary: "His tender play with +the little lad gave me another look at the man Lincoln."</p> + +<p>"Some one proposed once that we should call that +stream the Minnehaha," said Abe as he walked along. +"After this Joe and I are going to call it the Minneboohoo."</p> + +<p>The women of the little village had met at a quilting +party at ten o'clock with Mrs. Martin Waddell. There +Sarah had had a seat at the frame and heard all the +gossip of the countryside. . . .</p> + +<p>So the day passed with them and was interrupted by +the noisy entrance of Joe, soon after candlelight, who +climbed on the back of his mother's chair and kissed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> +her and in breathless eagerness began to relate the history +of his own day.</p> + +<p>That ended the quilting party and Sarah and Mrs. +Rutledge and her daughter Ann joined Samson and +Abe and Harry Needles who were waiting outside and +walked to the tavern with them.</p> + +<p>John McNeil, whom the Traylors had met on the +road near Niagara Falls and who had shared their +camp with them, arrived on the stage that evening. . . . +Abe came in, soon after eight o'clock, and was introduced +to the stranger. All noted the contrast between +the two young men as they greeted each other. Abe +sat down for a few minutes and looked sadly into the +fire but said nothing. He rose presently, excused himself +and went away.</p> + +<p>Soon Samson followed him. Over at Offut's store +he did not find Abe, but Bill Berry was drawing liquor +from the spigot of a barrel set on blocks in a shed connected +with the rear end of the store and serving it to +a number of hilarious young Irishmen. The young +men asked Samson to join them.</p> + +<p>"No, thank you. I never touch it," he said.</p> + +<p>"We'll come over here an' learn ye how to enjoy +yerself some day," one of them said.</p> + +<p>"I'm pretty well posted on that subject now," Samson +answered.</p> + +<p>It is likely that they would have begun his schooling +at once but when they came out into the store and saw +the big Vermonter standing in the candlelight their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> +laughter ceased for a moment. Bill was among them +with a well-filled bottle in his hand.</p> + +<p>He and the others got into a wagon which had been +waiting at the door and drove away with a wild Indian +whoop from the lips of one of the young men.</p> + +<p>Samson sat down in the candlelight and Abe in a +moment arrived.</p> + +<p>"I'm getting awful sick o' this business," said Abe.</p> + +<p>"I kind o' guess you don't like the whisky part of +it," Samson remarked, as he felt a piece of cloth.</p> + +<p>"I hate it," Abe went on. "It don't seem respectable +any longer."</p> + +<p>"Back in Vermont we don't like the whisky business."</p> + +<p>"You're right, it breeds deviltry and disorder. In +my youth I was surrounded by whisky. Everybody +drank it. A bottle or a jug of liquor was thought to +be as legitimate a piece of merchandise as a pound +of tea or a yard of calico. That's the way I've always +thought of it. But lately I've begun to get the Yankee +notion about whisky. When it gets into bad company +it can raise the devil."</p> + +<p>Soon after nine o'clock Abe drew a mattress filled +with corn husks from under the counter, cleared away +the bolts of cloth and laid it where they had been and +covered it with a blanket.</p> + +<p>"This is my bed," said he. "I'll be up at five in +the morning. Then I'll be making tea here by the fireplace +to wash down some jerked meat and a hunk o'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> +bread. At six or a little after I'll be ready to go with +you again. Jack Kelso is going to look after the store +to-morrow."</p> + +<p>He began to laugh.</p> + +<p>"Ye know when I went out of the tavern that little +vixen stood peekin' into the window—Bim, Jack's +girl," said Abe. "I asked her why she didn't go in +and she said she was scared. 'Who you 'fraid of?' I +asked. 'Oh, I reckon that boy,' says she. And honestly +her hand trembled when she took hold of my arm +and walked to her father's house with me."</p> + +<p>Abe snickered as he spread another blanket. "What +a cut-up she is! Say, we'll have some fun watching +them two I reckon," he said.</p> + +<p>The logs were ready two days after the cutting began. +Martin Waddell and Samuel Hill sent teams to +haul them. John Cameron and Peter Lukins had +brought the window sash and some clapboards from +Beardstown in a small flat boat. Then came the day +of the raising—a clear, warm day early in September. +All the men from the village and the near farms +gathered to help make a home for the newcomers. +Samson and Jack Kelso went out for a hunt after the +cutting and brought in a fat buck and many grouse for +the bee dinner, to which every woman of the neighborhood +made a contribution of cake or pie or cookies or +doughnuts.</p> + +<p>"What will be my part?" Samson had inquired of +Kelso.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Nothing but a jug of whisky and a kind word and +a house warming," Kelso had answered.</p> + +<p>They notched and bored the logs and made pins to +bind them and cut those that were to go around the +fireplace and window spaces. Strong, willing and well-trained +hands hewed and fitted the logs together. +Alexander Ferguson lined the fireplace with a curious +mortar made of clay in which he mixed grass for a +binder. This mortar he rolled into layers called +"cats," each eight inches long and three inches thick. +Then he laid them against the logs and held them in +place with a woven network of sticks. The first fire—a +slow one—baked the clay into a rigid stonelike +sheath inside the logs and presently the sticks were +burned away. The women had cooked the meats by +an open fire and spread the dinner on a table of rough +boards resting on poles set in crotches. At noon one +of them sounded a conch shell. Then with shouts of +joy the men hurried to the fireside and for a moment +there was a great spluttering over the wash basins. +Before they ate every man except Abe and Samson +"took a pull at the jug—long or short"—to quote +a phrase of the time.</p> + +<p>It was a cheerful company that sat down upon the +grass around the table with loaded plates. Their food +had its extra seasoning of merry jests and loud laughter. +Sarah was a little shocked at the forthright directness +of their eating, no knives or forks or napkins +being needed in that process. Having eaten, washed +and packed away their dishes the women went home<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> +at two. Before they had gone Samson's ears caught a +thunder of horses' feet in the distance. Looking in its +direction he saw a cloud of dust in the road and a band +of horsemen riding toward them at full speed. Abe +came to him and said:</p> + +<p>"I see the boys from Clary's Grove are coming. If +they get mean let me deal with 'em. It's my responsibility. +I wouldn't wonder if they had some of Offut's +whisky with them."</p> + +<p>The boys arrived in a cloud of dust and a chorus of +Indian whoops and dismounted and hobbled their +horses. They came toward the workers, led by burly +Jack Armstrong, a stalwart, hard-faced blacksmith of +about twenty-two with broad, heavy shoulders, whose +name has gone into history. They had been drinking +some but no one of them was in the least degree off +his balance. They scuffled around the jug for a moment +in perfect good nature and then Abe and Mrs. +Waddell provided them with the best remnants of the +dinner. They were rather noisy. Soon they went up +on the roof to help with the rafters and the clapboarding. +They worked well a few minutes and suddenly +they came scrambling down for another pull at the jug. +They were out for a spree and Abe knew it and knew +further that they had reached the limit of discretion.</p> + +<p>"Boys, there are ladies here and we've got to be +careful," he said. "Did I ever tell you what Uncle +Jerry Holman said of his bull calf? He said the calf +was such a <i>suckcess</i> that he didn't leave any milk for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> +the family and that while the calf was growin' fat the +children was growin' poor. In my opinion you're +about fat enough for the present. Let's stick to the +job till four o'clock. Then we'll knock off for refreshments."</p> + +<p>The young revelers gathered in a group and began +to whisper together. Samson writes that it became +evident then they were going to make trouble and says:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"We had left the children at Rutledge's in the care +of Ann. I went to Sarah and told her she had better +go on and see if they were all right.</p> + +<p>"'Don't you get in any fight,' she said, which +shows that the women knew what was in the air.</p> + +<p>"Sarah led the way and the others followed her."</p></div> + +<p>Those big, brawny fellows from the grove when +they got merry were looking always for a chance to +get mad at some man and turn him into a plaything. +A victim had been a necessary part of their sprees. +Many a poor fellow had been fastened in a barrel +and rolled down hill or nearly drowned in a ducking +for their amusement. A chance had come to get mad +and they were going to make the most of it. They +began to growl with resentment. Some were wigging +their leader Jack Armstrong to fight Abe. One of +them ran to his horse and brought a bottle from his +saddlebag. It began passing from mouth to mouth. +Jack Armstrong got the bottle before it was half +emptied, drained it and flung it high in the air. Another +called him a hog and grappled him around the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> +waist and there was a desperate struggle which ended +quickly. Armstrong got a hold on the neck of his assailant +and choked him until he let go. This was not +enough for the sturdy bully of Clary's Grove. He +seized his follower and flung him so roughly on the +ground that the latter lay for a moment stunned. +Armstrong had got his blood warm and was now ready +for action. With a wild whoop he threw off his coat, +unbuttoned his right shirtsleeve and rolled it to the +shoulder and declared in a loud voice, as he swung his +arm in the air, that he could "outjump, outhop, outrun, +throw down, drag out an' lick any man in New +Salem."</p> + +<p>In a letter to his father Samson writes:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Abe was working at my elbow. I saw him drop +his hammer and get up and make for the ladder. I +knew something was going to happen and I followed +him. In a minute every one was off the roof and out +of the building. I guess they knew what was coming. +The big lad stood there swinging his arm and yelling +like an Injun. It was a big arm and muscled and +corded up some but I guess if I'd shoved the calico off +mine and held it up he'd a pulled down his sleeve. I +suppose the feller's arm had a kind of a mule's kick in +it, but, good gracious! If he'd a seen as many arms +as you an' I have that have growed up on a hickory +helve he'd a known that his was nothing to brag of. +I didn't know just how good a man Abe was and I +was kind o' scairt for a minute. I never found it so +hard work to do nothin' as I did then. Honest my<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> +hands kind o' ached. I wanted to go an' cuff that +feller's ears an' grab hold o' him an' toss him over the +ridge pole. Abe went right up to him an' said:</p> + +<p>"'Jack, you ain't half so bad or half so cordy as +ye think ye are. You say you can throw down any +man here. I reckon I'll have to show ye that you're +mistaken. I'll rassle with ye. We're friends an' we +won't talk about lickin' each other. Le's have a +friendly rassle.'</p> + +<p>"In a second the two men were locked together. +Armstrong had lunged at Abe with a yell. There was +no friendship in the way he took hold. He was going +to do all the damage he could in any way he could. +He tried to butt with his head and ram his knee into +Abe's stomach as soon as they came together. Half-drunk +Jack is a man who would bite your ear off. +It was no rassle; it was a fight. Abe moved like lightning. +He acted awful limber an' well-greased. In +a second he had got hold of the feller's neck with his +big right hand and hooked his left into the cloth on +his hip. In that way he held him off and shook him +as you've seen our dog shake a woodchuck. Abe's +blood was hot. If the whole crowd had piled on him +I guess he would have come out all right, for when +he's roused there's something in Abe more than bones +and muscles. I suppose it's what I feel when he +speaks a piece. It's a kind of lightning. I guess it's +what our minister used to call the power of the spirit. +Abe said to me afterwards that he felt as if he was +fighting for the peace and honor of New Salem.</p> + +<p>"A friend of the bully jumped in and tried to trip<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> +Abe. Harry Needles stood beside me. Before I +could move he dashed forward and hit that feller in +the middle of his forehead and knocked him flat. +Harry had hit Bap McNoll the cock fighter. I got up +next to the kettle then and took the scum off it. +Fetched one of them devils a slap with the side of my +hand that took the skin off his face and rolled him over +and over. When I looked again Armstrong was going +limp. His mouth was open and his tongue out. +With one hand fastened to his right leg and the other +on the nape of his neck Abe lifted him at arm's length +and gave him a toss in the air. Armstrong fell about +ten feet from where Abe stood and lay there for a +minute. The fight was all out of him and he was +kind of dazed and sick. Abe stood up like a giant +and his face looked awful solemn.</p> + +<p>"'Boys, if there's any more o' you that want trouble +you can have some off the same piece,' he said.</p> + +<p>"They hung their heads and not one of them made +a move or said a word. Abe went to Armstrong and +helped him up.</p> + +<p>"'Jack, I'm sorry that I had to hurt you,' he said. +'You get on to your horse and go home.'</p> + +<p>"'Abe, you're a better man than me,' said the bully, +as he offered his hand to Abe. 'I'll do anything you +say.'"</p></div> + +<p>So the Clary's Grove gang was conquered. They +were to make more trouble but not again were they +to imperil the foundations of law and order in the little +community of New Salem.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i190.png" width="500" height="258" alt="The End of the Trail" title="The End of the Trail" /> +</div> + + +<h2>VIII.—The End of the Trail<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></h2> + +<h3><i>By Clarence E. Mulford</i></h3> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>Buck Peters, foreman of Bar-20 Ranch had many cowboys; +Pete Wilson, Red Connors, Billy Williams, Johnny +Nelson, and a goodly number more, but chief among them +was Hopalong Cassidy. Many interesting stories are told +about him in "Bar-20 Days" but none of his thrilling experiences +ever ended as did the one recited in this most +unusual story, "The End of the Trail."</i>—<span class="smcap">The Editor.</span></p></div> + + +<div class='cap'>WHEN one finds on his ranch the carcasses of +two cows on the same day, and both are +skinned, there can be only one conclusion. +The killing and skinning of two cows out of herds that +are numbered by thousands need not, in themselves, +bring lines of worry to any foreman's brow; but there +is the sting of being cheated, the possibility of the +losses going higher unless a sharp lesson be given upon +the folly of fooling with a very keen and active buzz-saw,—and +it was the determination of the outfit of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> +the Bar-20 to teach that lesson, and as quickly as circumstances +would permit.</div> + +<p>It was common knowledge that there was a more +or less organized band of shiftless malcontents making +its headquarters in and near Perry's Bend, some distance +up the river, and the deduction in this case was +easy. The Bar-20 cared very little about what went +on at Perry's Bend—that was a matter which concerned +only the ranches near that town—so long as +no vexatious happenings sifted too far south. But +they had so sifted, and Perry's Bend, or rather the +undesirable class hanging out there, was due to receive +a shock before long.</p> + +<p>About a week after the finding of the first skinned +cows, Pete Wilson tornadoed up to the bunk house +with a perforated arm. Pete was on foot, having lost +his horse at the first exchange of shots, which accounts +for the expression describing his arrival. Pete hated +to walk, he hated still more to get shot, and most of all +he hated to have to admit that his rifle-shooting was +so far below par. He had seen the thief at work and, +too eager to work up close to the cattle skinner before +announcing his displeasure, had missed the first shot. +When he dragged himself out from under his deceased +horse the scenery was undisturbed save for a small +cloud of dust hovering over a distant rise to the north +of him. After delivering a short and bitter monologue +he struck out for the ranch and arrived in a very hot +and wrathful condition. It was contagious, that condition,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> +and before long the entire outfit was in the +saddle and pounding north, Pete overjoyed because his +wound was so slight as not to bar him from the chase. +The shock was on the way, and as events proved, was +to be one long to linger in the minds of the inhabitants +of Perry's Bend and the surrounding range.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The patrons of the Oasis liked their tobacco strong. +The pungent smoke drifted in sluggish clouds along +the low, black ceiling, following its upward slant +toward the east wall and away from the high bar at +the other end. This bar, rough and strong, ran from +the north wall to within a scant two feet of the south +wall, the opening bridged by a hinged board which +served as an extension to the counter. Behind the +bar was a rear door, low and double, the upper part +barred securely—the lower part was used most. In +front of and near the bar was a large round table, at +which four men played cards silently, while two +smaller tables were located along the north wall. Besides +dilapidated chairs there were half a dozen low +wooden boxes partly filled with sand, and attention was +directed to the existence and purpose of these by a +roughly lettered sign on the wall, reading: "Gents will +look for a box first," which the "gents" sometimes +did. The majority of the "gents" preferred to aim +at various knotholes in the floor and bet on the result, +chancing the outpouring of the proprietor's wrath if +they missed.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p> + +<p>On the wall behind the bar was a smaller and neater +request: "Leave your guns with the bartender.—Edwards." +This, although a month old, still called forth +caustic and profane remarks from the regular frequenters +of the saloon, for hitherto restraint in the +matter of carrying weapons had been unknown. They +forthwith evaded the order in a manner consistent +with their characteristics—by carrying smaller guns +where they could not be seen. The majority had simply +sawed off a generous part of the long barrels of +their Colts and Remingtons, which did not improve +their accuracy.</p> + +<p>Edwards, the new marshal of Perry's Bend, had +come direct from Kansas and his reputation as a +fighter had preceded him. When he took up his first +day's work he was kept busy proving that he was the +rightful owner of it and that it had not been exaggerated +in any manner or degree. With the exception +of one instance the proof had been bloodless, for he +reasoned that gun-play should give way, whenever possible, +to a crushing "right" or "left" to the point of +the jaw or the pit of the stomach. His proficiency in +the manly art was polished and thorough and bespoke +earnest application. The last doubting Thomas to be +convinced came to five minutes after his diaphragm +had been rudely and suddenly raised several inches by +a low right hook, and as he groped for his bearings +and got his wind back again he asked, very feebly, +where "Kansas" was; and the name stuck.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p> + +<p>The marshal did not like the Oasis; indeed, he went +further and cordially hated it. Harlan's saloon was a +thorn in his side and he was only waiting for a good +excuse to wipe it off the local map. He was the Law, +and behind him were the range riders, who would be +only too glad to have the nest of rustlers wiped out +and its gang of ne'er-do-wells scattered to the four +winds. Indeed, he had been given to understand in a +most polite and diplomatic way that if this were not +done lawfully, they would try to do it themselves, and +they had great faith in their ability to handle the situation +in a thorough and workmanlike manner. This +would not do in a law-abiding community, as he called +the town, and so he had replied that the work was his, +and that it would be performed as soon as he believed +himself justified to act. Harlan and his friends were +fully conversant with the feeling against them and had +become a little more cautious, alertly watching out +for trouble.</p> + +<p>On the evening of the day which saw Pete Wilson's +discomfiture most of the <i>habitués</i> had assembled in the +Oasis where, besides the card-players already mentioned, +eight men lounged against the bar. There was +some laughter, much subdued talking, and a little whispering. +More whispering went on under that roof +than in all the other places in town put together; for +here rustling was planned, wayfaring strangers were +"trimmed" in "frame-up" at cards, and a hunted +man was certain to find assistance. Harlan had once<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> +boasted that no fugitive had ever been taken from his +saloon, and he was behind the bar and standing on +the trap door which led to the six-by-six cellar when +he made the assertion. It was true, for only those +in his confidence knew of the place of refuge under +the floor: it had been dug at night and the dirt carefully +disposed of.</p> + +<p>It had not been dark very long before talking ceased +and card-playing was suspended while all looked up as +the front door crashed open and two punchers entered, +looking the crowd over with critical care.</p> + +<p>"Stay here, Johnny," Hopalong told his youthful +companion, and then walked forward, scrutinizing each +scowling face in turn, while Johnny stood with his +back to the door, keenly alert, his right hand resting +lightly on his belt not far from the holster.</p> + +<p>Harlan's thick neck grew crimson and his eyes hard. +"Lookin' fer something?" he asked with bitter sarcasm, +his hands under the bar. Johnny grinned hopefully +and a sudden tenseness took possession of him as +he watched for the first hostile move.</p> + +<p>"Yes," Hopalong replied coolly, appraising Harlan's +attitude and look in one swift glance, "but it +ain't here, now. Johnny, get out," he ordered, backing +after his companion, and safely outside, the two +walked towards Jackson's store, Johnny complaining +about the little time spent in the Oasis.</p> + +<p>As they entered the store they saw Edwards, whose +eyes asked a question.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No; he ain't in there yet," Hopalong replied.</p> + +<p>"Did you look all over? Behind th' bar?" Edwards +asked, slowly. "He can't get out of town +through that cordon you've got strung around it, an' he +ain't nowhere else. Leastwise, I couldn't find him."</p> + +<p>"Come on back!" excitedly exclaimed Johnny, turning +towards the door. "You didn't look behind th' +bar! Come on—bet you ten dollars that's where +he is!"</p> + +<p>"Mebby yo're right, Kid," replied Hopalong, and +the marshal's nodding head decided it.</p> + +<p>In the saloon there was strong language, and Jack +Quinn, expert skinner of other men's cows, looked +inquiringly at the proprietor. "What's up now, Harlan?"</p> + +<p>The proprietor laughed harshly but said nothing—taciturnity +was his one redeeming trait. "Did you +say cigars?" he asked, pushing a box across the bar +to an impatient customer. Another beckoned to him +and he leaned over to hear the whispered request, a +frown struggling to show itself on his face. "Nix; +you know my rule. No trust in here."</p> + +<p>But the man at the far end of the line was unlike +the proprietor and he prefaced his remarks with a +curse. "<i>I</i> know what's up! They want Jerry Brown, +that's what! An' I hopes they don't get him, th' +bullies!"</p> + +<p>"What did he do? Why do they want him?" +asked the man who had wanted trust.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Skinning. He was careless or crazy, working so +close to their ranch houses. Nobody that had any +sense would take a chance like that," replied Boston, +adept at sleight-of-hand with cards and very much in +demand when a frame-up was to be rung in on some +unsuspecting stranger. His one great fault in the eyes +of his partners was that he hated to divvy his winnings +and at times had to be coerced into sharing equally.</p> + +<p>"Aw, them big ranches make me mad," announced +the first speaker. "Ten years ago there was a lot of +little ranchers, an' every one of 'em had his own herd, +an' plenty of free grass an' water fer it. Where are +th' little herds now? Where are th' cows that we +used to own?" he cried, hotly. "What happens to a +maverick-hunter, nowadays? If a man helps hisself +to a pore, sick dogie he's hunted down! It can't go +on much longer, an' that's shore."</p> + +<p>Slivers Lowe leaped up from his chair. "Yo're +right, Harper! Dead right! <i>I</i> was a little cattle +owner onct, so was you, an' Jerry, an' most of us!" +Slivers found it convenient to forget that fully half of +his small herd had perished in the bitter and long winter +of five years before, and that the remainder had +either flowed down his parched throat or been lost +across the big round table near the bar. Not a few of +his cows were banked in the East under Harlan's name.</p> + +<p>The rear door opened slightly and one of the +loungers looked up and nodded. "It's all right Jerry. +But get a move on!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Here, <i>you!</i>" called Harlan, quickly bending over +the trap door, "<i>Lively!</i>"</p> + +<p>Jerry was halfway to the proprietor when the front +door swung open and Hopalong, closely followed by +the marshal, leaped into the room, and immediately +thereafter the back door banged open and admitted +Johnny. Jerry's right hand was in his side coat +pocket and Johnny, young and self-confident, and with +a lot to learn, was certain that he could beat the fugitive +on the draw.</p> + +<p>"I reckon you won't blot no more brands!" he cried, +triumphantly, watching both Jerry and Harlan.</p> + +<p>The card-players had leaped to their feet and at a +signal from Harlan they surged forward to the bar +and formed a barrier between Johnny and his friends; +and as they did so that puncher jerked at his gun, twisting +to half face the crowd. At that instant fire and +smoke spurted from Jerry's side coat pocket and the +odor of burning cloth arose. As Johnny fell, the rustler +ducked low and sprang for the door. A gun +roared twice in the front of the room and Jerry staggered +a little and cursed as he gained the opening, but +he plunged into the darkness and threw himself into +the saddle on the first horse he found in the small +corral.</p> + +<p>When the crowd massed, Hopalong leaped at it and +strove to tear his way to the opening at the end of the +bar, while the marshal covered Harlan and the others. +Finding that he could not get through, Hopalong<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> +sprang on the shoulder of the nearest man and succeeded +in winging the fugitive at the first shot, the +other going wild. Then, frantic with rage and anxiety, +he beat his way through the crowd, hammering +mercilessly at heads with the butt of his Colt, and knelt +at his friend's side.</p> + +<p>Edwards, angered almost to the point of killing, ordered +the crowd to stand against the wall, and laughed +viciously when he saw two men senseless on the floor. +"Hope he beat in yore heads!" he gritted, savagely. +"Harlan, put yore paws up in sight or I'll drill +you clean! Now climb over an' get in line—quick!"</p> + +<p>Johnny moaned and opened his eyes. "Did—did +I—get him?"</p> + +<p>"No; but he gimleted you, all right," Hopalong replied. +"You'll come 'round if you keep quiet." He +arose, his face hard with the desire to kill. "I'm +coming back for <i>you</i>, Harlan, after I get yore friend! +An' all th' rest of you pups, too!"</p> + +<p>"Get me out of here," whispered Johnny.</p> + +<p>"Shore enough, Kid; but keep quiet," replied Hopalong, +picking him up in his arms and moving carefully +towards the door. "We'll get him, Johnny; an' +all th' rest, too, when"—the voice died out in the direction +of Jackson's and the marshal, backing to the +front door, slipped out and to one side, running backward, +his eyes on the saloon.</p> + +<p>"Yore day's about over, Harlan," he muttered.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There's going to be some few funerals around here +before many hours pass."</p> + +<p>When he reached the store he found the owner and +two Double-Arrow punchers taking care of Johnny. +"Where's Hopalong?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Gone to tell his foreman," replied Jackson. +"Hey, youngster, you let them bandages alone! +Hear me?"</p> + +<p>"Hullo, Kansas," remarked John Bartlett, foreman +of the Double-Arrow. "I come nigh getting yore +man; somebody rode past me like a streak in th' dark, +so I just ups an' lets drive for luck, an' so did he. I +heard him cuss an' I emptied my gun after him."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The rain slanted down in sheets and the broken +plain, thoroughly saturated, held the water in pools or +sent it down the steep side of the cliff to feed the +turbulent flood which swept along the bottom, foam-flecked +and covered with swiftly moving driftwood. +Around a bend where the angry water flung itself +against the ragged bulwark of rock and flashed away +in a gleaming line of foam, a horseman appeared, bending +low in the saddle for better protection against the +storm. He rode along the edge of the stream on the +farther bank, opposite the steep bluff on the northern +side, forcing his wounded and jaded horse to keep fetlock +deep in the water which swirled and sucked about +its legs. He was trying his hardest to hide his trail. +Lower down the hard, rocky ground extended to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> +water's edge, and if he could delay his pursuers for an +hour or so, he felt that, even with his tired horse, he +would have more than an even chance.</p> + +<p>But they had gained more than he knew. Suddenly +above him on the top of the steep bluff across the +torrent a man loomed up against the clouds, peered +intently and then waved his sombrero to an unseen +companion. A puff of smoke flashed from his shoulder +and streaked away, the report of the shot lost in +the gale. The fugitive's horse reared and plunged +into the deep water and with its rider was swept +rapidly towards the bend, the way they had +come.</p> + +<p>"That makes th' fourth time I've missed that +coyote!" angrily exclaimed Hopalong as Red Connors +joined him.</p> + +<p>The other quickly raised his rifle and fired; and the +horse, spilling its rider out of the saddle, floated away +tail first. The fugitive, gripping his rifle, bobbed and +whirled at the whim of the greedy water as shots struck +near him. Making a desperate effort, he staggered up +the bank and fell exhausted behind a bowlder.</p> + +<p>"Well, th' coyote is afoot, anyhow," said Red, with +great satisfaction.</p> + +<p>"Yes; but how are we going to get to him?" asked +Hopalong. "We can't get th' cayuses down here, an' +we can't swim <i>that</i> water without them. And if we +could, he'd pot us easy."</p> + +<p>"There's a way out of it somewhere," Red replied,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span> +disappearing over the edge of the bluff to gamble with +Fate.</p> + +<p>"Hey! Come back here, you chump!" cried Hopalong, +running forward. "He'll get you, shore!"</p> + +<p>"That's a chance I've got to take if I get him," was +the reply.</p> + +<p>A puff of smoke sailed from behind the bowlder on +the other bank and Hopalong, kneeling for steadier +aim, fired and then followed his friend. Red was +downstream casting at a rock across the torrent but +the wind toyed with the heavy, water-soaked <i>reata</i> as +though it were a string. As Hopalong reached his side +a piece of driftwood ducked under the water and an +angry humming sound died away downstream. As +the report reached their ears a jet of water spurted up +into Red's face and he stepped back involuntarily.</p> + +<p>"He's some shaky," Hopalong remarked, looking +back at the wreath of smoke above the bowlder. "I +reckon I must have hit him harder than I thought in +Harlan's. Gee! he's wild as blazes!" he ejaculated +as a bullet hummed high above his head and struck +sharply against the rock wall.</p> + +<p>"Yes," Red replied, coiling the rope. "I was trying +to rope that rock over there. If I could anchor +to that, th' current would push us over quick. But it's +too far with this wind blowing."</p> + +<p>"We can't do nothing here 'cept get plugged. +He'll be getting steadier as he rests from his fight with +th' water," Hopalong remarked, and added quickly,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span> +"Say, remember that meadow back there a ways? +We can make her from there, all right."</p> + +<p>"Yo're right; that's what we've got to do. He's +sending 'em nearer every shot—Gee! I could 'most +feel th' wind of that one. An' blamed if it ain't +stopped raining. Come on."</p> + +<p>They clambered up the slippery, muddy bank to +where they had left their horses, and cantered back +over their trail. Minute after minute passed before +the cautious skulker among the rocks across the stream +could believe in his good fortune. When he at last decided +that he was alone again he left his shelter and +started away, with slowly weakening stride, over +cleanly washed rock where he left no trail.</p> + +<p>It was late in the afternoon before the two irate +punchers appeared upon the scene, and their comments, +as they hunted slowly over the hard ground, were numerous +and bitter. Deciding that it was hopeless in +that vicinity, they began casting in great circles on the +chance of crossing the trail further back from the +river. But they had little faith in their success. As +Red remarked, snorting like a horse in his disgust, +"I'll bet four dollars an' a match he's swum down th' +river just to have th' laugh on us." Red had long +since given it up as a bad job, though continuing to +search, when a shout from the distant Hopalong sent +him forward on a run.</p> + +<p>"Hey, Red!" cried Hopalong, pointing ahead of +them. "Look there! Ain't that a house?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Naw; course not! It's a—it's a ship!" Red +snorted sarcastically. "What did you think it might +be?"</p> + +<p>"G'wan!" retorted his companion. "It's a mission."</p> + +<p>"Ah, g'wan yorself! What's a mission doing up +here?" Red snapped.</p> + +<p>"What do you think they do? What do they do +anywhere?" hotly rejoined Hopalong, thinking about +Johnny. "There! See th' cross?"</p> + +<p>"Shore enough!"</p> + +<p>"An' there's tracks at last—mighty wobbly, +but tracks just th' same. Them rocks couldn't go +on forever. Red, I'll bet he's cashed in by this +time."</p> + +<p>"Cashed nothing! Them fellers don't."</p> + +<p>"Well, if he's in that joint we might as well go +back home. We won't get him, not nohow," declared +Hopalong.</p> + +<p>"Huh! You wait an' see!" replied Red, pugnaciously.</p> + +<p>"Reckon you never run up agin' a mission real +hard," Hopalong responded, his memory harking back +to the time he had disagreed with a convent, and they +both meant about the same to him as far as winning +out was concerned.</p> + +<p>"Think I'm a fool kid?" snapped Red, aggressively.</p> + +<p>"Well, you ain't no <i>kid</i>."</p> + +<p>"You let <i>me</i> do th' talking; <i>I'll</i> get him."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span></p> + +<p>"All right; an' I'll do th' laughing," snickered Hopalong, +at the door. "Sic 'em, Red!"</p> + +<p>The other boldly stepped into a small vestibule, Hopalong +close at his heels. Red hitched his holster and +walked heavily into a room at his left. With the exception +of a bench, a table, and a small altar, the +room was devoid of furnishings, and the effect of these +was lost in the dim light from the narrow windows. +The peculiar, not unpleasant odor of burning incense +and the dim light awakened a latent reverence and awe +in Hopalong, and he sneaked off his sombrero, an inexplicable +feeling of guilt stealing over him. There +were three doors in the walls, deeply shrouded in the +dusk of the room, and it was very hard to watch all +three at once. . . .</p> + +<p>Red listened intently and then grinned. "Hear +that? They're playing dominoes in there—come +on!"</p> + +<p>"Aw, you chump! 'Dominee' means 'mother' in +Latin, which is what they speaks."</p> + +<p>"How do you know?"</p> + +<p>"Hanged if I can tell—I've heard it somewhere, +that's all."</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't care what it means. This is a frame-up +so that coyote can get away. I'll bet they gave him +a cayuse an' started him off while we've been losing +time in here. I'm going inside an' ask some questions."</p> + +<p>Before he could put his plan into execution, Hopalong<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> +nudged him and he turned to see his friend staring +at one of the doors. There had been no sound, +but he would swear that a monk stood gravely regarding +them, and he rubbed his eyes. He stepped back +suspiciously and then started forward again.</p> + +<p>"Look here, stranger," he remarked, with quiet +emphasis, "we're after that cow-lifter, an' we mean +to get him. Savvy?"</p> + +<p>The monk did not appear to hear him, so he tried +another trick. "<i>Habla española?</i>" he asked, experimentally.</p> + +<p>"You have ridden far?" replied the monk in perfect +English.</p> + +<p>"All th' way from th' Bend," Red replied, relieved. +"We're after Jerry Brown. He tried to kill Johnny, +judgin' from th' tracks."</p> + +<p>"And if you capture him?"</p> + +<p>"He won't have no more use for no side pocket +shooting."</p> + +<p>"I see; you will kill him."</p> + +<p>"Shore's it's wet outside."</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid you are doomed to disappointment."</p> + +<p>"Ya-as?" asked Red with a rising inflection.</p> + +<p>"You will not want him now," replied the monk.</p> + +<p>Red laughed sarcastically and Hopalong smiled.</p> + +<p>"There ain't a-going to be no argument about it. +Trot him out," ordered Red, grimly.</p> + +<p>The monk turned to Hopalong. "Do you, too, +want him?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> + +<p>Hopalong nodded.</p> + +<p>"My friends, he is safe from your punishment."</p> + +<p>Red wheeled instantly and ran outside, returning in +a few moments, smiling triumphantly. "There are +tracks coming in, but there ain't none going away. +He's here. If you don't lead us to him we'll shore +have to rummage around an' poke him out for ourselves: +which is it?"</p> + +<p>"You are right—he is here, and he is not here."</p> + +<p>"We're waiting," Red replied, grinning.</p> + +<p>"When I tell you that you will not want him, do +you still insist on seeing him?"</p> + +<p>"We'll see him, an' we'll want him, too."</p> + +<p>As the rain poured down again the sound of approaching +horses was heard, and Hopalong ran to the +door in time to see Buck Peters swing off his mount +and step forward to enter the building. Hopalong +stopped him and briefly outlined the situation, begging +him to keep the men outside. The monk met his +return with a grateful smile and, stepping forward, +opened the chapel door, saying, "Follow me."</p> + +<p>The unpretentious chapel was small and nearly dark, +for the usual dimness was increased by the lowering +clouds outside. The deep, narrow window openings, +fitted with stained glass, ran almost to the rough-hewn +rafters supporting the steep-pitched roof, upon which +the heavy rain beat again with a sound like that of +distant drums. Gusts of rain and the water from the +roof beat against the south windows, while the wailing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> +wind played its mournful cadences about the eaves, and +the stanch timbers added their creaking notes to swell +the dirgelike chorus.</p> + +<p>At the farther end of the room two figures knelt +and moved before the white altar, the soft light of +flickering candles playing fitfully upon them and glinting +from the altar ornaments, while before a rough +coffin, which rested upon two pedestals, stood a third, +whose rich, sonorous Latin filled the chapel with impressive +sadness. "Give eternal rest to them, O +Lord,"—the words seeming to become a part of the +room. The ineffably sad, haunting melody of the mass +whispered back from the roof between the assaults of +the enraged wind, while from the altar came the responses +in a low Gregorian chant, and through it all +the clinking of the censer chains added intermittent +notes. Aloft streamed the vapor of the incense, wavering +with the air currents, now lost in the deep twilight +of the sanctuary, and now faintly revealed by the +glow of the candles, perfuming the air with its aromatic +odor.</p> + +<p>As the last deep-toned words died away the celebrant +moved slowly around the coffin, swinging the censer +over it and then, sprinkling the body and making the +sign of the cross above its head, solemnly withdrew.</p> + +<p>From the shadows along the side walls other figures +silently emerged and grouped around the coffin. Raising +it they turned it slowly around and carried it down<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> +the dim aisle in measured tread, moving silently as +ghosts.</p> + +<p>"He is with God, Who will punish according to his +sins," said a low voice, and Hopalong started, for he +had forgotten the presence of the guide. "God be +with you, and may you die as he died—repentant and +in peace."</p> + +<p>Buck chafed impatiently before the chapel door leading +to a small, well-kept graveyard, wondering what +it was that kept quiet for so long a time his two most +assertive men, when he had momentarily expected to +hear more or less turmoil and confusion.</p> + +<p><i>C-r-e-a-k!</i> He glanced up, gun in hand and raised +as the door swung slowly open. His hand dropped +suddenly and he took a short step forward; six black-robed +figures shouldering a long box stepped slowly +past him, and his nostrils were assailed by the pungent +odor of the incense. Behind them came his fighting +punchers, humble, awed, reverent, their sombreros in +their hands, and their heads bowed.</p> + +<p>"What in blazes!" exclaimed Buck, wonder and +surprise struggling for the mastery as the others cantered +up.</p> + +<p>"He's cashed," Red replied, putting on his sombrero +and nodding toward the procession.</p> + +<p>Buck turned like a flash and spoke sharply: +"Skinny! Lanky! Follow that glory-outfit, an' see +what's in that box!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span></p> + +<p>Billy Williams grinned at Red. "Yo're shore +pious, Red."</p> + +<p>"Shut up!" snapped Red, anger glinting in his +eyes, and Billy subsided.</p> + +<p>Lanky and <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Skinney'">Skinny</ins> soon returned from accompanying +the procession.</p> + +<p>"I had to look twict to be shore it was him. His +face was plumb happy, like a baby. But he's gone, all +right," Lanky reported.</p> + +<p>"All right—he knowed how he'd finish when he +began. Now for that dear Mr. Harlan," Buck replied, +vaulting into the saddle. He turned and looked +at Hopalong, and his wonder grew. "Hey, <i>you!</i> +Yes, <i>you!</i> Come out of that an' put on yore lid! +Straddle leather—we can't stay here all night."</p> + +<p>Hopalong started, looked at his sombrero and +silently obeyed. As they rode down the trail and +around a corner he turned in his saddle and looked +back; and then rode on, buried in thought.</p> + +<p>Billy, grinning, turned and playfully punched him +in the ribs. "Gettin' glory, Hoppy?"</p> + +<p>Hopalong raised his head and looked him steadily in +the eyes; and Billy, losing his curiosity and the grin +at the same instant, looked ahead, whistling softly.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/i211.png" width="400" height="424" alt="Dey Ain't No Ghosts" title="Dey Ain't No Ghosts" /> +</div> + + +<h2>IX.—Dey Ain't No Ghosts<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a></h2> + +<h3><i>By Ellis Parker Butler</i></h3> + + +<div class='cap'>ONCE 'pon a time dey was a li'l black boy whut +he name was Mose. An' whin he come erlong +to be 'bout knee-high to a mewel, he 'gin to +git powerful 'fraid ob ghosts, 'ca'se dey's a grabeyard +in de hollow, an' a buryin'-ground on de hill, an' a +cemuntary in betwixt an' between, an' dey ain't nuffin' +but trees nowhar in de clearin' by de shanty an' down +de hollow whar de pumpkin-patch am.</div> + +<p>An' whin de night come erlong, dey ain't no sounds +at all whut kin be heard in dat locality but de rain-doves,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> +whut mourn out, "Oo-<i>oo</i>-o-o-o!" jes dat trembulous +an' scary, an' de owls, whut mourn out, "Whut-<i>whoo</i>-o-o-o!" +more trembulous an' scary dan dat, an' +de wind, whut mourn out, "You-<i>you</i>-o-o-o!" mos' +scandalous, trembulous an' scary ob all. Dat a powerful +onpleasant locality for a li'l black boy whut he +name was Mose.</p> + +<p>'Ca'se dat li'l black boy he so specially black he can't +be seen in de dark <i>at</i> all 'cept by de whites ob he eyes. +So whin he go outen de house at night, he ain't dast +shut he eyes, 'ca'se den ain't nobody can see him in de +least. He jest as invidsible as nuffin'! An' who know +but whut a great, big ghost bump right into him 'ca'se +it can't see him? An' dat shore w'u'd scare dat li'l +black boy powerful bad, 'ca'se yever'body knows whut +a cold, damp pussonality a ghost is.</p> + +<p>So whin dat li'l black Mose go' outen de shanty at +night, he keep he eyes wide open, you may be shore. +By day he eyes 'bout de size ob butter-pats, an' come +sundown he eyes 'bout de size ob saucers; but whin he +go outer de shanty at night, he eyes am de size ob de +white chiny plate whut set on de mantel; an' it powerful +hard to keep eyes whut am de size ob dat from +a-winkin' an' a-blinkin'.</p> + +<p>So whin Hallowe'en come erlong, dat li'l black Mose +he jes mek up he mind he ain't gwine outen de shack at +all. He cogitate he gwine stay right snug in de shack +wid he pa an' he ma, 'ca'se de rain-doves tek notice dat +de ghosts are philanderin' roun' de country, 'ca'se dey<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> +mourn out, "Oo-<i>oo</i>-o-o-o!" an' de owls dey mourn +out, "You-<i>you</i>-o-o-o!" De eyes ob dat li'l black +Mose dey as big as de white chiny plate whut set on +de mantel by side de clock, an' de sun jes a-settin'!</p> + +<p>So dat all right. Li'l black Mose he scrooge back in +de corner by de fireplace, an' he 'low he gwine stay +dere till he gwine <i>to</i> bed. But bimeby Sally Ann, whut +live up de road, draps in, an' Mistah Sally Ann, whut is +her husban', he draps in an' Zack Badget an' de school-teacher +whut board at Unc' Silas Diggs's house drap +in, an' a powerful lot ob folks drap in. An' li'l black +Mose he seen dat gwine be one s'prise party, an' he +right down cheerful 'bout dat.</p> + +<p>So all dem folks shake dere hands an' 'low +"Howdy," an' some ob dem say: "Why, dere's li'l +Mose! Howdy, li'l Mose?" An' he so please he jes +grin an' grin, 'ca'se he ain't reckon whut gwine happen. +So bimeby Sally Ann, whut live up de road, she say, +"Ain't no sort o' Hallowe'en lest we got a jack-o'-lantern." +An' de school-teacher, whut board at Unc' +Silas Diggs's house, she 'low, "Hallowe'en jes no +Hallowe'en <i>at</i> all 'thout we got a jack-o'-lantern." +An' li'l black Mose he stop a-grinnin', an' he scrooge so +far back in de corner he 'most scrooge frough de wall. +But dat ain't no use, 'ca'se he ma say, "Mose, go on +down to de pumpkin-patch an' fotch a pumpkin."</p> + +<p>"I ain't want to go," say li'l black Mose.</p> + +<p>"Go on erlong wid yo'," say he ma, right commandin'.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I ain't want to go," say Mose ag'in.</p> + +<p>"Why ain't yo' want to go?" he ma ask.</p> + +<p>"'Ca'se I's afraid ob de ghosts," say li'l black +Mose, an' dat de particular truth an' no mistake.</p> + +<p>"Dey ain't no ghosts," say de school-teacher, whut +board at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, right peart.</p> + +<p>"'Co'se dey ain't no ghosts," say Zack Badget, whut +dat 'feared ob ghosts he ain't dar' come to li'l black +Mose's house ef de school-teacher ain't ercompany him.</p> + +<p>"Go 'long wid your ghosts!" say li'l black Mose's +ma.</p> + +<p>"Wha' yo' pick up dat nonsense?" say he pa. +"Dey ain't no ghosts."</p> + +<p>An' dat whut all dat s'prise-party 'lows: dey ain't no +ghosts. An' dey 'low dey mus' hab a jack-o'-lantern +or de fun all spiled. So dat li'l black boy whut he +name is Mose he done got to fotch a pumpkin from de +pumpkin-patch down de hollow. So he step outen de +shanty an' he stan' on de doorstep twell he get he +eyes pried open as big as de bottom ob he ma's washtub, +mostly, an' he say, "Dey ain't no ghosts." An' +he put one foot on de ground, an' dat was de fust +step.</p> + +<p>An' de rain-dove say, "Oo-<i>oo</i>-o-o-o!"</p> + +<p>An' li'l black Mose he tuck anudder step.</p> + +<p>An' de owl mourn out, "Whut-<i>whoo</i>-o-o-o!"</p> + +<p>An' li'l black Mose he tuck anudder step.</p> + +<p>An' de wind sob out, "You-<i>you</i>-o-o-o!"</p> + +<p>An' li'l black Mose he tuck one look ober he shoulder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> +an' he shut he eyes so tight dey hurt round de +aidges, an' he pick up he foots an' run. Yas, sah, he +run right peart fast. An' he say: "Dey ain't no +ghosts. Dey ain't no ghosts." An' he run erlong de +paff whut lead by de buryin'-ground on de hill, +'ca'se dey ain't no fince eround dat buryin'-ground at +all.</p> + +<p>No fince; jes de big trees whut de owls an' de rain-doves +sot in an' mourn an' sob, an' whut de wind sigh +an' cry frough. An' bimeby somefin' jes <i>brush</i> li'l +Mose on de arm, which mek him run jest a bit more +faster. An' bimeby somefin' jes <i>brush</i> li'l Mose on de +cheek, which mek him run erbout as fast as he can. +An' bimeby somefin' <i>grab</i> li'l Mose by de aidge of he +coat, an' he fight an' struggle an' cry out: "Dey ain't +no ghosts. Dey ain't no ghosts." An' dat ain't nuffin' +but de wild brier whut grab him, an' dat ain't nuffin' +but de leaf ob a tree whut brush he cheek, an' dat +ain't nuffin' but de branch ob a hazel-bush whut brush +he arm. But he downright scared jes de same, an' he +ain't lost no time, 'ca'se de wind an' de owls an' de rain-doves +dey signerfy whut ain't no good. So he scoot +past dat buryin'-ground whut on de hill, an' dat cemuntary +whut betwixt an' between, an' dat grabeyard in de +hollow, twell he come to de pumpkin-patch, an' he rotch +down an' tek erhold ob de bestest pumpkin whut in de +patch. An' he right smart scared. He jes de mostest +scared li'l black boy whut yever was. He ain't gwine +open he eyes fo' nuffin', 'ca'se de wind go, "You-<i>you</i>-o-o-o!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> +an' de owls go, "Whut-<i>whoo</i>-o-o-o!" an' de +rain-doves go, "Oo-<i>oo</i>-o-o-o!"</p> + +<p>He jes speculate, "Dey ain't no ghosts," an' wish he +hair don't stand on ind dat way. An' he jes cogitate, +"Dey ain't no ghosts," an' wish he goose-pimples don't +rise up dat way. An' he jes 'low, "Dey ain't no +ghosts," an' wish he backbone ain't all trembulous wid +chills dat way. So he rotch down, an' he rotch down, +twell he git a good hold on dat pricklesome stem of dat +bestest pumpkin whut in de patch, an' he jes yank dat +stem wid all he might.</p> + +<p>"<i>Let loosen my head!</i>" say a big voice all on a suddent.</p> + +<p>Dat li'l black boy whut he name is Mose he jump +'most outen he skin. He open he eyes an' he 'gin to +shake like de aspen tree, 'ca'se whut dat a-standin' right +dar behind him but a 'mendjous big ghost! Yas, sah, +dat de bigges', whites' ghost whut yever was. An' it +ain't got no head. Ain't go no head <i>at</i> all. Li'l black +Mose he jest drap on he knees an' he beg an' pray:</p> + +<p>"Oh, 'scuse me! 'Scuse me, Mistah Ghost!" he +beg. "Ah ain't mean no harm at all."</p> + +<p>"Whut for you try to take my head?" as' de ghost +in dat fearsome voice whut like de damp wind outen +de cellar.</p> + +<p>"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me!" beg li'l Mose. "Ah +ain't know dat was yo' head, an' I ain't know you was +dar <i>at</i> all. 'Scuse me!"</p> + +<p>"Ah 'scuse you ef you do me dis favor," say de<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> +ghost. "Ah got somefin' powerful <i>im</i>portant to say +unto you, an' Ah can't say hit 'ca'se Ah ain't got no +head; an' whin Ah ain't got no head, Ah ain't got no +mouf, an' whin Ah ain't got no mouf, Ah can't talk <i>at</i> +all."</p> + +<p>An' dat right logical fo' shore. Can't nobody talk +whin he ain't got no mouf, an' can't nobody have no +mouf whin he ain't got no head, an' whin li'l black +Mose he look, he see dat ghost ain't go no head <i>at</i> all. +Nary head.</p> + +<p>So de ghost say:</p> + +<p>"Ah come on down yere fo' to git a pumpkin fo' a +head, an' Ah pick dat ixact pumpkin whut yo' gwine +tek, an' Ah don't like dat one bit. No, sah. Ah feel +like Ah pick yo' up an' carry yo' away, an' nobody +see you no more for yever. But Ah got somefin' powerful +<i>im</i>portant to say unto yo', an' if yo' pick up dat +pumpkin an' sot it on de place whar my head ought to +be, Ah let you off dis time, 'ca'se Ah ain't been able to +talk fo' so long Ah'm right hongry to say somefin'!"</p> + +<p>So li'l black Mose he heft up dat pumpkin, an' de +ghost he bent down, an' li'l black Mose he sot dat +pumpkin on dat ghostses neck. An' right off dat +pumpkin head 'gin to wink an' blink like a jack-o'-lantern, +an' right off dat pumpkin head 'gin to glimmer +an' glow frough de mouf like a jack-o'-lantern, an' +right off dat ghost start to speak. Yas, sah, dass so.</p> + +<p>"Whut yo' want to say unto me?" <i>in</i>quire li'l black +Mose.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ah want to tell yo'," say de ghost, "dat yo' ain't +need yever be skeered of ghosts, 'ca'se dey ain't no +ghosts."</p> + +<p>An' whin he say dat de ghost jes vanish away like +de smoke in July. He ain't even linger round dat +locality like de smoke in Yoctober. He jes dissipate +outen de air, an' he gone <i>in</i>tirely.</p> + +<p>So li'l Mose he grab up de nex' bestest pumpkin an' +he scoot. An' whin he come to de grabeyard in de +hollow, he goin' erlong same as yever, on'y faster, whin +he reckon, he'll pick up a club <i>in</i> case he gwine have +trouble. An' he rotch down an' rotch down, an' tek +hold of a lively appearin' hunk o' wood whut right dar. +An' whin he grab dat hunk of wood. . . .</p> + +<p>"<i>Let loosen my leg!</i>" say a big voice all on a suddent.</p> + +<p>Dat li'l black boy 'most jump outen he skin, 'ca'se +right dar in de paff is six 'mendjus big ghosts, an' de +bigges' ain't got but one leg. So li'l black Mose jes +natchully handed dat hunk of wood to dat bigges' +ghost, an' he say:</p> + +<p>"'Scuse me, Mistah Ghost; Ah ain't know dis your +leg."</p> + +<p>An' whut dem six ghostes do but stand round an' +confabulate? Yas, sah, dass so. An' whin dey do so, +one say:</p> + +<p>"'Pears like dis a mighty likely li'l black boy. +Whut we gwine do fo' to <i>re</i>ward him fo' politeness?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Tell him whut de truth is 'bout ghosts."</p> + +<p>So de bigges' ghost he say:</p> + +<p>"Ah gwine tell yo' somethin' important whut yever'body +don't know: Dey <i>ain't</i> no ghosts."</p> + +<p>An' whin he say dat, de ghosts jes natchully vanish +away, an' li'l black Mose he proceed up de paff. He +so scared he hair jes yank at de roots, an' when de wind +go "Oo-<i>oo</i>-oo-o-o," an' de owl go, "Whut-<i>whoo</i>-o-o-o!" +an' de rain-doves go, "You-<i>you</i>-o-o-o!" he +jes tremble an' shake. An' bimeby he come to de cemuntary +whut betwixt an' between, an' he shore is mighty +skeered, 'ca'se dey is a whole comp'ny of ghostes lined +up along de road, an' he 'low he ain't gwine spind no +more time palaverin' wid ghostes. So he step offen de +road fo' to go round erbout, an' he step on a pine-stump +whut lay right dar.</p> + +<p>"<i>Git offen my chest!</i>" say a big voice all on a suddent, +'ca'se dat stump am been selected by de captain +ob de ghostes for to be he chest, 'ca'se he ain't got no +chest betwixt he shoulders an' he legs. An' li'l black +Mose he hop offen dat stump right peart. Yes, <i>sah;</i> +right peart.</p> + +<p>"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me!" dat li'l black Mose beg +an' pleed, an' de ghostes ain't know whuther to eat him +all up or not, 'ca'se he step on de boss ghostes's chest +dat a-way. But bimeby they 'low they let him go +'ca'se dat was an accident, an' de captain ghost he say, +"Mose, you Mose, Ah gwine let you off dis time, 'ca'se +you ain't nuffin' but a misabul li'l tremblin' nigger; but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> +Ah want you should remimber one thing mos' particular'."</p> + +<p>"Ya-yas, sah," say dat li'l black boy; "Ah'll remimber. +What is dat Ah got to remimber?"</p> + +<p>De captain ghost he swell up, an' he swell up, twell +he as big as a house, an' he say in a voice whut shake +de ground:</p> + +<p>"Dey ain't no ghosts."</p> + +<p>So li'l black Mose he bound to remimber dat, an' he +rise up an' mek a bow, an' he proceed toward home +right libely. He do, indeed.</p> + +<p>An' he gwine along jes as fast as he kin whin he +come to de aidge ob de buryin'-ground whut on de hill, +an' right dar he bound to stop, 'ca'se de kentry round +about am so populate he ain't able to go frough. Yas, +sah, seem like all de ghostes in de world havin' de conferince +right dar. Seem like all de ghosteses whut +yever was am havin' a convintion on dat spot. An' +dat li'l black Mose so skeered he jes fall down on e' old +log whut dar an' screech an' moan! An' all on a suddent +de log up and spoke to li'l Mose:</p> + +<p>"<i>Get offen me! Get offen me!</i>" yell dat log.</p> + +<p>So li'l black Mose he git offen dat log, an' no mistake.</p> + +<p>An' soon as he git offen de log, de log uprise, an' li'l +black Mose he see dat dat log am de king ob all de +ghostes. An' whin de king uprise, all de congregation +crowd round li'l black Mose, an' dey am about leben +millium an' a few lift over. Yes, sah; dat de reg'lar<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> +annyul Hallowe'en convintion whut li'l black Mose interrup. +Right dar am all de sperits in de world, an' all +de ha'nts in de world, an' all de hobgoblins in de +world, an' all de ghouls in de world, an' all de spicters +in de world, an' all de ghostes in de world. An' whin +dey see li'l black Mose, dey all gnash dey teef an' grin +'ca'se it gettin' erlong toward dey-all's lunchtime. So +de king, whut he name old Skull-an'-Bones, he step on +top ob li'l Mose's head, an' he say:</p> + +<p>"Gin'l'min, de convintion will come to order. De +sicretary please note who is prisint. De firs' business +whut come before de convintion am: whut we gwine +do to a li'l black boy whut stip on de king an' maul +all ober de king an' treat de king dat disdespictful."</p> + +<p>An' li'l black Mose jes moan an' sob:</p> + +<p>"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me, Mistah King! Ah ain't +mean no harm <i>at</i> all."</p> + +<p>But nobody ain't pay no attintion to him at all, +'ca'se yevery one lookin' at a monstrous big ha'nt whut +name Bloody Bones, whut rose up an' spoke.</p> + +<p>"Your Honor, Mistah King, an' gin'l'min <i>an'</i> +ladies," he say, "dis am a right bad case ob <i>lazy +majesty</i>, 'ca'se de king been step on. Whin yevery li'l +black boy whut choose gwine wander round at night +an' stip on de king of ghostes, it ain't no time for to +palaver, it ain't no time for to prevaricate, it ain't no +time for to cogitate, it ain't no time do nuffin' but tell +de truth, an' de whole truth, an' nuffin but de truth."</p> + +<p>An' all dem ghostes sicond de motion, an' dey canfabulate<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> +out loud erbout it, an' de noise soun like de +rain-doves goin', "Oo-<i>oo</i>-o-o-o!" an' de owls goin', +"Whut-<i>whoo</i>-o-o-o!" an' de wind goin', "You-<i>you</i>-o-o-o!" +So dat risolution am passed unanermous, an' +no mistake.</p> + +<p>So de king ob de ghosts, whut name old Skull-an'-Bones, +he place he hand on de head ob li'l black Mose, +an' he hand feel like a wet rag, an' he say:</p> + +<p>"Dey ain't no ghosts."</p> + +<p>An' one ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l black +Mose turn white.</p> + +<p>An' de monstrous big ha'nt whut he name Bloody +Bones he lay he hand on de head ob li'l black Mose, and +he hand feel like a toadstool in de cool ob de day, an' +he say:</p> + +<p>"Dey ain't no ghosts."</p> + +<p>An' anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l black +Mose turn white.</p> + +<p>An' a heejus sperit whut he name Moldy Pa'm place +he hand on de head ob li'l black Mose, an' he hand feel +like ye yunner side ob a lizard, an' he say:</p> + +<p>"Dey ain't no ghosts."</p> + +<p>An' anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l +black Mose turn white <i>as</i> snow.</p> + +<p>An' a perticklar bent-up hobgoblin he put hand +on de head ob li'l black Mose, an' he mek dat same <i>re</i>mark, +and dat whole convintion ob ghostes an' spicters +an' ha'nts an' yever-thing, which am more 'n a millium, +pass by so quick dey-all's hands feel lak de wind whut<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> +blow outen de cellar whin de day am hot, an' dey-all +say, "Dey ain't no ghosts." Yas, sah, dey-all say dem +wo'ds so fas' it soun like de wind whin it moan frough +de turkentine-trees whut behind de cider-priss. An' +yevery hair whut on li'l black Mose's head turn white. +Dat whut happen whin a li'l black boy gwine meet a +ghost convintion dat a-way. Dat's so he ain't gwine +fergit to remimber dey ain't no ghosts. 'Ca'se ef a +li'l black boy gwine imaginate dey <i>is</i> ghostes, he gwine +be skeered in de dark. An' dat a foolish thing for to +imaginate.</p> + +<p>So prisintly all de ghostes am whiff away, like de +fog outen de holler whin de wind blow' on it, an' li'l +black Mose he ain' see 'ca'se for to remain in dat locality +no longer. He rotch down, an' he raise up de +pumpkin, an' he perambulate right quick to he ma's +shack, an' he lift up de latch, an' he open de do', an' +he yenter in. An' he say:</p> + +<p>"Yere's de pumpkin."</p> + +<p>An' he ma an' he pa, an' Sally Ann, whut live up de +road, an' Mistah Sally Ann, whut her husban', an' +Zack Badget, an' de school-teacher whut board at Unc' +Silas Diggs's house, an' all de powerful lot of folks +whut come to de doin's, dey all scrooged back in de +cornder ob de shack, 'ca'se Zack Badget he been done +tell a ghost-tale, an' de rain-doves gwine "Ooo-<i>oo</i>-o-o-o!" +an' de owls am gwine, "Whut-<i>whoo</i>-o-o-o!" +and de wind it gwine, "You-<i>you</i>-o-o-o!" an' yever'body +powerful skeered. 'Ca'se li'l black Mose he come<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> +a-fumblin' an' a-rattlin' at de do' jes whin dat ghost-tale +mos' skeery, an' yever'body gwine imaginate dat de +ghost a-fumblin' an' a-rattlin' at de do'. Yas, sah. +So li'l black Mose he turn he white head, an' he look +roun' an' peer roun', an' he say:</p> + +<p>"Whut you all skeered fo'?"</p> + +<p>'Ca'se ef anybody skeered, he want to be skeered, +too. Dat's natural. But de school-teacher, whut live +at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, she say:</p> + +<p>"Fo' de lan's sake, we fought you was a ghost!"</p> + +<p>So li'l black Mose he sort ob sniff an' he sort ob +sneer, an' he 'low:</p> + +<p>"Huh! dey ain't no ghosts."</p> + +<p>Den he ma she powerful took back dat li'l black +Mose he gwine be so upotish an' contrydict folks whut +know 'rifmeticks an' algebricks an' gin'ral countin' +widout fingers, like de school-teacher whut board at +Unc' Silas Diggs's house knows, an' she say:</p> + +<p>"Huh; whut you know 'bout ghosts, anner way?"</p> + +<p>An' li'l black Mose he jes kinder stan' on one foot, +an' he jes kinder suck he thumb, an' he jes kinder +'low:</p> + +<p>"I don' know nuffin' erbout ghosts, 'ca'se dey ain't +no ghosts."</p> + +<p>So he pa gwine whop him fo' tellin' a fib 'bout dey +ain't no ghosts whin yever'body know dey is ghosts; +but de school-teacher, whut board at Unc' Silas Diggs's +house, she tek note de hair ob li'l black Mose's head +am plumb white, an' she tek note li'l black Mose's face<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> +am de color of wood-ash, so she jes retch one arm +round dat li'l black boy, an' she jes snuggle him up, +an' she say:</p> + +<p>"Honey lamb, don't you be skeered; ain' nobody +gwine hurt you. How you know dey ain't no +ghosts?"</p> + +<p>An' li'l black Mose he kinder lean up 'g'inst de +school-teacher whut board at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, +an' he 'low:</p> + +<p>"'Ca'se—'ca'se—'ca'se I met de cap'n ghost, an' I +met de gin'ral ghost, an' I met de king ghost, an' I met +all de ghostes whut yever was in de whole worl', an' +yevery ghost say de same thing: 'Dey ain't no ghosts.' +An' if de cap'n ghost an' de gin'ral ghost an' de king +ghost an' all de ghostes in de whole worl' don' know +ef dar am ghostes, who does?"</p> + +<p>"Das right; das right, honey lamb," say de school-teacher. +An' she say: "I been s'picious dey ain' no +ghostes dis long whiles, an' now I know. Ef all de +ghostes say dey ain' no ghosts, dey <i>ain'</i> no ghosts."</p> + +<p>So yever'body 'low dat o cep' Zack Badget, whut +been tellin' de ghost-tale, an' he ain' gwine say "Yis" +an' he ain' gwine say "No," 'ca'se he right sweet +on de school-teacher; but he know right well he done +seen plinty ghostes in he day. So he boun' to be sure +fust. So he say to li'l black Mose:</p> + +<p>"'Tain' likely you met up wid a monstrous big +ha'nt whut live down de lane whut he name Bloody +Bones?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yas," say li'l black Mose, "I done met up wid +him."</p> + +<p>"An' did old Bloody Bones done tol' you dey ain' +no ghosts?" say Zack Badget.</p> + +<p>"Yas," say li'l black Mose, "he done tell me perzactly +dat."</p> + +<p>"Well, if <i>he</i> tol' you dey ain' no ghosts," say Zack +Badget, "I got to 'low dey ain't no ghosts, 'ca'se he +ain't gwine tell no lie erbout it. I know dat Bloody +Bones ghost sence I was a piccaninny, an' I done met +up wif him a powerful lot o' times, an' he ain't gwine +tell no lie erbout it. Ef dat perticklar ghost say dey +ain't no ghosts, dey ain't no ghosts."</p> + +<p>So yever'body say:</p> + +<p>"Das right; dey ain't no ghosts."</p> + +<p>An' dat mek li'l black Mose feel mighty good, 'ca'se +he ain' lek ghostes. He reckon he gwine be a heap mo' +comfortable in he mind sence he know dey ain't no +ghosts, an' he reckon he ain' gwine be skeered of nuffin' +never no more. He ain't gwine min' de dark, an' +he ain't gwine min' de rain-doves whut go, "Ooo-<i>oo</i>-o-o-o!" +an' he ain' gwine min' de owls whut go, +"Who-<i>who</i>-o-o-o!" an' he ain' gwine min' de wind +whut go, "You-<i>you</i>-o-o-o!" nor nuffin, nohow. He +gwine be brave as a lion, sence he know fo' sure dey +ain' no ghosts. So prisintly he ma say:</p> + +<p>"Well, time fo' a li'l black boy whut he name is +Mose to be gwine up de ladder to de loft to bed."</p> + +<p>An' li'l black Mose he 'low he gwine wait a bit.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> +He 'low he gwine jes wait a li'l bit. He 'low he gwine +be no trouble <i>at</i> all ef he jes been let wait twell he ma +she gwine up de ladder to de loft to bed, too. So he +ma she say:</p> + +<p>"Git erlong wid yo'! Whut you skeered ob whin +dey ain't no ghosts?"</p> + +<p>An' li'l black Mose he scrooge, an' he twist, an' he +pucker up he mouf, an' he rub he eyes, an' prisintly he +say right low:</p> + +<p>"I ain't skeered ob ghosts whut am, 'ca'se dey ain't +no ghosts."</p> + +<p>"Den what am yo' skeered ob?" ask he ma.</p> + +<p>"Nuffin'," say de li'l black boy whut he name is +Mose; "but I jes feel kinder oneasy 'bout de ghosts +whut ain't."</p> + +<p>Jes lak white folks! Jes lak white folks!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i228.png" width="500" height="231" alt="The Night Operator" title="The Night Operator" /> +</div> + + +<h2>X.—The Night Operator<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></h2> + +<h3><i>By Frank L. Packard</i></h3> + + +<div class='cap'>TODDLES, in the beginning, wasn't exactly +a railroad man—for several reasons. First +he wasn't a man at all; second, he wasn't, +strictly speaking, on the company's pay roll; third, +which is apparently irrelevant, everybody said he was +a bad one; and fourth—because Hawkeye nicknamed +him Toddles.</div> + +<p>Toddles had another name—Christopher Hyslop +Hoogan—but Big Cloud never lay awake at nights +losing any sleep over that. On the first run that +Christopher Hyslop Hoogan ever made, Hawkeye +looked him over for a minute, said, "Toddles," shortlike—and, +shortlike, that settled the matter so far as +the Hill Division was concerned. His name was Toddles.</p> + +<p>Piecemeal, Toddles wouldn't convey anything to you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> +to speak of. You'd have to see Toddles coming down +the aisle of a car to get him at all—and then the +chances are you'd turn around after he'd gone by and +stare at him, and it would be even money that you'd +call him back and fish for a dime to buy something by +way of excuse. Toddles got a good deal of business +that way. Toddles had a uniform and a regular run +all right, but he wasn't what he passionately longed to +be—a legitimate, dyed-in-the-wool railroader. His +pay check, plus commissions, came from the News +Company down East that had the railroad concession. +Toddles was a newsboy. In his blue uniform and +silver buttons, Toddles used to stack up about the +height of the back of the car seats as he hawked his +wares along the aisles; and the only thing that was big +about him was his head, which looked as though it had +got a whopping big lead on his body—and didn't intend +to let the body cut the lead down any. This +meant a big cap, and, as Toddles used to tilt the vizor +forward, the tip of his nose, bar his mouth which was +generous, was about all one got of his face. Cap, buttons, +magazines and peanuts, that was Toddles—all +except his voice. Toddles had a voice that would make +you jump if you were nervous the minute he opened +the car door, and if you weren't nervous you would be +before he had reached the other end of the aisle—it +began low down somewhere on high G and went +through you shrill as an east wind, and ended like the +shriek of a brake-shoe with everything the Westinghouse<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span> +equipment had to offer cutting loose on a quick +stop.</p> + +<p>Hawkeye? That was what Toddles called his +beady-eyed conductor in retaliation. Hawkeye used +to nag Toddles every chance he got, and, being Toddles' +conductor, Hawkeye got a good many chances. +In a word, Hawkeye, carrying the punch on the local +passenger, that happened to be the run Toddles was +given when the News Company sent him out from the +East, used to think he got a good deal of fun out of +Toddles—only his idea of fun and Toddles' idea of +fun were as divergent as the poles, that was all.</p> + +<p>Toddles, however, wasn't anybody's fool, not by several +degrees—not even Hawkeye's. Toddles hated +Hawkeye like poison; and his hate, apart from daily +annoyances, was deep-seated. It was Hawkeye who +had dubbed him "Toddles." And Toddles repudiated +the name with his heart, his soul—and his fists.</p> + +<p>Toddles wasn't anybody's fool, whatever the division +thought, and he was right down to the basic +root of things from the start. Coupled with the +stunted growth that nature in a miserly mood had doled +out to him, none knew better than himself that the name +of "Toddles," keeping that nature stuff patently before +everybody's eyes, damned him in his aspirations +for a bona fide railroad career. Other boys got +a job and got their feet on the ladder as call-boys, or +in the roundhouse; Toddles got—a grin. Toddles +pestered everybody for a job. He pestered Carleton,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> +the super. He pestered Tommy Regan, the master +mechanic. Every time that he saw anybody in authority +Toddles spoke up for a job, he was in deadly +earnest—and got a grin. Toddles with a basket of +unripe fruit and stale chocolates and his "best-seller" +voice was one thing; but Toddles as anything else was +just—Toddles.</p> + +<p>Toddles repudiated the name, and did it forcefully. +Not that he couldn't take his share of a bit of guying, +but because he felt that he was face to face with a vital +factor in the career he longed for—so he fought. +And if nature had been niggardly in one respect, she +had been generous in others; Toddles, for all his size, +possessed the heart of a lion and the strength of a +young ox, and he used both, with black and bloody +effect, on the eyes and noses of the call-boys and +younger element who called him Toddles. He fought +it all along the line—at the drop of the hat—at a +whisper of "Toddles." There wasn't a day went by +that Toddles wasn't in a row; and the women, the +mothers of the defeated warriors whose eyes were +puffed and whose noses trickled crimson, denounced +him in virulent language over their washtubs and the +back fences of Big Cloud. You see, they didn't understand +him, so they called him a "bad one," and, being +from the East and not one of themselves, "a New +York gutter snipe."</p> + +<p>But, for all that, the name stuck. Up and down +through the Rockies it was—Toddles. Toddles, with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> +the idea of getting a lay-over on a siding, even went to +the extent of signing himself in full—Christopher +Hyslop Hoogan—every time his signature was in order; +but the official documents in which he was concerned, +being of a private nature between himself and +the News Company, did not, in the very nature of +things, have much effect on the Hill Division. Certainly +the big fellows never knew he had any name but +Toddles—and cared less. But they knew him as +Toddles, all right! All of them did, every last one +of them! Toddles was everlastingly and eternally +bothering them for a job. Any kind of a job, no matter +what, just so it was real railroading, and so a fellow +could line up with everybody else when the pay car +came along, and look forward to being something some +day.</p> + +<p>Toddles, with time, of course, grew older, up to +about seventeen or so, but he didn't grow any bigger—not +enough to make it noticeable! Even Toddles' +voice wouldn't break—it was his young heart that +did all the breaking there was done. Not that he ever +showed it. No one ever saw a tear in the boy's eyes. +It was clenched fists for Toddles, clenched fists and +passionate attack. And therein, while Toddles had +grasped the basic truth that his nickname militated +against his ambitions, he erred in another direction that +was equally fundamental, if not more so.</p> + +<p>And here, it was Bob Donkin, the night dispatcher, +as white a man as his record after years of train-handling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> +was white, a railroad man from the ground +up if there ever was one, and one of the best, who set +Toddles—but we'll come to that presently. We've +got our "clearance" now, and we're off with "rights" +through.</p> + +<p>No. 83, Hawkeye's train—and Toddles'—scheduled +Big Cloud on the eastbound run at 9.05; and, on +the night the story opens, they were about an hour +away from the little mountain town that was the divisional +point, as Toddles, his basket of edibles in the +crook of his arm, halted in the forward end of the +second-class smoker to examine again the fistful of +change that he dug out of his pants pocket with his +free hand.</p> + +<p>Toddles was in an unusually bad humor, and he +scowled. With exceeding deftness he separated one +of the coins from the others, using his fingers like the +teeth of a rake, and dropped the rest back jingling into +his pocket. The coin that remained he put into his +mouth, and bit on it—hard. His scowl deepened. +Somebody had presented Toddles with a lead quarter.</p> + +<p>It wasn't so much the quarter, though Toddles' salary +wasn't so big as some people's who would have felt +worse over it, it was his <i>amour propre</i> that was +touched—deeply. It wasn't often that any one could +put so bald a thing as lead money across on Toddles. +Toddles' mind harked back along the aisles of the cars +behind him. He had only made two sales that round, +and he had changed a quarter each time—for the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> +pretty girl with the big picture hat, who had giggled +at him when she bought a package of chewing gum; +and the man with the three-carat diamond tie-pin in +the parlor car, a little more than on the edge of inebriety, +who had got on at the last stop, and who had +bought a cigar from him.</p> + +<p>Toddles thought it over for a bit; decided he +wouldn't have a fuss with a girl anyway, balked at a +parlor car fracas with a drunk, dropped the coin back +into his pocket, and went on into the combination baggage +and express car. Here, just inside the door, was +Toddles', or, rather, the News Company's chest. Toddles +lifted the lid; and then his eyes shifted slowly and +traveled up the car. Things were certainly going +badly with Toddles that night.</p> + +<p>There were four men in the car: Bob Donkin, coming +back from a holiday trip somewhere up the line; +MacNicoll, the baggage-master; Nulty, the express +messenger—and Hawkeye. Toddles' inventory of +the contents of the chest had been hurried—but intimate. +A small bunch of six bananas was gone, and +Hawkeye was munching them unconcernedly. It +wasn't the first time the big, hulking, six-foot conductor +had pilfered the boy's chest, not by many—and +never paid for the pilfering. That was Hawkeye's +idea of a joke.</p> + +<p>Hawkeye was talking to Nulty, elaborately simulating +ignorance of Toddles' presence—and he was talking +about Toddles.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Sure," said Hawkeye, his mouth full of banana, +"he'll be a great railroad man some day! He's the +stuff they're made of! You can see it sticking out all +over him! He's only selling peanuts now till he grows +up and——"</p> + +<p>Toddles put down his basket and planted himself +before the conductor.</p> + +<p>"You pay for those bananas," said Toddles in a low +voice—which was high.</p> + +<p>"When'll he grow up?" continued Hawkeye, peeling +more fruit. "I don't know—you've got me. +The first time I saw him two years ago, I'm hanged if +he wasn't bigger than he is now—guess he grows +backwards. Have a banana?" He offered one to +Nulty, who refused it.</p> + +<p>"You pay for those bananas, you big stiff!" +squealed Toddles belligerently.</p> + +<p>Hawkeye turned his head slowly and turned his little +beady, black eyes on Toddles, then he turned with +a wink to the others, and for the first time in two years +offered payment. He fished into his pocket and +handed Toddles a twenty-dollar bill—there always +was a mean streak in Hawkeye, more or less of a bully, +none too well liked, and whose name on the pay roll, +by the way, was Reynolds.</p> + +<p>"Take fifteen cents out of that," he said, with no +idea that the boy could change the bill.</p> + +<p>For a moment Toddles glared at the yellow-back, +then a thrill of unholy glee came to Toddles. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> +could just about make it, business all around had been +pretty good that day, particularly on the run west in +the morning.</p> + +<p>Hawkeye went on with the exposition of his idea of +humor at Toddles' expense; and Toddles went back to +his chest and his reserve funds. Toddles counted out +eighteen dollars in bills, made a neat pile of four quarters—the +lead one on the bottom—another neat pile +of the odd change, and returned to Hawkeye. The +lead quarter wouldn't go very far toward liquidating +Hawkeye's long-standing indebtedness—but it would +help some.</p> + +<p>Queer, isn't it—the way things happen? Think of +a man's whole life, aspirations, hopes, ambitions, everything, +pivoting on—a lead quarter! But then they +say that opportunity knocks once at the door of every +man; and, if that be true, let it be remarked in passing +that Toddles wasn't deaf!</p> + +<p>Hawkeye, making Toddles a target for a parting +gibe, took up his lantern and started through the train +to pick up the fates from the last stop. In due course +he halted before the inebriated one with the glittering +tie-pin in the smoking compartment of the parlor +car.</p> + +<p>"Ticket, please," said Hawkeye.</p> + +<p>"Too busy to buysh ticket," the man informed him, +with heavy confidence. "Whash fare Loon Dam to +Big Cloud?"</p> + +<p>"One-fifty," said Hawkeye curtly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span></p> + +<p>The man produced a roll of bills, and from the roll +extracted a two-dollar note.</p> + +<p>Hawkeye handed him back two quarters, and started +to punch a cash-fare slip. He looked up to find the +man holding out one of the quarters insistently, if +somewhat unsteadily.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?" demanded Hawkeye +brusquely.</p> + +<p>"Bad," said the man.</p> + +<p>A drummer grinned; and an elderly gentleman, +from his magazine, looked up inquiringly over his spectacles.</p> + +<p>"Bad!" Hawkeye brought his elbow sharply around +to focus his lamp on the coin; then he leaned over and +rang it on the window sill—only it wouldn't ring. It +was indubitably bad. Hawkeye, however, was dealing +with a drunk—and Hawkeye always did have a mean +streak in him.</p> + +<p>"It's perfectly good," he asserted gruffly.</p> + +<p>The man rolled an eye at the conductor that mingled +a sudden shrewdness and anger, and appealed to his +fellow travelers. The verdict was against Hawkeye, +and Hawkeye ungraciously pocketed the lead piece and +handed over another quarter.</p> + +<p>"Shay," observed the inebriated one insolently, +"shay, conductor, I don't like you. You thought I +was—hic!—s'drunk I wouldn't know—eh? Thash +where you fooled yerself!"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" Hawkeye bridled virtuously<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> +for the benefit of the drummer and the old gentleman +with the spectacles.</p> + +<p>And then the other began to laugh immoderately.</p> + +<p>"Same ol' quarter," said he. "Same—hic!—ol' +quarter back again. Great system—peanut boy—conductor—hic! +Pass it off on one—other passes +it off on some one else. Just passed it off on—hic!—peanut +boy for a joke. Goin' to give him a dollar +when he comes back."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you did, did you!" snapped Hawkeye ominously. +"And you mean to insinuate that I deliberately +tried to——"</p> + +<p>"Sure!" declared the man heartily.</p> + +<p>"You're a liar!" announced Hawkeye, spluttering +mad. "And what's more, since it came from you, +you'll take it back!" He dug into his pocket for the +ubiquitous lead piece.</p> + +<p>"Not—hic!—on your life!" said the man earnestly. +"You hang on to it, old top. I didn't pass it +off on <i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>"Haw!" exploded the drummer suddenly. "Haw—haw, +haw!"</p> + +<p>And the elderly gentleman smiled.</p> + +<p>Hawkeye's face went red, and then purple.</p> + +<p>"Go 'way!" said the man petulantly. "I don't like +you. Go 'way! Go an' tell peanuts I—hic!—got a +dollar for him."</p> + +<p>And Hawkeye went—but Toddles never got the +dollar. Hawkeye went out of the smoking compartment<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> +of the parlor car with the lead quarter in his +pocket—because he couldn't do anything else—which +didn't soothe his feelings any—and he went out mad +enough to bite himself. The drummer's guffaw followed +him, and he thought he even caught a chuckle +from the elderly party with the magazine and spectacles.</p> + +<p>Hawkeye was mad; and he was quite well aware, +painfully well aware that he had looked like a fool, +which is about one of the meanest feelings there is to +feel; and, as he made his way forward through the +train, he grew madder still. That change was the +change from his twenty-dollar bill. He had not +needed to be told that the lead quarter had come from +Toddles. The only question at all in doubt was +whether or not Toddles had put the counterfeit coin +over on him knowingly and with malice aforethought. +Hawkeye, however, had an intuition deep down inside +of him that there wasn't any doubt even about that, +and as he opened the door of the baggage car his intuition +was vindicated. There was a grin on the faces +of Nulty, MacNicoll and Bob Donkin that disappeared +with suspicious celerity at sight of him as he came +through the door.</p> + +<p>There was no hesitation then on Hawkeye's part. +Toddles, equipped for another excursion through the +train with a stack of magazines and books that almost +hid him, received a sudden and vicious clout on the +side of the ear.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You'd try your tricks on me, would you?" +Hawkeye snarled. "Lead quarters—eh?" Another +clout. "I'll teach you, you blasted little runt!"</p> + +<p>And with the clouts, the stack of carefully balanced +periodicals went flying over the floor; and with the +clouts, the nagging, and the hectoring, and the bullying, +that had rankled for close on two years in Toddles' +turbulent soul, rose in a sudden all-possessing +sweep of fury. Toddles was a fighter—with the +heart of a fighter. And Toddles' cause was just. He +couldn't reach the conductor's face—so he went for +Hawkeye's legs. And the screams of rage from his +high-pitched voice, as he shot himself forward, sounded +like a cageful of Australian cockatoos on the rampage.</p> + +<p>Toddles was small, pitifully small for his age; but +he wasn't an infant in arms—not for a minute. And +in action Toddles was as near to a wild cat as anything +else that comes handy by way of illustration. Two +legs and one arm he twined and twisted around Hawkeye's +legs; and the other arm, with a hard and knotty +fist on the end of it, caught the conductor a wicked jab +in the region of the bottom button of the vest. The +brass button peeled the skin off Toddles' knuckles, but +the jab doubled the conductor forward, and coincident +with Hawkeye's winded grunt, the lantern in his hand +sailed ceilingwards, crashed into the center lamps in +the roof of the car, and down in a shower of tinkling +glass, dripping oil and burning wicks, came the wreckage +to the floor.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was a yell from Nulty; but Toddles hung on +like grim death. Hawkeye was bawling fluent profanity +and seeing red. Toddles heard one and sensed +the other—and he clung grimly on. He was all doubled +up around Hawkeye's knees, and in that position +Hawkeye couldn't get at him very well; and, besides, +Toddles had his own plan of battle. He was waiting +for an extra heavy lurch of the car.</p> + +<p>It came. Toddles' muscles strained legs and arms +and back in concert, and for an instant across the car +they tottered, Hawkeye staggering in a desperate attempt +to maintain his equilibrium—and then down—speaking +generally, on a heterogeneous pile of express +parcels; concretely, with an eloquent squnch, on a +crate of eggs, thirty dozen of them, at forty cents a +dozen.</p> + +<p>Toddles, over his rage, experienced a sickening sense +of disaster, but still he clung; he didn't dare let go. +Hawkeye's fists, both in an effort to recover himself +and in an endeavor to reach Toddles, were going like +a windmill; and Hawkeye's threats were something +terrifying to listen to. And now they rolled over, and +Toddles was underneath; and then they rolled over +again; and then a hand locked on Toddles' collar, and +he was yanked, terrier-fashion, to his feet.</p> + +<p>His face white and determined, his fists doubled, +Toddles waited for Hawkeye to get up—the word +"run" wasn't in Toddles' vocabulary. He hadn't +long to wait.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p> + +<p>Hawkeye lunged up, draped in the broken crate—a +sight. The road always prided itself on the natty +uniforms of its train crews, but Hawkeye wasn't +dressed in uniform then—mostly egg yolks. He +made a dash for Toddles, but he never reached the boy. +Bob Donkin was between them.</p> + +<p>"Cut it out!" said Donkin coldly, as he pushed +Toddles behind him. "You asked for it, Reynolds, +and you got it. Now cut it out!"</p> + +<p>And Hawkeye "cut it out." It was pretty generally +understood that Bob Donkin never talked much +for show, and Bob Donkin was bigger than Toddles, a +whole lot bigger, as big as Hawkeye himself. Hawkeye +"cut it out."</p> + +<p>Funny, the egg part of it? Well, perhaps. But +the fire wasn't. True, they got it out with the help of +the hand extinguishers before it did any serious damage, +for Nulty had gone at it on the jump; but while +it lasted the burning oil on the car floor looked dangerous. +Anyway, it was bad enough so that they +couldn't hide it when they got into Big Cloud—and +Hawkeye and Toddles went on the carpet for it the +next morning in the super's office.</p> + +<p>Carleton, "Royal" Carleton, reached for a match, +and, to keep his lips straight, clamped them firmly on +the amber mouthpiece of his brier, and stumpy, big-paunched +Tommy Regan, the master mechanic, who +was sitting in a chair by the window, reached hurriedly +into his back pocket for his chewing and looked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span> +out of the window to hide a grin, as the two came in +and ranged themselves in front of the super's desk—Hawkeye, +six feet and a hundred and ninety pounds, +with Toddles trailing him, mostly cap and buttons and +no weight at all.</p> + +<p>Carleton didn't ask many questions—he'd asked +them before—of Bob Donkin—and the dispatcher +hadn't gone out of his way to invest the conductor with +any glorified halo. Carleton, always a strict disciplinarian, +said what he had to say and said it quietly; +but he meant to let the conductor have the worst of it, +and he did—in a way that was all Carleton's own. +Two years' picking on a youngster didn't appeal to +Carleton, no matter who the youngster was. Before +he was half through he had the big conductor squirming. +Hawkeye was looking for something else—besides +a galling and matter-of-fact impartiality that accepted +himself and Toddles as being on exactly the +same plane and level.</p> + +<p>"There's a case of eggs," said Carleton at the end. +"You can divide up the damage between you. And +I'm going to change your runs, unless you've got some +good reason to give me why I shouldn't?"</p> + +<p>He waited for an answer.</p> + +<p>Hawkeye, towering, sullen, his eyes resting bitterly +on Regan, having caught the master mechanic's grin, +said nothing; Toddles, whose head barely showed over +the top of Carleton's desk, and the whole of him sizing +up about big enough to go into the conductor's pocket,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span> +was equally silent—Toddles was thinking of something +else.</p> + +<p>"Very good," said Carleton suavely, as he surveyed +the ridiculous incongruity before him. "I'll change +your runs, then. I can't have you two <i>men</i> brawling +and prize-fighting every trip."</p> + +<p>There was a sudden sound from the window, as +though Regan had got some of his blackstrap juice +down the wrong way.</p> + +<p>Hawkeye's face went black as thunder.</p> + +<p>Carleton's face was like a sphinx.</p> + +<p>"That'll do, then," he said. "You can go, both of +you."</p> + +<p>Hawkeye stamped out of the room and down the +stairs. But Toddles stayed.</p> + +<p>"Please, Mr. Carleton, won't you give me a job +on——" Toddles stopped.</p> + +<p>So had Regan's chuckle. Toddles, the irrepressible, +was at it again—and Toddles after a job, any kind +of a job, was something that Regan's experience had +taught him to fly from without standing on the order +of his flight. Regan hurried from the room.</p> + +<p>Toddles watched him go—kind of speculatively, +kind of reproachfully. Then he turned to Carleton.</p> + +<p>"Please give me a job, Mr. Carleton," he pleaded. +"Give me a job, won't you?"</p> + +<p>It was only yesterday on the platform that Toddles +had waylaid the super with the same demand—and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span> +about every day before that as far back as Carleton +could remember. It was hopelessly chronic. Anything +convincing or appealing about it had gone long +ago—Toddles said it parrot-fashion now. Carleton +took refuge in severity.</p> + +<p>"See here, young man," he said grimly, "you were +brought into this office for a reprimand and not to +apply for a job! You can thank your stars and Bob +Donkin you haven't lost the one you've got. Now, get +out!"</p> + +<p>"I'd make good if you gave me one," said Toddles +earnestly. "Honest, I would, Mr. Carleton."</p> + +<p>"Get out!" said the super, not altogether unkindly. +"I'm busy."</p> + +<p>Toddles swallowed a lump in his throat—but not +until after his head was turned and he'd started for the +door so the super couldn't see it. Toddles swallowed +the lump—and got out. He hadn't expected anything +else, of course. The refusals were just as chronic as +the demands. But that didn't make each new one any +easier for Toddles. It made it worse.</p> + +<p>Toddles' heart was heavy as he stepped out into the +hall, and the iron was in his soul. He was seventeen +now, and it looked as though he never would get a +chance—except to be a newsboy all his life. Toddles +swallowed another lump. He loved railroading; it +was his one ambition, his one desire. If he could ever +get a chance, he'd show them! He'd show them that +he wasn't a joke, just because he was small!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span></p> + +<p>Toddles turned at the head of the stairs to go down, +when somebody called his name.</p> + +<p>"Here—Toddles! Come here!"</p> + +<p>Toddles looked over his shoulder, hesitated, then +marched in through the open door of the dispatchers' +room. Bob Donkin was alone there.</p> + +<p>"What's your name—Toddles?" inquired Donkin, +as Toddles halted before the dispatcher's table.</p> + +<p>Toddles froze instantly—hard. His fists doubled; +there was a smile on Donkin's face. Then his fists +slowly uncurled; the smile on Donkin's face had +broadened, but there wasn't any malice in the smile.</p> + +<p>"Christopher Hyslop Hoogan," said Toddles, unbending.</p> + +<p>Donkin put his hand quickly to his mouth—and +coughed.</p> + +<p>"Um-m!" said he pleasantly. "Super hard on you +this morning—Hoogan?"</p> + +<p>And with the words Toddles' heart went out to the +big dispatcher: "Hoogan"—and a man-to-man tone.</p> + +<p>"No," said Toddles cordially. "Say, I thought you +were on the night trick."</p> + +<p>"Double-shift—short-handed," replied Donkin. +"Come from New York, don't you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Toddles.</p> + +<p>"Mother and father down there still?"</p> + +<p>It came quick and unexpected, and Toddles stared +for a moment. Then he walked over to the window.</p> + +<p>"I haven't got any," he said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p> + +<p>There wasn't any sound for an instant, save the +clicking of the instruments; then Donkin spoke again—a +little gruffly:</p> + +<p>"When are you going to quit making a fool of +yourself?"</p> + +<p><ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Toodles'">Toddles</ins> swung from the window, hurt. Donkin, +after all, was like all the rest of them.</p> + +<p>"Well?" prompted the dispatcher.</p> + +<p>"You go to blazes!" said Toddles bitterly, and +started for the door.</p> + +<p>Donkin halted him.</p> + +<p>"You're only fooling yourself, Hoogan," he said +coolly. "If you wanted what you call a real railroad +job as much as you pretend you do, you'd get one."</p> + +<p>"Eh?" demanded Toddles defiantly; and went back +to the table.</p> + +<p>"A fellow," said Donkin, putting a little sting into +his words, "never got anywhere by going around with +a chip on his shoulder fighting everybody because they +called him Toddles, and making a nuisance of himself +with the Big Fellows until they got sick of the sight of +him."</p> + +<p>It was a pretty stiff arraignment. Toddles choked +over it, and the angry blood flushed to his cheeks.</p> + +<p>"That's all right for you!" he spluttered out hotly. +"You don't look too small for the train crews or the +roundhouse, and they don't call you Toddles so's nobody'll +forget it. What'd <i>you</i> do?"</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you what I'd do," said Donkin quietly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> +"I'd make everybody on the division wish their own +name was Toddles before I was through with them, +and I'd <i>make</i> a job for myself."</p> + +<p>Toddles blinked helplessly.</p> + +<p>"Getting right down to a cash fare," continued Donkin, +after a moment, as Toddles did not speak, "they're +not so far wrong, either, about you sizing up pretty +small for the train crews or the roundhouse, are they?"</p> + +<p>"No-o," admitted Toddles reluctantly; "but——"</p> + +<p>"Then why not something where there's no handicap +hanging over you?" suggested the dispatcher—and +his hand reached out and touched the sender. +"The key, for instance?"</p> + +<p>"But I don't know anything about it," said Toddles, +still helplessly.</p> + +<p>"That's just it," returned Donkin smoothly. "You +never tried to learn."</p> + +<p>Toddles' eyes widened, and into Toddles' heart +leaped a sudden joy. A new world seemed to open out +before him in which aspirations, ambitions, longings all +were a reality. A key! That <i>was</i> real railroading, +the top-notch of railroading, too. First an operator, +and then a dispatcher, and—and—and then his face +fell, and the vision faded.</p> + +<p>"How'd I get a chance to learn?" he said miserably. +"Who'd teach me?"</p> + +<p>The smile was back on Donkin's face as he pushed +his chair from the table, stood up, and held out his +hand—man-to-man fashion.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I will," he said. "I liked your grit last night, +Hoogan. And if you want to be a railroad man, I'll +make you one—before I'm through. I've some old +instruments you can have to practice with, and I've +nothing to do in my spare time. What do you say?"</p> + +<p>Toddles didn't say anything. For the first time +since Toddles' advent to the Hill Division, there were +tears in Toddles' eyes for some one else to see.</p> + +<p>Donkin laughed.</p> + +<p>"All right, old man, you're on. See that you don't +throw me down. And keep your mouth shut; you'll +need all your wind. It's work that counts, and nothing +else. Now chase yourself! I'll dig up the things +you'll need, and you can drop in here and get them +when you come off your run to-night."</p> + +<p>Spare time! Bob Donkin didn't have any spare +time those days! But that was Donkin's way. +Spence sick, and two men handling the dispatching +where three had handled it before, didn't leave Bob +Donkin much spare time—not much. But a boost for +the kid was worth a sacrifice. Donkin went at it as +earnestly as Toddles did—and Toddles was in deadly +earnest.</p> + +<p>When Toddles left the dispatcher's office that morning +with Donkin's promise to teach him the key, Toddles +had a hazy idea that Donkin had wings concealed +somewhere under his coat and was an angel in disguise; +and at the end of two weeks he was sure of it. +But at the end of a month Bob Donkin was a god!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span> +Throw Bob Donkin down! Toddles would have sold +his soul for the dispatcher.</p> + +<p>It wasn't easy, though; and Bob Donkin wasn't an +easy-going taskmaster, not by long odds. Donkin had +a tongue, and on occasions could use it. Short and +quick in his explanations, he expected his pupil to get +it short and quick; either that, or Donkin's opinion of +him. But Toddles stuck. He'd have crawled on his +knees for Donkin anywhere, and he worked like a +major—not only for his own advancement, but for +what he came to prize quite as much, if not more, +Donkin's approval.</p> + +<p>Toddles, mindful of Donkin's words, didn't fight +so much as the days went by, though he found it difficult +to swear off all at once; and on his runs he studied +his Morse code, and he had the "calls" of every station +on the division off by heart right from the start. Toddles +mastered the "sending" by leaps and bounds; but +the "taking" came slower, as it does for everybody—but +even at that, at the end of six weeks, if it wasn't +thrown at him too fast and hard, Toddles could get it +after a fashion.</p> + +<p>Take it all around, Toddles felt like whistling most +of the time; and, pleased with his own progress, looked +forward to starting in presently as a full-fledged operator.</p> + +<p>He mentioned the matter to Bob Donkin—once. +Donkin picked his words and spoke fervently. Toddles +never brought the subject up again.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span></p> + +<p>And so things went on. Late summer turned to +early fall, and early fall to still sharper weather, until +there came the night that the operator at Blind River +muddled his orders and gave No. 73, the westbound +fast freight, her clearance against the second section +of the eastbound Limited that doomed them to meet +somewhere head-on in the Glacier Cañon; the night that +Toddles—but there's just a word or two that comes +before.</p> + +<p>When it was all over, it was up to Sam Beale, the +Blind River operator, straight enough. Beale blundered. +That's all there was to it; that covers it all—he +blundered. It would have finished Beale's railroad +career forever and a day—only Beale played the man, +and the instant he realized what he had done, even +while the tail lights of the freight were disappearing +down the track and he couldn't stop her, he was stammering +the tale of his mistake over the wire, the sweat +beads dripping from his wrist, his face gray with horror, +to Bob Donkin under the green-shaded lamp in +the dispatchers' room at Big Cloud, miles away.</p> + +<p>Donkin got the miserable story over the chattering +wire—got it before it was half told—cut Beale out +and began to pound the Gap call. And as though it +were before him in reality, that stretch of track, fifteen +miles of it, from Blind River to the Gap, unfolded itself +like a grisly panorama before his mind. There +wasn't a half mile of tangent at a single stretch in the +whole of it. It swung like the writhings of a snake,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span> +through cuts and tunnels, hugging the cañon walls, +twisting this way and that. Anywhere else there +might be a chance, one in a thousand even, that they +would see each other's headlights in time—here it was +disaster quick and absolute.</p> + +<p>Donkin's lips were set in a thin, straight line. The +Gap answered him; and the answer was like the knell +of doom. He had not expected anything else; he had +only hoped against hope. The second section of the +Limited had pulled out of the Gap, eastbound, two minutes +before. The two trains were in the open against +each other's orders.</p> + +<p>In the next room, Carleton and Regan, over their +pipes, were at their nightly game of pedro. Donkin +called them—and his voice sounded strange to himself. +Chairs scraped and crashed to the floor, and an +instant later the super and the master mechanic were +in the room.</p> + +<p>"What's wrong, Bob?" Carleton flung the words +from him in a single breath.</p> + +<p>Donkin told them. But his fingers were on the key +again as he talked. There was still one chance, worse +than the thousand-to-one shot; but it was the only one. +Between the Gap and Blind River, eight miles from the +Gap, seven miles from Blind River, was Cassil's Siding. +But there was no night man at Cassil's, and the +little town lay a mile from the station. It was ten +o'clock—Donkin's watch lay face up on the table +before him—the day man at Cassil's went off at seven—the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span> +chance was that the day man <i>might</i> have come +back to the station for something or other!</p> + +<p>Not much of a chance? No—not much! It was +a possibility, that was all; and Donkin's fingers worked—the +seventeen, the life and death—calling, calling +on the night trick to the day man at Cassil's Siding.</p> + +<p>Carleton came and stood at Donkin's elbow, and +Regan stood at the other; and there was silence now, +save only for the key that, under Donkin's fingers, +seemed to echo its stammering appeal about the room +like the sobbing of a human soul.</p> + +<p>"CS—CS—CS," Donkin called; and then, "the +seventeen," and then, "hold second Number Two." +And then the same thing over and over again.</p> + +<p>And there was no answer.</p> + +<p>It had turned cold that night and there was a fire in +the little heater. Donkin had opened the draft a little +while before, and the sheet-iron sides now began to <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'pur'">purr</ins> +red-hot. Nobody noticed it. Regan's kindly, good-humored +face had the stamp of horror in it, and he +pulled at his scraggly brown mustache, his eyes seemingly +fascinated by Donkin's fingers. Everybody's +eyes, the three of them, were on Donkin's fingers and +the key. Carleton was like a man of stone, motionless, +his face set harder than face was ever carved +in marble.</p> + +<p>It grew hot in the room; but Donkin's fingers were +like ice on the key, and, strong man though he was, +he faltered.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, my God!" he whispered—and never a +prayer rose more fervently from lips than those three +broken words.</p> + +<p>Again he called, and again, and again. The minutes +slipped away. Still he called—with the life +and death—the "seventeen"—called and called. +And there was no answer save that echo in the room +that brought the perspiration streaming down from +Regan's face, a harder light into Carleton's eyes +and a chill like death into Donkin's heart.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Donkin pushed back his chair; and his +fingers, from the key, touched the crystal of his watch.</p> + +<p>"The second section will have passed Cassil's now," +he said in a curious, unnatural, matter-of-fact tone. +"It'll bring them together about a mile east of there—in +another minute."</p> + +<p>And then Carleton spoke—master railroader, +"Royal" Carleton, it was up to him then, all the +pity of it, the ruin, the disaster, the lives out, all the +bitterness to cope with as he could. And it was in his +eyes, all of it. But his voice was quiet. It rang +quick, peremptory, his voice—but quiet.</p> + +<p>"Clear the line, Bob," he said. "Plug in the +round-house for the wrecker—and tell them to send +uptown for the crew."</p> + +<p>Toddles? What did Toddles have to do with this? +Well, a good deal, in one way and another. We're +coming to Toddles now. You see, Toddles, since +his fracas with Hawkeye, had been put on the Elk<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> +River local run that left Big Cloud at 9.45 in the morning +for the run west, and scheduled Big Cloud again +on the return trip at 10.10 in the evening.</p> + +<p>It had turned cold that night, after a day of rain. +Pretty cold—the thermometer can drop on occasions +in the late fall in the mountains—and by eight +o'clock, where there had been rain before, there was +now a thin sheeting of ice over everything—very +thin—you know the kind—rails and telegraph +wires glistening like the decorations on a Christmas +tree—very pretty—and also very nasty running +on a mountain grade. Likewise, the rain, in a way +rain has, had dripped from the car roofs to the platforms—the +local did not boast any closed vestibules—and +had also been blown upon the car steps with +the sweep of the wind, and, having frozen, it stayed +there. Not a very serious matter; annoying, perhaps, +but not serious, demanding a little extra caution, that +was all.</p> + +<p>Toddles was in high fettle that night. He had been +getting on famously of late; even Bob Donkin had admitted +it. Toddles, with his stack of books and +magazines, an unusually big one, for a number of the +new periodicals were out that day, was dreaming rosy +dreams to himself as he started from the door of the +first-class smoker to the door of the first-class coach. +In another hour now he'd be up in the dispatcher's +room at Big Cloud for his nightly sitting with Bob +Donkin. He could see Bob Donkin there now; and he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> +could hear the big dispatcher growl at him in his bluff +way: "Use your head—use your head—<i>Hoogan!</i>" +It was always "Hoogan," never "Toddles." "Use +your head"—Donkin was everlastingly drumming +that into him; for the dispatcher used to confront him +suddenly with imaginary and hair-raising emergencies, +and demand Toddles' instant solution. Toddles +realized that Donkin was getting to the heart of things, +and that some day he, Toddles, would be a great dispatcher—like +Donkin. "Use your head, Hoogan"—that's +the way Donkin talked—"anybody can learn +a key, but that doesn't make a railroad man +think quick and think <i>right</i>. Use your——"</p> + +<p>Toddles stepped out on the platform—and walked +on ice. But that wasn't Toddles' undoing. The +trouble with Toddles was that he was walking on air +at the same time. It was treacherous running, they +were nosing a curve, and in the cab, Kinneard, at the +throttle, checked with a little jerk at the "air." And +with the jerk, Toddles slipped; and with the slip, the +center of gravity of the stack of periodicals shifted, +and they bulged ominously from the middle. Toddles +grabbed at them—and his heels went out from under +him. He ricocheted down the steps, snatched desperately +at the handrail, missed it, shot out from the +train, and, head, heels, arms and body going every +which way at once, rolled over and over down the embankment. +And, starting from the point of Toddles' +departure from the train, the right of way for a hundred<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> +yards was strewn with "the latest magazines" +and "new books just out to-day."</p> + +<p>Toddles lay there, a little, curled, huddled heap, +motionless in the darkness. The tail lights of the +local disappeared. No one aboard would miss Toddles +until they got into Big Cloud—and found him +gone. Which is Irish for saying that no one would +attempt to keep track of a newsboy's idiosyncrasies +on a train; it would be asking too much of any train +crew; and, besides, there was no mention of it in the +rules.</p> + +<p>It was a long while before Toddles stirred; a very +long while before consciousness crept slowly back to +him. Then he moved, tried to get up—and fell back +with a quick, sharp cry of pain. He lay still, then, for +a moment. His ankle hurt him frightfully, and his +back, and his shoulder, too. He put his hand to his +face where something seemed to be trickling warm—and +brought it away wet. Toddles, grim little warrior, +tried to think. They hadn't been going very fast +when he fell off. If they had, he would have been +killed. As it was, he was hurt, badly hurt, and his +head swam, nauseating him.</p> + +<p>Where was he? Was he near any help? He'd +have to get help somewhere, or—or with the cold +and—and everything he'd probably die out here before +morning. Toddles shouted out—again and +again. Perhaps his voice was too weak to carry very +far; anyway, there was no reply.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span></p> + +<p>He looked up at the top of the embankment, clamped +his teeth, and started to crawl. If he got up there, +perhaps he could tell where he was. It had taken +Toddles a matter of seconds to roll down; it took him +ten minutes of untold agony to get up. Then he dashed +his hand across his eyes where the blood was, and +cried a little with the surge of relief. East, down the +track, only a few yards away, the green eye of a switch +lamp winked at him.</p> + +<p>Where there was a switch lamp there was a siding, +and where there was a siding there was promise of +a station. Toddles, with the sudden uplift upon him, +got to his feet and started along the track—two steps—and +went down again. He couldn't walk, the pain +was more than he could bear—his right ankle, his +left shoulder, and his back—hopping only made it +worse—it was easier to crawl.</p> + +<p>And so Toddles crawled.</p> + +<p>It took him a long time even to pass the switch light. +The pain made him weak, his senses seemed to trail off +giddily every now and then, and he'd find himself +lying flat and still beside the track. It was a white, +drawn face that Toddles lifted up each time he started +on again—miserably white, except where the +blood kept trickling from his forehead.</p> + +<p>And then Toddles' heart, stout as it was, seemed to +snap. He had reached the station platform, wondering +vaguely why the little building that loomed ahead +was dark—and now it came to him in a flash, as he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span> +recognized the station. It was Cassil's Siding—<i>and +there was no night man at Cassil's Siding!</i> The +switch lights were lighted before the day man left, of +course. Everything swam before Toddles' eyes. +There—there was no help here. And yet—yet perhaps—desperate +hope came again—perhaps there +might be. The pain was terrible—all over him. +And—and he'd got so weak now—but it wasn't far +to the door.</p> + +<p>Toddles squirmed along the platform, and reached +the door finally—only to find it shut and fastened. +And then Toddles fainted on the threshold.</p> + +<p>When Toddles came to himself again, he thought +at first that he was up in the dispatcher's room at Big +Cloud with Bob Donkin pounding away on the battered +old key they used to practice with—only there +seemed to be something the matter with the key, and +it didn't sound as loud as it usually did—it seemed +to come from a long way off somehow. And then, +besides, Bob was working it faster than he had ever +done before when they were practicing. "Hold second"—second +something—Toddles couldn't make +it out. Then the "seventeen"—yes, he knew that—that +was the life and death. Bob was going pretty +quick, though. Then "CS—CS—CS"—Toddles' +brain fumbled a bit over that—then it came to +him. CS was the call for Cassil's Siding. <i>Cassil's +Siding!</i> Toddles' head came up with a jerk.</p> + +<p>A little cry burst from Toddles' lips—and his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> +brain cleared. He wasn't at Big Cloud at all—he +was at Cassil's Siding—and he was hurt—and that +was the sounder inside calling, calling frantically for +Cassil's Siding—where he was.</p> + +<p>The life and death—<i>the seventeen</i>—it sent a +thrill through Toddles' pain-twisted spine. He wriggled +to the window. It, too, was closed, of course, +but he could hear better there. The sounder was babbling +madly.</p> + +<p>"Hold second——"</p> + +<p>He missed it again—and as, on top of it, the "seventeen" +came pleading, frantic, urgent, he wrung his +hands.</p> + +<p>"Hold second"—he got it this time—"Number +Two."</p> + +<p>Toddles' first impulse was to smash in the window +and reach the key. And then, like a dash of cold +water over him, Donkin's words seemed to ring in his +ears: "Use your head."</p> + +<p>With the "seventeen" it meant a matter of minutes, +perhaps even seconds. Why smash the window? +Why waste the moment required to do it simply to +answer the call? The order stood for itself—"Hold +second Number Two." That was the second section +of the Limited, east-bound. Hold her! How? +There was nothing—not a thing to stop her with. +"Use your head," said Donkin in a far-away voice +to Toddles' wobbling brain.</p> + +<p>Toddles looked up the track—west—where he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span> +had come from—to where the switch light twinkled +green at him—and, with a little sob, he started to +drag himself back along the platform. If he could +throw the switch, it would throw the light from green +to red, and—and the Limited would take the siding. +But the switch was a long way off.</p> + +<p>Toddles half fell, half bumped from the end of the +platform to the right of way. He cried to himself +with low moans as he went along. He had the heart +of a fighter, and grit to the last tissue; but he needed +it all now—needed it all to stand the pain and fight +the weakness that kept swirling over him in flashes.</p> + +<p>On he went, on his hands and knees, slithering from +tie to tie—and from one tie to the next was a great +distance. The life and death, the dispatcher's call—he +seemed to hear it yet—throbbing, throbbing on +the wire.</p> + +<p>On he went, up the track; and the green eye of the +lamp, winking at him, drew nearer. And then suddenly, +clear and mellow through the mountains, caught +up and echoed far and near, came the notes of a chime +whistle ringing down the gorge.</p> + +<p>Fear came upon Toddles then, and a great sob shook +him. That was the Limited coming now! Toddles' +fingers dug into the ballast, and he hurried—that is, +in bitter pain, he tried to crawl a little faster. And as +he crawled, he kept his eyes strained up the track—she +wasn't in sight yet around the curve—not yet, +anyway.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span></p> + +<p>Another foot, only another foot, and he would +reach the siding switch—in time—in plenty of time. +Again the sob—but now in a burst of relief that, for +the moment, made him forget his hurts. He was in +time!</p> + +<p>He flung himself at the switch lever, tugged upon it +and then, trembling, every ounce of remaining +strength seeming to ooze from him, he covered his face +with his hands. It was <i>locked</i>—padlocked.</p> + +<p>Came a rumble now—a distant roar, growing louder +and louder, reverberating down the cañon walls—louder +and louder—nearer and nearer. "Hold second +Number Two. Hold second Number Two"—the +"seventeen," the life and death, pleading with him +to hold Number Two. And she was coming now, +coming—and—and—the switch was locked. The +deadly nausea racked Toddles again; there was nothing +to do now—nothing. He couldn't stop her—couldn't +stop her. He'd—he'd tried—very hard—and—and +he couldn't stop her now. He took his +hands from his face, and stole a glance up the track, +afraid almost, with the horror that was upon him, to +look.</p> + +<p>She hadn't swung the curve yet, but she would +in a minute—and come pounding down the stretch +at fifty miles an hour, shoot by him like a rocket to +where, somewhere ahead, in some form, he did not +know what, only knew that it was there, death and +ruin and—<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>"<i>Use your head!</i>" snapped Donkin's voice to his +consciousness.</p> + +<p>Toddles' eyes were on the light above his head. It +blinked <i>red</i> at him as he stood on the track facing it; +the green rays were shooting up and down the line. +He couldn't swing the switch—but the <i>lamp</i> was +there—and there was the red side to show just by +turning it. He remembered then that the lamp fitted +into a socket at the top of the switch stand, and could +be lifted off—if he could reach it!</p> + +<p>It wasn't very high—for an ordinary-sized man—for +an ordinary-sized man had to get at it to trim and +fill it daily—only Toddles wasn't an ordinary-sized +man. It was just nine or ten feet above the rails—just +a standard siding switch.</p> + +<p>Toddles gritted his teeth, and climbed upon the base +of the switch—and nearly fainted as his ankle swung +against the rod. A foot above the base was a footrest +for a man to stand on and reach up for the lamp, and +Toddles drew himself up and got his foot on it—and +then at his full height the tips of his fingers only just +touched the bottom of the lamp. Toddles cried aloud, +and the tears streamed down his face now. Oh, if +he weren't hurt—if he could only shin up another +foot—but—but it was all he could do to hang there +where he was.</p> + +<p><i>What was that!</i> He turned his head. Up the +track, sweeping in a great circle as it swung the curve, +a headlight's glare cut through the night—and Toddles<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span> +"shinned" the foot. He tugged and tore at the +lamp, tugged and tore at it, loosened it, lifted it from +its socket, sprawled and wriggled with it to the ground—and +turned the red side of the lamp against second +Number Two.</p> + +<p>The quick, short blasts of a whistle answered, then +the crunch and grind and scream of biting brake-shoes—and +the big mountain racer, the 1012, pulling the +second section of the Limited that night, stopped with +its pilot nosing a diminutive figure in a torn and silver-buttoned +uniform, whose hair was clotted red, and +whose face was covered with blood and dirt.</p> + +<p>Masters, the engineer, and Pete Leroy, his fireman, +swung from the gangways; Kelly, the conductor, came +running up from the forward coach.</p> + +<p>Kelly shoved his lamp into Toddles' face—and +whistled low under his breath.</p> + +<p>"Toddles!" he gasped; and then, quick as a steel +trap: "What's wrong?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Toddles weakly. "There's—there's +something wrong. Get into the clear—on +the siding."</p> + +<p>"Something wrong," repeated Kelly, "and you +don't——"</p> + +<p>But Masters cut the conductor short with a grab at +the other's arm that was like the shutting of a vise—and +then bolted for his engine like a gopher for its +hole. From down the track came the heavy, grumbling +roar of a freight. Everybody flew then, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span> +there was quick work done in the next half minute—and +none too quickly done—the Limited was no more +than on the siding when the fast freight rolled her long +string of flats, boxes and gondolas thundering by.</p> + +<p>And while she passed, Toddles, on the platform, +stammered out his story to Kelly.</p> + +<p>Kelly didn't say anything—then. With the express +messenger and a brakeman carrying Toddles, +Kelly kicked in the station door, and set his lamp down +on the operator's table.</p> + +<p>"Hold me up," whispered Toddles—and, while +they held him, he made the dispatcher's call.</p> + +<p>Big Cloud answered him on the instant. Haltingly, +Toddles reported the second section "in" and the +freight "out"—only he did it very slowly, and he +couldn't think very much more, for things were going +black. He got an order for the Limited to run to +Blind River and told Kelly, and got the "complete"—and +then Big Cloud asked who was on the wire, and +Toddles answered that in a mechanical sort of a way +without quite knowing what he was doing—and went +limp in Kelly's arms.</p> + +<p>And as Toddles answered, back in Big Cloud, Regan, +the sweat still standing out in great beads on his +forehead, fierce now in the revulsion of relief, glared +over Donkin's left shoulder, as Donkin's left hand +scribbled on a pad what was coming over the wire.</p> + +<p>Regan glared fiercely—then he spluttered:</p> + +<p>"Who's Christopher Hyslop Hoogan—h'm?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span></p> + +<p>Donkin's lips had a queer smile on them.</p> + +<p>"Toddles," he said.</p> + +<p>Regan sat down heavily in his chair.</p> + +<p>"<i>What?</i>" demanded the super.</p> + +<p>"Toddles," said Donkin. "I've been trying to +drum a little railroading into him—on the key."</p> + +<p>Regan wiped his face. He looked helplessly from +Donkin to the super, and then back again at Donkin.</p> + +<p>"But—but what's he doing at Cassil's Siding? +How'd he get there—h'm? H'm? How'd he get +there?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Donkin, his fingers rattling +the Cassil's Siding call again. "He doesn't answer +any more. We'll have to wait for the story till they +make Blind River, I guess."</p> + +<p>And so they waited. And presently at Blind River, +Kelly, dictating to the operator—not Beale, Beale's +day man—told the story. It lost nothing in the telling—Kelly +wasn't that kind of man—he told them +what Toddles had done, and he left nothing out; and +he added that they had Toddles on a mattress +in the baggage car, with a doctor they had discovered +amongst the passengers looking after him.</p> + +<p>At the end, Carleton tamped down the dottle in the +bowl of his pipe thoughtfully with his forefinger—and +glanced at Donkin.</p> + +<p>"Got along far enough to take a station key somewhere?" +he inquired casually. "He's made a pretty +good job of it as the night operator at Cassil's."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span></p> + +<p>Donkin was smiling.</p> + +<p>"Not yet," he said.</p> + +<p>"No?" Carleton's eyebrows went up. "Well, +let him come in here with you, then, till he has; and +when you say he's ready, we'll see what we can do. I +guess it's coming to him; and I guess"—he shifted +his glance to the master mechanic—"I guess we'll go +down and meet Number Two when she comes in, +Tommy."</p> + +<p>Regan grinned.</p> + +<p>"With our hats in our hands," said the big-hearted +master mechanic.</p> + +<p>Donkin shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Don't you do it," he said. "I don't want him to +get a swelled head."</p> + +<p>Carleton stared; and Regan's hand, reaching into +his back pocket for his chewing, stopped midway.</p> + +<p>Donkin was still smiling.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to make a railroad man out of Toddles," +he said.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i268.png" width="500" height="197" alt="Lumber Camp" title="Lumber Camp" /> +</div> + + +<h2>XI.—Christmas Eve in a Lumber Camp<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></h2> + +<h3><i>By Ralph Connor</i></h3> + + +<div class='cap'>IT was due to a mysterious dispensation of Providence +and a good deal to Leslie Graeme that I +found myself in the heart of the Selkirks for my +Christmas eve as the year 1882 was dying. It had +been my plan to spend my Christmas far away in +Toronto, with such bohemian and boon companions +as could be found in that cosmopolitan and kindly +city. But Leslie Graeme changed all that, for, discovering +me in the village of Black Rock, with my +traps all packed, waiting for the stage to start for the +Landing, thirty miles away, he bore down upon me +with resistless force, and I found myself recovering +from my surprise only after we had gone in his lumber +sleigh some six miles on our way to his camp up +in the mountains. I was surprised and much delighted, +though I would not allow him to think so, to +find that his old-time power over me was still there. +He could always in the old varsity days—dear, wild<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span> +days—make me do what he liked. He was so handsome +and so reckless, brilliant in his class work, and +the prince of half backs on the Rugby field, and with +such power of fascination as would "extract the heart +out of a wheelbarrow," as Barney Lundy used to say. +And thus it was that I found myself just three weeks +later—I was to have spent two or three days—on +the afternoon of December 24, standing in Graeme's +Lumber Camp No. 2, wondering at myself. But I +did not regret my changed plans, for in those three +weeks I had raided a cinnamon bear's den and had +wakened up a grizzly—— But I shall let the grizzly +finish the tale; he probably sees more humor in it than +I.</div> + +<p>The camp stood in a little clearing, and consisted +of a group of three long, low shanties with smaller +shacks near them, all built of heavy, unhewn logs, +with door and window in each. The grub camp, with +cook-shed attached, stood in the middle of the clearing; +at a little distance was the sleeping camp with +the office built against it, and about a hundred yards +away on the other side of the clearing stood the stables, +and near them the smiddy. The mountains rose +grandly on every side, throwing up their great peaks +into the sky. The clearing in which the camp stood +was hewn out of a dense pine forest that filled the +valley and climbed halfway up the mountain sides and +then frayed out in scattered and stunted trees.</p> + +<p>It was one of those wonderful Canadian winter days,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span> +bright, and with a touch of sharpness in the air that +did not chill, but warmed the blood like drafts of wine. +The men were up in the woods, and the shrill scream +of the bluejay flashing across the open, the impudent +chatter of the red squirrel from the top of the grub +camp, and the pert chirp of the whisky-jack, hopping +about on the rubbish-heap, with the long, lone cry of +the wolf far down the valley, only made the silence felt +the more.</p> + +<p>As I stood drinking in with all my soul the glorious +beauty and the silence of mountain and forest, with +the Christmas feeling stealing into me, Graeme came +out from his office, and catching sight of me, called +out, "Glorious Christmas weather, old chap!" And +then, coming nearer, "Must you go to-morrow?"</p> + +<p>"I fear so," I replied, knowing well that the Christmas +feeling was on him, too.</p> + +<p>"I wish I were going with you," he said quietly.</p> + +<p>I turned eagerly to persuade him, but at the look +of suffering in his face the words died at my lips, +for we both were thinking of the awful night of +horror when all his bright, brilliant life crashed down +about him in black ruin and shame. I could only +throw my arm over his shoulder and stand silent beside +him. A sudden jingle of bells roused him, and, +giving himself a little shake, he exclaimed, "There +are the boys coming home."</p> + +<p>Soon the camp was filled with men talking, laughing, +chaffing like light-hearted boys.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span></p> + +<p>"They are a little wild to-night," said Graeme, +"and to-morrow they'll paint Black Rock red."</p> + +<p>Before many minutes had gone the last teamster +was "washed up," and all were standing about waiting +impatiently for the cook's signal—the supper to-night +was to be "something of a feed"—when the +sound of bells drew their attention to a light sleigh +drawn by a buckskin broncho coming down the hillside +at a great pace.</p> + +<p>"The preacher, I'll bet, by his driving," said one +of the men.</p> + +<p>"Bedad, and it's him has the foine nose for turkey!" +said Blaney, a good-natured, jovial Irishman.</p> + +<p>"Yes, or for pay-day, more like," said Keefe, a +black-browed, villainous fellow countryman of +Blaney's and, strange to say, his great friend.</p> + +<p>Big Sandy McNaughton, a Canadian Highlander +from Glengarry, rose up in wrath.</p> + +<p>"Bill Keefe," said he with deliberate emphasis, +"you'll just keep your dirty tongue off the minister; +and as for your pay, it's little he sees of it, or any +one else except Mike Slavin, when you's too dry to +wait for some one to treat you, or perhaps Father +Ryan, when the fear of hell-fire is on you."</p> + +<p>The men stood amazed at Sandy's sudden anger and +length of speech.</p> + +<p>"<i>Bon!</i> Dat's good for you, my bully boy," said +Baptiste, a wiry little French-Canadian, Sandy's sworn +ally and devoted admirer ever since the day when the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span> +big Scotchman, under great provocation, had knocked +him clean off the dump into the river and then jumped +in for him.</p> + +<p>It was not till afterward I learned the cause of +Sandy's sudden wrath which urged him to such unwonted +length of speech. It was not simply that the +Presbyterian blood carried with it reverence for the +minister, but that he had a vivid remembrance of how, +only a month ago, the minister had got him out of +Mike Slavin's saloon and out of the clutches of Keefe +and Slavin and their gang of bloodsuckers.</p> + +<p>Keefe started up with a curse. Baptiste sprang to +Sandy's side, slapped him on the back, and called out:</p> + +<p>"You keel him, I'll hit [eat] him up, me."</p> + +<p>It looked as if there might be a fight, when a harsh +voice said in a low, savage tone:</p> + +<p>"Stop your row, you fools; settle it, if you want to, +somewhere else."</p> + +<p>I turned, and was amazed to see old man Nelson, +who was very seldom moved to speech.</p> + +<p>There was a look of scorn on his hard iron-gray +face, and of such settled fierceness as made me quite +believe the tales I had heard of his deadly fights in the +mines at the coast. Before any reply could be made +the minister drove up and called out in a cheery +voice:</p> + +<p>"Merry Christmas, boys! Hello, Sandy! <i>Comment +ça va</i>, Baptiste? How do you do, Mr. Graeme?"</p> + +<p>"First rate. Let me introduce my friend, Mr.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span> +Connor, sometime medical student, now artist, hunter, +and tramp at large, but not a bad sort."</p> + +<p>"A man to be envied," said the minister, smiling. +"I am glad to know any friend of Mr. Graeme's."</p> + +<p>I liked Mr. Craig from the first. He had good +eyes that looked straight out at you, a clean-cut, strong +face well set on his shoulders, and altogether an upstanding, +manly bearing. He insisted on going with +Sandy to the stables to see Dandy, his broncho, put +up.</p> + +<p>"Decent fellow," said Graeme; "but though he is +good enough to his broncho, it is Sandy that's in his +mind now."</p> + +<p>"Does he come out often? I mean, are you part +of his parish, so to speak?"</p> + +<p>"I have no doubt he thinks so; and I'm blowed if +he doesn't make the Presbyterians of us think so too." +And he added after a pause: "A dandy lot of parishioners +we are for any man. There's Sandy, now, he +would knock Keefe's head off as a kind of religious +exercise; but to-morrow Keefe will be sober and Sandy +will be drunk as a lord, and the drunker he is the better +Presbyterian he'll be, to the preacher's disgust." Then +after another pause he added bitterly: "But it is not +for me to throw rocks at Sandy. I am not the same +kind of fool, but I am a fool of several other sorts."</p> + +<p>Then the cook came out and beat a tattoo on the +bottom of a dishpan. Baptiste answered with a yell. +But though keenly hungry, no man would demean<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span> +himself to do other than walk with apparent reluctance +to his place at the table. At the further end of +the camp was a big fireplace, and from the door of +the fireplace extended the long board tables, covered +with platters of turkey not too scientifically carved, +dishes of potatoes, bowls of apple sauce, plates of +butter, pies, and smaller dishes distributed at regular +intervals. Two lanterns hanging from the roof and a +row of candles stuck into the wall on either side by +means of slit sticks cast a dim, weird light over the +scene.</p> + +<p>There was a moment's silence, and at a nod from +Graeme Mr. Craig rose and said:</p> + +<p>"I don't know how you feel about it, men, but to +me this looks good enough to be thankful for."</p> + +<p>"Fire ahead, sir," called out a voice quite respectfully, +and the minister bent his head and said:</p> + +<p>"For Christ the Lord who came to save us, for +all the love and goodness we have known, and for +these Thy gifts to us this Christmas night, our Father, +make us thankful. Amen."</p> + +<p>"<i>Bon!</i> Dat's fuss rate," said Baptiste. "Seems +lak dat's make me hit [eat] more better for sure." +And then no word was spoken for a quarter of an +hour. The occasion was far too solemn and moments +too precious for anything so empty as words. But +when the white piles of bread and the brown piles of +turkey had for a second time vanished, and after the +last pie had disappeared, there came a pause and a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span> +hush of expectancy, whereupon the cook and cookee, +each bearing aloft a huge, blazing pudding, came forth.</p> + +<p>"Hooray!" yelled Blaney; "up wid yez!" and +grabbing the cook by the shoulders from behind, he +faced him about.</p> + +<p>Mr. Craig was the first to respond, and seizing the +cookee in the same way, called out: "Squad, fall in! +quick march!" In a moment every man was in the +procession.</p> + +<p>"Strike up, Batchees, ye little angel!" shouted +Blaney, the appellation a concession to the minister's +presence; and away went Baptiste in a rollicking +French song with the English chorus—</p> + +<p> +Then blow, ye winds, in the morning,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blow, ye winds, ay oh!</span><br /> +Blow, ye winds, in the morning,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blow, blow, blow.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>And at each "blow" every boot came down with a +thump on the plank floor that shook the solid roof. +After the second round Mr. Craig jumped upon the +bench and called out:</p> + +<p>"Three cheers for Billy the cook!"</p> + +<p>In the silence following the cheers Baptiste was +heard to say:</p> + +<p>"<i>Bon!</i> Dat's mak me feel lak hit dat puddin' all +hup meself, me."</p> + +<p>"Hear till the little baste!" said Blaney in disgust.</p> + +<p>"Batchees," remonstrated Sandy gravely, "ye've +more stomach than manners."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Fu sure! but de more stomach, dat's more better +for dis puddin'," replied the little Frenchman cheerfully.</p> + +<p>After a time the tables were cleared and pushed +back to the wall and pipes were produced. In all +attitudes suggestive of comfort the men disposed themselves +in a wide circle about the fire, which now roared +and crackled up the great wooden chimney hanging +from the roof. The lumberman's hour of bliss had +arrived. Even old man Nelson looked a shade less +melancholy than usual as he sat alone, well away from +the fire, smoking steadily and silently. When the +second pipes were well a-going one of the men took +down a violin from the wall and handed it to Lachlan +Campbell. There were two brothers Campbell just +out from Argyll, typical Highlanders: Lachlan, dark, +silent, melancholy, with the face of a mystic, and +Angus, red-haired, quick, impulsive, and devoted to +his brother, a devotion he thought proper to cover +under biting, sarcastic speech.</p> + +<p>Lachlan, after much protestation, interposed with +gibes from his brother, took the violin, and in response +to the call from all sides struck up "Lord Macdonald's +Reel."</p> + +<p>In a moment the floor was filled with dancers, +whooping and cracking their fingers in the wildest +manner. Then Baptiste did the "Red River Jig," a +most intricate and difficult series of steps, the men +keeping time to the music with hands and feet.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span></p> + +<p>When the jig was finished Sandy called for +"Lochaber No More," but Campbell said:</p> + +<p>"No! no! I cannot play that to-night. Mr. Craig +will play."</p> + +<p>Craig took the violin, and at the first note I knew +he was no ordinary player. I did not recognize the +music, but it was soft and thrilling, and got in by the +heart till every one was thinking his tenderest and +saddest thoughts.</p> + +<p>After he had played two or three exquisite bits he +gave Campbell his violin, saying, "Now, 'Lochaber,' +Lachlan."</p> + +<p>Without a word Lachlan began, not "Lochaber"—he +was not ready for that yet—but "The Flowers +o' the Forest," and from that wandered through +"Auld Robin Gray" and "The Land o' the Leal," +and so got at last to that most soul-subduing of Scottish +laments, "Lochaber No More." At the first +strain his brother, who had thrown himself on some +blankets behind the fire, turned over on his face feigning +sleep. Sandy McNaughton took his pipe out of +his mouth and sat up straight and stiff, staring into +vacancy, and Graeme, beyond the fire, drew a short, +sharp breath. We had often sat, Graeme and I, in +our student days, in the drawing-room at home, listening +to his father wailing out "Lochaber" upon the +pipes, and I well knew that the awful minor strains +were now eating their way into his soul.</p> + +<p>Over and over again the Highlander played his lament. +He had long since forgotten us, and was seeing +visions of the hills and lochs and glens of his far-away<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> +native land, and making us, too, see strange +things out of the dim past. I glanced at old man +Nelson, and was startled at the eager, almost piteous +look in his eyes, and I wished Campbell would stop. +Mr. Craig caught my eye, and stepping over to Campbell +held out his hand for the violin. Lingeringly and +lovingly the Highlander drew out the last strain and +silently gave the minister his instrument.</p> + +<p>Without a moment's pause, and while the spell of +"Lochaber" was still upon us, the minister, with +exquisite skill, fell into the refrain of that simple and +beautiful camp-meeting hymn, "The Sweet By-and-By." +After playing the verse through once he sang +softly the refrain. After the first verse the men +joined in the chorus; at first timidly, but by the time +the third verse was reached they were shouting with +throats full open, "We shall meet on that beautiful +shore." When I looked at Nelson the eager light +had gone out of his eyes, and in its place was a kind +of determined hopelessness, as if in this new music he +had no part.</p> + +<p>After the voices had ceased Mr. Craig played again +the refrain, more and more softly and slowly; then +laying the violin on Campbell's knees, he drew from +his pocket his little Bible and said:</p> + +<p>"Men, with Mr. Graeme's permission I want to +read you something this Christmas eve. You will all +have heard it before, but you will like it none the less +for that."</p> + +<p>His voice was soft, but clear and penetrating, as he +read the eternal story of the angels and the shepherds<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span> +and the Babe. And as he read, a slight motion of the +hand or a glance of an eye made us see, as he was +seeing, that whole radiant drama. The wonder, the +timid joy, the tenderness, the mystery of it all, were +borne in upon us with overpowering effect. He +closed the book, and in the same low, clear voice went +on to tell us how, in his home years ago, he used to +stand on Christmas eve listening in thrilling delight +to his mother telling him the story, and how she used +to make him see the shepherds and hear the sheep +bleating near by, and how the sudden burst of glory +used to make his heart jump.</p> + +<p>"I used to be a little afraid of the angels, because +a boy told me they were ghosts; but my mother told +me better, and I didn't fear them any more. And +the Baby, the dear little Baby—we all love a baby." +There was a quick, dry sob; it was from Nelson. +"I used to peek through under to see the little one in +the straw, and wonder what things swaddling clothes +were. Oh, it was so real and so beautiful!" He +paused, and I could hear the men breathing.</p> + +<p>"But one Christmas eve," he went on in a lower, +sweeter tone, "there was no one to tell me the story, +and I grew to forget it and went away to college, and +learned to think that it was only a child's tale and was +not for men. Then bad days came to me and worse, +and I began to lose my grip of myself, of life, of hope, +of goodness, till one black Christmas, in the slums of +a far-away city, when I had given up all and the devil's +arms were about me, I heard the story again. And +as I listened, with a bitter ache in my heart—for I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span> +had put it all behind me—I suddenly found myself +peeking under the shepherds' arms with a child's +wonder at the Baby in the straw. Then it came over +me like great waves that His name was Jesus, because +it was He that should save men from their sins. +Save! Save! The waves kept beating upon my +ears, and before I knew I had called out, 'Oh! can +He save me?' It was in a little mission meeting on +one of the side streets, and they seemed to be used to +that sort of thing there, for no one was surprised; +and a young fellow leaned across the aisle to me and +said: 'Why, you just bet He can!' His surprise +that I should doubt, his bright face and confident tone, +gave me hope that perhaps it might be so. I held to +that hope with all my soul, and"—stretching up his +arms, and with a quick glow in his face and a little +break in his voice—"He hasn't failed me yet; not +once, not once!"</p> + +<p>He stopped quite short, and I felt a good deal like +making a fool of myself, for in those days I had not +made up my mind about these things. Graeme, poor +old chap, was gazing at him with a sad yearning in his +dark eyes; big Sandy was sitting very stiff and staring +harder than ever into the fire; Baptiste was trembling +with excitement; Blaney was openly wiping the tears +away, <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'But'">but</ins> the face that held my eyes was that of old +man Nelson. It was white, fierce, hungry-looking, +his sunken eyes burning, his lips parted as if to cry. +The minister went on.</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean to tell you this, men; it all came over +me with a rush; but it is true, every word, and not a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span> +word will I take back. And, what's more, I can tell +you this: what He did for me He can do for any man, +and it doesn't make any difference what's behind him, +and"—leaning slightly forward, and with a little +thrill of pathos vibrating in his voice—"oh, boys, +why don't you give Him a chance at you? Without +Him you'll never be the men you want to be, and +you'll never get the better of that that's keeping some +of you now from going back home. You know you'll +never go back till you're the men you want to be." +Then, lifting up his face and throwing back his head, +he said, as if to himself, "Jesus! He shall save His +people from their sins," and then, "Let us pray."</p> + +<p>Graeme leaned forward with his face in his hands; +Baptiste and Blaney dropped on their knees; Sandy, +the Campbells, and some others stood up. Old man +Nelson held his eye steadily on the minister.</p> + +<p>Only once before had I seen that look on a human +face. A young fellow had broken through the ice on +the river at home, and as the black water was dragging +his fingers one by one from the slippery edges, there +came over his face that same look. I used to wake up +for many a night after in a sweat of horror, seeing the +white face with its parting lips and its piteous, dumb +appeal, and the black water slowly sucking it down.</p> + +<p>Nelson's face brought it all back; but during the +prayer the face changed and seemed to settle into resolve +of some sort, stern, almost gloomy, as of a man +with his last chance before him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span></p> + +<p>After the prayer Mr. Craig invited the men to a +Christmas dinner next day in Black Rock. "And because +you are an independent lot, we'll charge you half +a dollar for dinner and the evening show." Then +leaving a bundle of magazines and illustrated papers +on the table—a godsend to the men—he said good-by +and went out.</p> + +<p>I was to go with the minister, so I jumped into the +sleigh first and waited while he said good-by to +Graeme, who had been hard hit by the whole service +and seemed to want to say something. I heard Mr. +Craig say cheerfully and confidently: "It's a true +bill: try Him."</p> + +<p>Sandy, who had been steadying Dandy while that +interesting broncho was attempting with great success +to balance himself on his hind legs, came to say +good-by.</p> + +<p>"Come and see me first thing, Sandy."</p> + +<p>"Aye! I know; I'll see ye, Mr. Craig," said Sandy +earnestly as Dandy dashed off at a full gallop across +the clearing and over the bridge, steadying down when +he reached the hill.</p> + +<p>"Steady, you idiot!"</p> + +<p>This was to Dandy, who had taken a sudden side +spring into the deep snow, almost upsetting us. A +man stepped out from the shadow. It was old man +Nelson. He came straight to the sleigh and, ignoring +my presence completely, said:</p> + +<p>"Mr. Craig, are you dead sure of this? Will it +work?"</p> + +<p>"Do you mean," said Craig, taking him up promptly,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> +"can Jesus Christ save you from your sins and +make a man of you?"</p> + +<p>The old man nodded, keeping his hungry eyes on +the other's face.</p> + +<p>"Well, here's His message to you: 'The Son of +Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.'"</p> + +<p>"To me? To me?" said the old man eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Listen; this, too, is His word: 'Him that cometh +unto Me I will in no wise cast out.' That's for you, +for here you are, coming."</p> + +<p>"You don't know me, Mr. Craig. I left my baby +fifteen years ago because——"</p> + +<p>"Stop!" said the minister. "Don't tell me, at +least not to-night; perhaps never. Tell Him who +knows it all now and who never betrays a secret. +Have it out with Him. Don't be afraid to trust +Him."</p> + +<p>Nelson looked at him, with his face quivering, and +said in a husky voice:</p> + +<p>"If this is no good, it's hell for me."</p> + +<p>"If it is no good," replied Craig almost sternly, +"it's hell for all of us."</p> + +<p>The old man straightened himself up, looked up at +the stars, then back at Mr. Craig, then at me, and +drawing a deep breath said:</p> + +<p>"I'll try Him." As he was turning away the minister +touched him on the arm and said quietly:</p> + +<p>"Keep an eye on Sandy to-morrow."</p> + +<p>Nelson nodded and we went on; but before we took +the next turn I looked back and saw what brought a +lump into my throat. It was old man Nelson on his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span> +knees in the snow, with his hands spread upward to +the stars, and I wondered if there was any One above +the stars and nearer than the stars who could see. +And then the trees hid him from my sight.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i285.png" width="500" height="114" alt="The Story that the Keg Told Me" title="The Story that the Keg Told Me" /> +</div> + + +<h2>XII.—The Story That the Keg Told Me</h2> + +<h3><i>By Adirondack (W. H. H.) Murray</i></h3> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>The author is "Adirondack Murray" because he, more +than any other man, rediscovered for the past and present +generation the wonderful Adirondack Woods. We are +grateful to Mr. Archibald Rutledge for having shortened the +story, and to Mr. Murray's publishers, De Wolfe and Fiske +Company, for permission to print it in the abbreviated form.</i>—<span class="smcap">The +Editor.</span></p></div> + + +<div class='cap'>IT was near the close of a sultry day in midsummer, +which I had spent in exploring a part of the shore +line of the lake where I was camping, and wearied +with the trip I had made, I was returning toward the +camp.</div> + +<p>The lake was a very secluded sheet of water hidden +away between the mountains, not marked on the map, +whose very existence was unsuspected by me until I +had a few days before accidentally stumbled upon it. +Indeed, in all the world there is hardly another sheet +of water so likely to escape the eye, not only of the +tourist and the sportsman, but also of the hunter and +the trapper. Day by day as I paddled over the lake or +explored its shores the conviction grew upon me that +the place had never before been visited by any human +being. The more I examined and explored, the more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span> +this belief grew upon me. The thought was ever +with me. But on this afternoon as I was paddling +leisurely along, my paddle struck some curious object +in the water. I reached down and lifted it into the +boat. It was a Keg!</p> + +<p>Amazed, I sat looking at this proof that my lake +was not so unknown as I had supposed it to be. +Where had it come from? How did it get here? +Who brought it, and for what purpose? These and +similar questions I put to myself as I paddled onward +toward my camp.</p> + +<p>After having built my camp fire I seated myself +with my back against a pine; it was then that my gaze +again fell on the Keg, which I had brought up from +the boat and had set on the ground across the fire +from me. I sat wondering where it had come from, +and what had become of him who must once have +handled it. . . . It may be that I was awake; it may +be that I was asleep; but as I was thus looking steadily +and curiously at the Keg, it seemed to change its appearance. +It was no longer a Keg: it was a man! A +queer little man he was, with strange little legs, and the +funniest little body, and the tiniest little face! Then, +standing bold upright, and looking at me with eyes +that glistened like black beads, the miraculous Keg-Man +opened his mouth and began to talk!</p> + +<p>"I desire to tell you my story," it said; "the story +of the man who brought me here; why he did it, and +what became of him; how he lived and died.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The earliest remembrance I have of myself is of +the cooper's shop where I was made. Although I +look worn now, I can recall the time when all my +staves were smooth and clean, so that the oak-grain +showed clearly from the top to the bottom of me, and +my steel hoops were strong and bright. The cooper +made me on his honor and took a deal of honest pride +in putting me together, as every workman should in +doing his work. I remember that when I was finished +and the cooper had sanded me off and oiled me, he set +me up on a bench and said to his apprentice boy: +'There, that Keg will last till the Judgment Day, and +well on toward night at that.' I wondered at that.</p> + +<p>"One day a few weeks later a man came into the +shop and said, 'Have you a good strong keg for +sale?'</p> + +<p>"He put the question in such a half-spiteful, half-suspicious +way that I eyed him curiously. And a +very peculiar man I saw. He was not more than +forty years old, of good height and strongly built. +He was a gentleman, evidently, although his face was +darkly tanned and his clothes were old and threadbare. +His mouth was small. His lips were thin, and had a +look of being drawn tightly over his teeth. His chin +was long, his jaws large and strong. His hair was +thin and brown. But the remarkable feature of his +face was his eyes. They were blue-gray in color, +small, and deeply set under his arching eye-brows. +How hard and steel-like they were, and restless as a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span> +rat's! And what an intense look of suspicion there +was in them; a half-scared, defiant look, as if their +owner felt every one to be his enemy. Ah, what eyes +they were! I came to know them well afterward, +and to know what the wild, strange light in them +meant; but of that by and by.</p> + +<p>"'Have you a good strong keg for sale?' he shouted +to my master, who turned round and looked +squarely at the questioner.</p> + +<p>"'Yes, I have, Mr. Roberts. Do you want one?'</p> + +<p>"'Yes!' returned the other; 'but I want a strong +one—<i>strong</i>, do you hear?'</p> + +<p>"'Here's a keg,' said my master, tapping me with +his mallet, 'that I made with my own hands from the +very best stuff. It will last as long as steel and white +oak staves will last.'</p> + +<p>"The price was paid with a muttered protest and +Roberts hoisted me under his arm and bore me from +the shop.</p> + +<p>"As we hurried along, I noticed that my new master +spoke to no one, and that people looked at him +coldly or wonderingly. At last we came to a +common-looking house set back from the road, with +a very high fence built around it and a heavy padlock +on the front gate. There were great strong wooden +shutters at every window. My master entered the +house and set me down on the floor, then went to the +door and locked it, drawing two large iron bars across +it. He went to every window to see if it was fastened.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span></p> + +<p>Carrying a candle in one hand and a great bludgeon +in the other, he examined every room, every closet, +the attic, and the cellar. After this he came back to +me, set me on a table, started one of my hoops, and +took out one of my heads. From a cupboard he got +a large sheepskin, and with a pair of shears fitted me +with a lining of it. I must say that he did it with +cleverness, and he seemed well pleased with his +work.</p> + +<p>"When he had done all this, he brought his bludgeon +and laid it on the table beside me; also he laid +there a large knife. Then he went to the chimney +and brought the ash-pail, which was full of ashes; +from the cupboard he brought an earthen jar; from +under the bed he fetched a bag; from the cellar he +returned with a sack, all damp and moldy. When he +had all these side by side near the table, he sat down. +Then out of the ash-pail he took a small pot, and +having carefully blown the ashes off, he turned it +bottom-upward on the table. And what do you think +was in it?</p> + +<p>"Gold coins! Some red and some yellow, but all +gold!</p> + +<p>"He emptied each of the other receptacles, and out +there flowed heaps of gold coins almost without +number! How they gleamed and glistened! How +they clinked and jingled! And how the deep and +narrow eyes of my master glittered, but how the lips +drew apart in a wild smile!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It was a fearful sight to see him playing with the +gold and to hear him laugh over his treasure. It was +dreadful to think that a human soul could love money +so. And he did love it—madly, with all the strength +of his nature.</p> + +<p>"He would take up a coin and look at it as a father +might look upon the face of a favorite child. Ah, +me, 'twas dreadful! He would take up a piece and +say to it, 'Thou art better to me than a wife'; and to +another, 'Thou art dearer than father or mother!' +Ah, such blasphemy as I heard that night! How +the sweet and blessed things of human life were derided, +and the things that are divine and holy sneered +at!</p> + +<p>"At length he fell to counting his gold; and for a +long, long time he counted, until his hands shook, and +his eyes gleamed as if he were mad. When he had +counted all, he jumped from his seat, shouting like a +maniac, 'Sixteen thousand, six hundred and sixty-six +dollars!' Again and again he shouted this in wild +triumph.</p> + +<p>"After a while he sobered down, and inside of me +he began to pack away his treasures—carefully, +caressingly, as a mother might lay her children to +sleep. When I was full to the brim with shining +gold, he put my head on, fitted the upper hoop on +snugly, and then put me in the bed. The great knife +he slipped under the pillow. Then, blowing out the +light, he lay down beside me with one arm thrown<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span> +about me. So the miser, clasping me to his heart, +fell asleep.</p> + +<p>"Day after day, night after night, this selfsame +performance was repeated. My master did little +work; indeed, he did not seem eager to increase his +store, but merely to hold it safely. But about this he +was so anxious that he was in a fever of excitement +all the time. For days he would not leave the house. +Never was he free from the fear of losing his money. +And this suspicion had poisoned his whole life, had +made him hate his kind and lose all belief in the love +and the goodness of God, that he had once professed.</p> + +<p>"One day in summer he left the front door open. +I was drowsing, when suddenly I heard him give a +frightened yell. In the doorway stood a man and a +woman. The man was the village pastor, and the +woman, I soon learned, was my master's wife. For +a moment my master stood looking angrily at them. +Then he said abruptly, 'Why did you come here?'</p> + +<p>"'John,' said the woman, 'your child Mary is +dying; and I thought that you, her father, would want +to see her before she passed away.' Her voice choked, +and her breast heaved with sobs.</p> + +<p>"'Dying, is she?' said my master brutally. 'I +don't believe it. You are simply after my gold. You +might as well get away from here,' he added with a +threatening look.</p> + +<p>"'John,' returned the woman, great tears coming +to her eyes, 'I never in my life lied to you. Mary is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span> +dying, and I could not let her go without giving you +a chance to see her. Last night in her delirium she +begged for you. She wants you, John; she wants to +say good-by to you!'</p> + +<p>"But my master remained unmoved. The sinister +look in the eyes, the doggedness of the face did not +change. He stared at them; then he shouted in +frenzy: 'You lie! You want my money! Everybody +wants it! Everybody loves it! There isn't an +honest man in the world! All are thieves! All are +lovers of gold! I know by your looks that you love +it,' he went on; 'and you can't fool me by your tears +and your preaching. You get out of this house!' he +suddenly shrieked, 'or I will kill you,—both of you!' +He swore a terrible oath and stepped back to seize the +heavy bludgeon on the table. The woman cried out +in fear and turned away weeping. But the parson +stood his ground.</p> + +<p>"'John Roberts,' he said, 'thou art a doomed man. +The lust of gold that destroys so many is in thee +strong and mighty, and only God can save thee, nor +He against thy will. Repent, or thou shalt perish in +a lonely place, on a dark night, with none to help thee +or hear thy cries; and all thy gold shall perish with +thee.' So saying, he turned and slowly left the house.</p> + +<p>"For a moment my master stood glaring at the +retreating forms of those who had come to him as +friends, but whom he had treated as enemies; then +he rushed for the door and locked it. After that he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span> +lifted me tenderly upon the table, laughed softly, patted +me with his hands, and stroked me caressingly. +'My gold,' he kept repeating, 'my precious, precious +gold!' And as night came on, he poured out the gold +and counted the glittering pieces. Again and again +he counted his treasure until deep midnight had settled +over all.</p> + +<p>"But when he awoke in the morning he was very +nervous. All day long he neither opened the door +nor unbarred the shutters. All the while he kept muttering +to himself as if planning some crafty plot. I +could not know what all this might mean, but I caught +enough of his talk to understand that he was more +than ever suspicious of losing his money, was fearing +all man-kind more and more, and was trying to devise +some scheme whereby he could find a place where no +one could molest him or try to steal his gold. 'They +will get it yet,' he kept saying, 'unless I can go where +no one can find me.' Then he would curse his kind.</p> + +<p>"At last, after hours of muttering and tramping +back and forth in the darkened house, he suddenly +seemed to find his decision. I shall never forget the +terrible expression of evil triumph on his face as he +paused before me and shouted:</p> + +<p>"'I'll go! Go where they can never find me! I +want to be alone with my money, where I can spread +it out and see it shine! I will go where there is not +a man!'</p> + +<p>"After my master had said that, he made no further<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span> +remarks; but he began with eager haste to pack a +few things for his journey. He put me in a sack in +which I could neither see nor hear what was happening; +and that was all I knew for many a day. But +all the while I felt myself being <i>carried, carried, +carried!</i> One day I realized that I had been put in a +boat; then we went on and on, day after day. Finally +the boat was stopped and I was carried ashore. Then +for the first time in many a long day I was taken from +the bag. Again I saw the world about me. But how +different were my surroundings from those of my +old home! Where was I? I was on the very point +of land off which you found me this evening.</p> + +<p>"For the first few weeks of our stay on the shores +of this lonely lake, things continued almost as they +had been at home. The gold was my master's single +thought. He seemed happy, almost joyous, in the +thought that he and I were at last out of the reach of +men. Most of his time was spent looking at his gold. +Every morning and every evening he would take me +down to that point yonder where the sun shines +clearly, and there would pour the treasure out in a +great pile. He always did this exultingly. And his +greatest pleasure was to play with the yellow coins, to +count them over and over, and to laugh to himself in +a satisfied way.</p> + +<p>"But after a time I could see that a change was +coming over my master. He grew grave and quiet. +No, more, as he poured out his gold, did he chuckle<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span> +and laugh to himself. All his movements seemed +listless. He counted his money less frequently, and +when he did so it was in a half-hearted manner. One +day I even saw him go away and leave the yellow heap +lying on the sands. At last one day he came, packed +the gold in me, and put in my head with the greatest +care. Moreover, when he went back to the camp, he +left me there on the beach! I felt very strange and +lonely, and the night seemed long indeed.</p> + +<p>"At last the daybreak came, and glad I was to see +it. But it was not until near sunset that my master +came down to the point where I was. His face was +as I had never seen it before. It was the countenance +of a man who had suffered much, and who was still +suffering. He came to me, paused before me, and +said: 'For thee, thou cursed gold, I have wasted my +life and ruined my soul!'</p> + +<p>"For some time he stood thus looking at me; then +he began to walk up and down the strip of beach, +wringing his hands and beating his breast. 'Oh, if +I could only do it!' he kept saying; 'if I could only do +it! If I could, there might be hope, even for me. +Lord, help me to do it! Lord, help me!'</p> + +<p>"After many hours of this, which I knew to be +mental torment for my poor wretched master, when +he was exhausted in body and in mind, he came back +along the sands toward me. To my astonishment he +knelt down beside me, he placed his hands together, +he lifted his face skyward. My master prayed!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span></p> + +<p>"'Lord of the great world,' he said, 'come to my +aid or I am lost. In Thy great mercy, save me! +Hear where no man may hear, hear Thou my cry; +Thou Lord of heavenly mercy, lend me thine aid!'</p> + +<p>"He paused, and over his face I seemed to see the +dawning of a deep peace. He rose to his feet, lifted +me, and bore me down to the boat. Then he slowly +paddled away toward the center of the lake, repeating +his prayer. At last he checked the boat; then, having +looked toward the sky, he said in a low, sweet voice, +'Lord, Thou hast given me grace and strength.' At +that he lifted me high above his head——"</p> + +<p>There was a crash as if pieces of wood were falling +together and my eyes opened with a snap. My fire +had smoldered down. The Keg, heated by the fire, +had tumbled inward, and lay there in a confused heap.</p> + +<p>"What a queer dream," I said to myself. I was +really beginning to believe that these things had +happened. I rose to my feet and stepped down to the +edge of the lonely water. I am not ashamed to say +that my blood was chilled at what I saw. As I looked +across the lake, within twenty feet of where I had +found the Keg, there was a boat with a man sitting +motionless in it!</p> + +<p>When that mysterious canoe appeared on the bosom +of the lonely lake, I thought that I was looking upon a +vision of a spectral nature. In spite of all my belief +that I was alone on this remote beach, there sat the +man in the boat, only a few rods off shore. He was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span> +as a mirage, as silent as the very lake itself. A few +eerie moments passed; then the boat began to move +slowly toward me, gently propelled by a skillful +paddle. As it approached, the light of the full moon +streaming upon it made it easy for me to study its occupants. +Near the bow I could discern a hound +crouching. In the stern sat the paddler, his rifle +across his knees.</p> + +<p>"Hello, the camp there!" shouted the man in the +boat.</p> + +<p>"Hello!" I called, glad enough to find that my +strange visitor was no apparition.</p> + +<p>The canoe came ashore, I greeted the boatman, and +together we walked up toward the camp, the hound +following us in a leisurely fashion. There I replenished +the fire. Then for a moment the stranger and +I stood and looked at each other. He was over six +feet in height, but so symmetrically proportioned in +his physical stature that, great as it was, he was +neither awkward nor ungainly. But for the fact that +his eye had lost its earlier brightness and that his hair +was sprinkled with threads of gray, it would have been +impossible to believe that he had reached three-score +years and ten, for his form was still erect, his step +elastic, and his voice clear and strong. His features +were regular and strong, giving proof of the man's +self-reliant and indomitable character. Years, perhaps +a lifetime of activity in the woods and on the +lakes, had bronzed the man. From beneath heavy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span> +eyebrows looked eyes gray in color and baffling in +depth. The man's whole appearance attracted me singularly.</p> + +<p>"Thank ye for your welcome, mister," he began. +"I shouldn't have dropped in on ye at this onseemly +hour, but the line of your smoke caught my eye as I +was turning the point yonder. I didn't expect to +find a human being on these shores. I ax your pardon +for comin' in on ye, but I have memories of this spot +that made me think strange things when I saw your +camp. I am John Norton, the trapper. And who +might you be, young man?"</p> + +<p>"I am Henry Herbert," I replied; "but just call +me plain Henry."</p> + +<p>"Well, Henry," began the old trapper, "I am going +to call you that. When men meet in the woods they +don't put on any airs. I have been in these woods +sixty-two years, and they have been a home for me, +for my father and mother are gone, and I have never +had wife nor child of my own. And I have heard of +you, Henry. Ye be no stranger to me. For ten +years back I have heard how you like to travel the +woods and the waters by yourself, larning things that +Nature does not tell about in crowds. I have heard, +too, that you be a good shot, and that you know the +ways of outwitting the trout and the pickerel. Hearing +about you this way, I knew some day that I would +come across your trail; but I never thought to run +agin you to-night, for I'd no idee that mortal man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span> +knowed this lake, save me—save me and that +other. . . ."</p> + +<p>The old man paused, seated himself on the end of +a log, and gazed into the fire with a solemn look on +his face.</p> + +<p>I did not feel like breaking in on his meditations, +whatever they might be. I was silent out of deference +to his memories.</p> + +<p>"This lake," John Norton said at length, "this +lake is a strange place. I have been here for eleven +years. No other place in all this wide country makes +me feel as this place does."</p> + +<p>Again he fell into a reverie. I, meanwhile, busied +myself with supper; and as soon as this was prepared, +the two of us enjoyed it as only woodmen can.</p> + +<p>"If you know me," I said, "we are no strangers to +each other, for I know you. Who draws the steadiest +bead with a rifle; who is the best boatman who ever +feathered paddle, and who is as honest a man as ever +drew breath?—who, but John Norton, whom I have +always been wanting to meet. No man could be as +welcome to my camp."</p> + +<p>"Well, well," laughed the old man, "when you're +at home you must be one of them detective fellows. +I see we aren't no strangers to each other. And if +while in these woods old John Norton can teach you +any trick of huntin' or of fishin' or of trappin', be +sure he will do so for the welcome you have give +him."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span></p> + +<p>So we sat on either side of the fire, silent for a few +moments. Then the old trapper said:</p> + +<p>"I am thinking of the things that happened here +long years agone. Strange things have come to pass +on this very point. It is eleven year this very night +that me and the hound slept here, and a solemn night +it was, too. . . . God of heaven, man, what is +that?"</p> + +<p>The old man's startled ejaculation brought me to +my feet as if a panther were upon me. Glancing +at the spot he had indicated by look and gesture, I beheld +only the shattered portion of the Keg. Not +knowing what to make of the trapper's excited action, +I said: "That? That is only a Keg I picked up in the +lake this evening."</p> + +<p>John Norton rose in silence to his feet and went +over to where the staves lay. One of these he picked +up and held contemplatively in his hand.</p> + +<p>"The ways of the Lord are past the knowing of +mortals," he said. "But perhaps in the long run He +brings the wrong to the right, and so makes the evil +in the world to praise him. Henry," said the Old +Trapper, looking keenly at me, "I have a mind to tell +you the story of the man who owned that Keg. A +strange tale it be, but a true one, and the teachings of +it be solemn."</p> + +<p>Eagerly I urged him to give me the story, a part of +which, at least, I felt that I already knew.</p> + +<p>"It was eleven year agone, in this very month, that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span> +I came down the inlet yonder into the lake. The moon +was nigh her full, and everything looked solemn and +white just as it do now. Lord knows I little thought +to meet a man in these solitudes when I run agin what +I am telling ye of.</p> + +<p>"I was paddling down this side of the lake when I +heard the strangest sounds I ever heard coming out of +a bird or beast. Ye better believe, Henry, that I sot +and listened until I was nothing but ears. But nary +a thing could I make out of it. After awhile I said +I would try to ambush the creetur and find out what +mouth had a language that old John Norton couldn't +understand. As I got nearer the shore, my boat just +drifting in the moonlight, I heerd a kind of crawling +sound as if the brute was a-trailing himself on the +ground. The shake of a bush give me the line on him, +and I felt sure that in a minute I could let the lead +drive where it ought to go. I had my rifle to my face, +when by the Lord of marcy, Henry, I diskivered I +had ambushed a man!</p> + +<p>"And, Henry," he continued, "the words of the +man was words of prayer. Never in my life was I +taken so unawares or was so unbalanced as when I +heard the voice of that man I had mistook for an +animal break out in prayer. For a minute the blood +stopped in my heart and my hair moved in my scalp; +then I shook like a man with the chills. I had come +that nigh being a murderer, Henry!</p> + +<p>"How that man prayed! He prayed for help as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span> +one calls to a comrade when his boat has gone down +under him in the rapids, and he knows he must have +help or die. This man's soul was struggling hard, I +tell ye. The words of his cry come out of his mouth +like the words of one who is surely lost unless somebody +saves him. It's dreadful for a man to live in +such a way that he has to pray in that fashion; for we +ought to live, Henry, so that it is cheerful-like to meet +the Lord, and pleasant to hold converse with Him.</p> + +<p>"I sot in my boat till his praying was done; then +I hugged myself close in under the bushes, for I heard +him coming down toward the shore. And he did +come, and come close to me; and in his arms he carried +something very heavy. In a moment I heard him +shove a boat out from the bushes; then, getting in, he +pushed off into the lake. He held for the center of +it; and when he had come nigh to the middle of it, he +laid his paddle down, and lifted something into the +air. This he turned upside down, and out streamed +into the water something that glinted in the moonlight. +After that, he come paddling back for the shore. Myself—I +kept shy of the man that night, but the next +morning I went to the stranger's camp.</p> + +<p>"There was nothing in sight but an old ragged tent, +sagging at every seam. I called aloud so that mayhap +the man would answer me. But no answer came. I +walked up to the tent and drew aside the rotten flap. +And, Henry, there lay the man senseless before me! +I thought he was dead, and I onkivered my head.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span> +But the hound here knowed better, for he began to +wag his tail. I went in, and found that the man was +still breathing. I lifted him in my arms, Henry, and +bore him out of the foul air of that tent, taking him +down to the warm sunshine on the point.</p> + +<p>"For a long while I thought he was going to die +in my arms. He just lay there lifeless-like, a-looking +across the lake with eyes half-shut. But the sun and +air revived him; and after a long while he stirs and +says:</p> + +<p>"'Old man, who are you who are so kind to +me?'</p> + +<p>"I tells him I was John Norton, the trapper.</p> + +<p>"'I am John Roberts,' he says, 'and I haven't a +friend on the earth, nor do I deserve one. Old man, +you cannot understand, because you have lived an innocent +life, but I am a sinner—a wretched sinner. +And my moments here are numbered. I will tell you +of my crimes; I will confess them, for they lie heavy +on my heart.</p> + +<p>"'John Norton, I was a miser; I had a heart with +a passion for gold. For the evil love of money I turned +my face away from my kind. My wife I deserted. +My only child I refused, with curses, to see, even when +she sent for me as she lay dying. John Norton, I gave +all for gold. And the more I loved it, the more I hated +man. With my dreadful lust there grew suspicion of +every one. All ties of affection were severed. I +lived alone, hoarding my gold and gloating over it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span></p> + +<p>"'At last I fled from the habitations of men, bringing +my gold, my god, with me in a Keg. Here on this +lonely shore I thought to be happy, far from my own +kind, far from any danger that my precious treasure +be stolen. But, John Norton—and a dying man is +speaking—for all my counting of the bright gold on +the sands here, and my dancing about it as a devil +might, laughing and singing—I was unhappy. I +knew that God was watching me and was disapproving. +I could not but think of my wife and child. The +thought of them began to make the gold hateful to +me. Ah, then, old man, I began to pray the Lord to +deliver me! It was a bitter struggle I fought, but at +length He rescued me. He gave me strength, John +Norton, to overcome the Wicked One; He gave me +strength to break away from my sin; He gave me +strength last night to pour every piece of gold that had +been for me both love and life, into the lake there. I +shall never see it more, and I am happy.'</p> + +<p>"After that, he lay silent-like, looking up at the +blue sky. Then his eyes closed, and I thought him +sleeping. But suddenly he started up, 'A light, a light! +I see a light!' Then, Henry, he sank back into my +arms and spoke no more. I hope my passing may be +as peaceful as his, and my face as calm as was his after +his battle of life was over.</p> + +<p>"The next day I buried him up yonder under them +hemlocks—having no one to help me, but doing it +respectful-like, as all such should be done. There he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span> +lies, Henry, the man who was the owner of that +Keg—John Roberts—the miser who repented before +it was too late. Nor do I doubt," he added, in +his kindly tone, "but he's been forgiven by those he +wronged."</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> From <i>Days Off</i>. Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's +Sons. Used by permission of the publishers.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> From <i>Wildfire</i>. Copyright, 1916, by Harper and Brothers, +New York and London. Reprinted by special permission of +author and publisher.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> From <i>Roughing It de Luxe</i>. Copyright, 1914, by George H. +Doran Company. Reprinted by special permission of author and +publisher.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> From <i>Arizona Nights</i>. Reprinted by special permission of +publisher and author. Copyright, 1907, by Doubleday, Page and +Company.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> From <i>The Crimson Garden</i>. Copyright, 1911, 1912, 1913, 1916, +by Harper and Brothers. Reprinted by special permission of +publisher and author.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> From <i>Lost Face</i>. Copyright, 1910, by the Macmillan Company. +Reprinted by special permission of the publisher.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> From <i>A Man For the Ages</i>. Copyright, 1919, by the Bobbs-Merrill +Company. Used by special permission of the publishers.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> From <i>Bar-20 Days</i>. Copyright, 1911, by A. C. McClurg and +Company. Reprinted by special permission of author and +publisher.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> Copyright, 1913, by the Century Company. Reprinted by +special permission of the author.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> One of a number of stories from book bearing same title, +<i>The Night Operator</i>. Copyright, 1919, by George H. Doran Company. +Reprinted by special permission of publisher and author.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> From <i>Black Rock</i>. Reprinted by special permission of publisher, +The Fleming H. Revell Company.</p></div></div> + +<hr style='width: 65%;' /> +<div class='tnote'><h3>Transcriber's Notes:</h3> +<p>Obvious punctuation errors repaired.</p> +<p>Words that have varied hyphenation: a-way, clean-cut, camp-fire, east-bound, round-house.</p> +<p>The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text will <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'apprear'">appear</ins>.</p></div> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Boy Scouts Book of Campfire Stories, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMPFIRE STORIES *** + +***** This file should be named 26475-h.htm or 26475-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/4/7/26475/ + +Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Emmy and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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