1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
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. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.
*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:
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
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that
- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is
owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments
must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg-tm works.
- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
of receipt of the work.
- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
gbnewby@pglaf.org
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.
Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
http://www.gutenberg.org
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
</pre>
</body>
</html>
|
