CHAPTER I.
ON SCOT'S MOUNTAIN.
"The de'il tak' them wi' their weeman folk, whose nerves are toodelicate for a squaw man, or an Injun guide. I'd tak' no heed o' them ifI was well, an' I'll do less now I'm plagued wi' this reminder o' thatgrizzly's hug. It gives me many's the twinge whilst out lookin' to thetraps."
"Where's your gallantry, MacDougall?" asked a deep, rather musical voicefrom the cabin door; "and your national love for the 'winsome sex,' asI've heard you call it? If ladies are with them you can't refuse."
"Can I not? Well, I can that same now," said the first speaker,emphasizing his speech by the vim with which he pitched a broken-handledskillet into the cupboard--a cupboard made of a wooden box. "Mayhaps youthink I haven't seen a white woman these six months, I'll be a breakin'my neck to get to their camp across there. Well, I will not; they may beall very fine, no doubt--folk from the East; but ye well know a lot o'tenderfeet in the bush are a sight worse to tak' the care of than thewild things they'll be tryin' to hunt. 'A man's a fool who stumbles overthe same stone twice,' is an old, true sayin', an' I know what I'mtalkin' of. It's four years this autumn since I was down in the WallaWalla country, an' there was a fine party from the East, just as theseare; an' they would go up into the Blue Mountains, an' they would haveme for a guide; an' if the Lord'll forgive me for associatin' with sicha pack o' lunatics for that trip, I'll never be caught wi' the same baitagain."
"What did they do to you?" asked the voice, with a tinge of amusement init.
"To me? They did naught to me but pester me wi' questions of insanedevisin'. Scarce a man o' them could tether a beast or lasso one thatwas astray. They had a man servant, a sort o' flunky, to wait on themand he just sat around like a bump on a log, and looked fearsomely forInjuns an' grizzlies. They would palaver until all hours in the night,about the scientific causes of all things we came across. Many a goodlaugh I might have had, if I had na been disgusted wi' the pretenses o'the poor bodies. Why, they knew not a thing but the learnin' o' books.They were from the East--down East, they said; that is, the Southeast, Isuppose they meant to say; and their flunky said they were well-to-do athome, and very learned, the poor fools! Well, I'll weary myself wi' noneothers o' the same ilk."
"You're getting cranky, Mac, from being too much alone;" and the ownerof the voice lounged lazily up from the seat of the cabin door, andstood looking in at the disgusted Scotchman, bending ever so slightly adark, well-shaped head that was taller than the cross-piece above thedoor.
"Am I, now?" asked the old man, getting up stiffly from filling a pan ofmilk for the cat. "Well, then, I have a neighbor across on the Maplerange that is subject o' late to the same complaint, but from a widedifference o' reason;" and he nodded his head significantly at the manin the door, adding: "An' there's a subject for a debate, Jack Genesee,whether loneliness is worse on the disposition than the influence o'wrong company."
Jack Genesee straightened out of his lounging attitude, and stepped backfrom the door-way with a decision that would impress a man as meaningbusiness.
"None o' that, MacDougall," he said curtly, dropping his hand with ahillman's instinct to the belt where his revolvers rested. "I reckon youand I will be better friends through minding our own business andkeeping to our own territory in future;" and whistling to a beautifulbrown mare that was browsing close to the cabin, he turned to mount her,when the old man crossed the floor quickly and laid a sinewy, brown handon his arm.
"Bide a bit, Genesee," he said, his native accent always creeping upwardin any emotion. "Friends are rare and scarce in this Chinook land.You're a bit hasty in your way, and mayhaps I'm a bit curious in mine;but I'll no let ye leave Davy MacDougall's like that just for the wanto' sayin' I'm regretful at havin' said more than I should o' you andyours. I canna lose a friend o' four years for a trifle like that."
The frankness of the old man's words made the other man drop the bridleand turn back with outstretched hand.
"That's all right, Mac," he said, heartily; "say no more about it. I amuglier than the devil to get along with sometimes, and you're aboutstraight when you say I'm a crank; only--well, it's nobody's fault butmy own."
"No, o' course not," said MacDougall in a conciliatory tone as he wentback to his dish-washing at the table--the dishes were tin pans andcups, and the dish-pan was an iron pot--"to be sure not; but thehalf-breeds are pizen in a man's cabin, an' that Talapa, wi' the namethat's got from a prairie wolf an' the Injun de'il, is well called--afull-blood Injun is easier to manage, my lad; an' then," he added,quizzically, "I'm but givin' ye the lay o' the land where I've foughtmyself, an' mayhaps got wounded."
The "lad," who was about thirty-five, laughed heartily at thischaracteristic confession. There was evidently some decided incongruitybetween the old Scotchman's statement and his quaint housewifery, as hewrapped a cloth reduced to strings around a fork and washed out acoffee-pot with the improvised mop. Something there was in it that thisman Genesee appreciated, and his continued laughter drew the beautifulmare again to his side, slipping her velvety nose close to his ear, andmuzzling there like a familiar spirit that had a right to share hermaster's emotions.
"All right, Mowitza," he said in a promising tone; "we'll hit the bushby and by. But old sulky here is slinging poisoned arrows at ourKloocheman. We can't stand that, you know. We don't like cooking our owngrub, do we, Mowitza? Shake your head and tell him 'halo'--that'sright. Skookum Kiutan! Skookum, Mowitza!"
And the man caressed the silky brown head, and murmured to her theIndian jargon of endearment and praise, and the mare muzzled closer andwhinnied an understanding of her master. MacDougall put away the lastpan, threw a few knots of cedar on the bit of fire in the stonefire-place, and came to the door just as the sun, falling back of thewestern mountains, threw a flood of glory about the old cabin of themountaineer. The hill-grass back of it changed from uncertain green tospears of amber as the soft September winds stole through it. Away belowin the valley, the purple gloom of dark spruces was burying itself innight's shadows. Here and there a poison-vine flashed back defianceunder its crimson banners, and again a white-limbed aspen shone like ashapely ghost from between lichen-covered bowlders. But slowly thegloaming crept upward until the shadow-line fell at the cabin door, andthen up, up, past spruce and cedar, past the scrub of the dwarf growths,past the invisible line that the snakes will not cross, on up to thesplintered crest, where the snows glimmer in the sunshine, and aboutwhich the last rays of the sun linger and kiss and fondle, long after agood-bye has been given to the world beneath.
Such was but one of the many recurring vistas of beauty which thedwellers of the northern hills are given to delight in--if they care toopen their eyes and see the glorious smile with which the earth everresponds to the kiss of God.
MacDougall had seen many of the grand panoramas which day and night onScot's mountain give one, and he stood in the door unheeding this one.His keen eyes, under their shaggy brows, were directed to the youngerman's bronzed face.
"There ye go!" he said, half peevishly; "ye jabber Chinook to thatTalapa and to the mare until it's a wonder ye know any English at all;an' when ye be goin' back where ye belong, it'll be fine, queer timesye'll have with your ways of speech."
Genesee only laughed shortly--an Indian laugh, in which there is nomelody.
"I don't reckon I belong anywhere, by this time, except in this Chinookregion; consequently," he added, looking up in the old man's interestedface, "I'm not likely to be moving anywhere, if that's what you'retrying to find out."
MacDougall made a half-dissenting murmur against trying to find outanything, but Genesee cut him short without ceremony.
"The fact is, Mac," he continued; "you are a precious old galoot--aregular nervous old numbskull. You've been as restless as a newly-caughtgrizzly ever since I went down to Coeur d'Alene, two weeks ago--afraidI was going to cut loose from Tamahnous Peak and pack my traps and goback to the diggin's; is that it? Don't lie about it. The whole tripwasn't worth a good lie,
and all it panned out for me was emptypockets."
"Lord! lad, ye canna mean to say ye lost--'
"Every damned red," finished Mr. Genesee complacently.
"An' how--"
"Cards and mixed drinks," he said, laconically. "Angels in thewine-rooms, and a slick individual at the table who had a better pokerhand than I had. How's that as a trade for six months' work? How does itpan out in the balance with half-breeds?"
Evidently it staggered MacDougall. "It is no much like ye to dissipate,Genesee," he said, doubtfully. "O' course a man likes to try his chanceon the chips once in a way, and to the kelpies o' the drinkin' placesone must leave a few dollars, but the mixin' o' drinks or the muddlin'o' the brains is no natural to ye; it may be a divarsion after the hilllife, but there's many a kind that's healthier."
"You're a confounded old humbug," said Genesee coolly; "you preachtemperance to me, and get drunk as a fiddler all alone here byyourself--not much Scotch in that way of drinking, I can tell you.Hello! who's that?"
MacDougall leaned forward and peered down the path where the sound of ahorse's feet were heard coming around the bend.
"It's that man o' Hardy's comin' again about a guide, I have na doubt.I'll send him across Seven-mile Creek to Tyee-Kamooks. They can get aSiwash guide from him, or they can lose themsel's for all me," he said,grumpily, incited thereto, no doubt, by Genesee's criticism of hishabits. He often grumbled that his friend from the Maple range wasmighty "tetchy" about his own faults, and mighty cool in his opinions ofothers.
A dark, well-built horse came at an easy, swinging pace out of the gloomof the spruce boughs and over the green sward toward the cabin; hisrider, a fair, fine-looking fellow, in a ranchman's buckskin suit,touched his hat ever so lightly in salute, a courtesy the othersreturned, Genesee adding the Chinook word that is either salutation orfarewell, "Klahowya, stranger," and the old man giving the moreEnglish speech of "Good evening; won't ye light, stranger?"
"No; obliged to you, but haven't time. I suppose I'm speaking to Mr.MacDougall," and he took his eyes from the tall, dark form of Genesee toaddress his speech to the old trapper.
"Yes, I'm Davy MacDougall, an' I give a guess you're from the new sheepranch that's located down Kootenai Park; you're one of Hardy's men."
"No; I'm Hardy."
"Are ye, now?" queried the old fellow in surprise. "I expected to see anolder man--only by the cause of hearin' you were married, I suppose.Well, now, I'm right glad to meet wi' a new neighbor--to think of aranch but a bit of ten miles from Scot's Mountain, an' a white family onit, too! Will ye no' light an' have a crack at a pipe an' a glass?"
Hardy himself was evidently making a much better impression onMacDougall than the messenger who had come to the cabin in the morning.
"No, partner, not any for me," answered the young ranchman, but with sopleasant a negative that even a Westerner could not but acceptgraciously such a refusal. "I just rode up from camp myself to see youabout a guide for a small party over into the west branch of theRockies. Ivans, who came to see you this morning, tells me that you aredisabled yourself--"
"Yes; that is, I had a hug of a grizzly two weeks back that left theribs o' my right side a bit sore; but--"
The old man hesitated; evidently his reluctance to act as guide to thepoor fools was weakening. This specimen of an Eastern man was not at allthe style of the tourists who had disgusted him so.
"An' so I told your man I thought I could na guide you," he continuedin a debatable way, at which Hardy's blonde mustache twitchedsuspiciously, and Genesee stooped to fasten a spur that had not neededattention before; for the fact was Mac had felt "ower cranky" thatmorning, and the messenger had been a stupid fellow who irritated himuntil he swore by all the carpenter's outfit of a certain workman inNazareth that he would be no guide for "weemen folk and tenderfeet" inthe hills. His vehemence had caused the refusal of Ivans to make areturn trip, and Hardy, remembering Ivans' account, was amused, and hadan idea that the dark, quiet fellow with the musical voice was amused aswell.
"Yes," agreed the stranger; "I understood you could not come, but Iwanted to ask if you could recommend an Indian guide. I had Jim Kaleengaged--he's the only white man I know in this region; the men on myplace are all from south of the Flathead country. He sent me wordyesterday he couldn't come for a week--confound these squaw men! He'sgone to hunt caribou with his squaw's people, so I brought my party sofar myself, but am doubtful of the trail ahead. One of the ladies israther nervous about Indians, and that prevented me from getting a guidefrom them at first; but if we continue, she must accustom herself toMontana surroundings."
"That's the worst o' the weemen folk when it comes to the hills," brokein MacDougall, "they've over easy to be frightened at shadows; a roofan' four walls is the best stoppin' place for a' o' them."
The young ranchman laughed easily.
"I don't believe you have known many of our Kentucky women, Mr.MacDougall; they are not hot-house plants, by any means."
Genesee pushed a wide-brimmed light hat back from his face a little, andfor the first time joined the conversation.
"A Kentucky party, did you say, sir?" he queried, with half-carelessinterest.
"Yes," said Hardy, turning toward him; "relatives of mine from backEast, and I wanted to give them a taste of Montana hill life, and alittle hunting. But I can't go any farther into the hills alone,especially as there are three ladies in the party; and a man can't takemany risks when he has them to consider."
"That's so," said Genesee, with brief sympathy; "big gang?"
"No--only six of us. My sister and her husband, and a cousin, a younglady, are the strangers. Then one of the men off my ranch who came tolook after the pack-mules, and my wife and self. I have an extra horsefor a guide if I can pick one up."
"I shouldn't be surprised if you could," said Genesee reflectively; "thewoods are full of them, if you want Indian guides, and if youdon't--well, it doesn't seem the right thing to let visitors leave thecountry disappointed, especially ladies, and I reckon I might takecharge of your outfit for a week or so."
MacDougall nearly dropped his pipe in his surprise at the offer.
"Well, I'll be--" he began; but Genesee turned on him.
"What's the matter with that?" he asked, looking at Mac levelly, with aglance that said: "Keep your mouth shut." "If I want to turn guide anddrop digging in that hill back there, why shouldn't I? It'll be the'divarsion' you were suggesting a little while back; and if Mr. Hardywants a guide, give me a recommend, can't you?"
"Do you know the country northwest of here?" asked Hardy eagerly. It wasplain to be seen he was pleased at his "find." "Do you live here in theChinook country? You may be a neighbor of mine, but I haven't thepleasure of knowing your name."
"That's Mac's fault," said the other fellow coolly; "he's master ofceremonies in these diggin's, and has forgotten his business. They callme Genesee Jack mostly, and I know the Kootenai hills a little."
"Indeed, then, he does Mr. Hardy," said MacDougall, finding his voice."Ye'll find no Siwash born on the hills who knows them better than doesGenesee, only he's been bewitched like, by picks and shovels an' a gulchin the Maple range, for so long it's a bit strange to see him actin' asguide; but you're a lucky man to be gettin' him, Mr. Hardy, I'll tell yethat much."
"I am willing to believe it," said Hardy frankly. "Could you start atonce with us, in the morning?"
"I reckon so."
"I will furnish you a good horse," began the ranchman; but Geneseeinterrupted, shaking his head with a gesture of dissent.
"No, I think not," he said in the careless, musical voice that yet couldbe so decided in its softness; and he whistled softly, as a cricketchirrups, and the brown mare came to him with long, cat-like movementsof the slender limbs, dropping her head to his shoulder.
"This bit of horse-flesh is good enough for me," he said, slipping along, well-shaped hand over the silky cheek; "an' where I go, Mowitzagoes--eh, pet?"
The mare whinnied softly
as acknowledgment of the address, and Hardynoticed with admiration the fine points in her sinewy, supple frame.
"Mowitza," he repeated. "That in Chinook means the deer, does it not--orthe elk; which is it? I haven't been here long enough to pick up much ofthe jargon."
"Well, then, ye'll be hearin' enough of it from Genesee," broke inMacDougall. "He'll be forgettin' his native language in it if he liveshere five years longer; an'--"
"There, you've said enough," suggested Genesee. "After giving a fellow arecommend for solid work, don't spoil it by an account of his fancyaccomplishments. You're likely to overdo it. Yes, Mowitza means a deer,and this one has earned her name. We'll both be down at your camp bysun-up to-morrow; will that do?"
"It certainly will," answered Hardy in a tone of satisfaction. "And thefolks below will be mighty glad to know a white man is to go with us.Jim Kale rather made them doubtful of squaw men, and my sister is timidabout Indians as steady company through the hills. I must get back andgive them the good news. At sun-up to-morrow, Mr. Genesee?"
"At sun-up to-morrow."
Told in the Hills: A Novel Page 2