CHAPTER XI
BILL HITS THE TRAIL
In a long-abandoned shack midway between Moncrossen's Blood River campand Hilarity, Bill Carmody hugged close the rusty, broken stove.
All day he had tramped northward, guided through the maze of abandonedroads by the frozen ruts of Moncrossen's tote wagons, and it was longafter dark when he camped in the northernmost of the old shacks withcivilization, as represented by Hilarity's deserted buildings and thejug-tilting, barrel-head conclave of Hod Burrage's store, forty milesto the southward.
It had been a hard day--this first day of his new life in theNorthland. And now, foot-sore, dog-tired, and dispirited, he sat closeand fed sticks to his guttering fire which burned sullenly and flaredred for want of draft.
The chinking had long since fallen from between the logs and the nightwind whipped the smoke in stinging volleys from gaping holes in therust-eaten jacket of the dilapidated air-tight.
Tears streamed from the man's smoke-tortured eyes, every muscle of hisbody ached horribly from the unaccustomed trail-strain, and his feet,unused to the coarse woolen socks beneath heavy boots, were galled andblistered until the skin hung in rolls from the edges of raw scalds.
He removed his foot-gear and the feel of the cold wind was good to hisburning feet. He scowled resentfully at the galling newness of hishigh-laced boots and with a tentative finger explored his hurts.
Unbuckling his pack, he drew forth the ready prepared food with whichhe had supplied himself at the store. The pack had seemed trifling whenhe swung lightly into the trail that morning, but twelve hours later,when he stumbled painfully into the disused shack, it had borne uponhis aching shoulders as the burden of Atlas.
Hungry as he was, he glared disgustedly at the flaunting label of thesalmon can and the unappetizing loaf of coarse bread dried hard, ratherthan baked, from sodden dough, by Hod Burrage's slovenly spouse.
And as he glared he pondered the words of advice offered by the old manwith the twisted leg who sat upon Burrage's counter and punctuated hisremarks with quick, jerky stabs of his stout, home-made crutch.
"Tha' cann't fish ben't no good f'r trail grub, son. Ye're a greener,you be. Better ye lay in what'll stay by ye--a bit o' bacon, like, orsome bologny--an' a little tin coffee-pot yonder.
"Ye'll be thinkin' o' steppin' out the door wi' ye're new boots an'ye're pack an' trippin' up to Blood River in maybe it's two walks, wi'naught in ye're belly but a can o' cold fish an' a stun weight o' MaryBurrage's bread, which there ain't no more raisin' into it nor atoggle-chain.
"'Tis plain ye're a greener, son; but take an old fool's advice an' getye a pair o' the shoe-packs yonder to spell off the boots. Bran' new,they be, an' they'll gald ye're feet till ye'll be walkin' ankle-deepin hell again' night. F'r Oi'll be tellin' ye Blood River lays a finetwo walks f'r a _good_ man, an' his boots broke in to the wear."
Now Bill Carmody was, by environment, undemocratic, and he resentedbeing called a greener. Also the emphasis which old Daddy Dunnigan hadplaced upon the words "good man," in evident contrast to himself,rankled.
How he wished, as he sat in the cold discomfort of the shack, that hehad heeded the timely and well-meant advice. His was not an arrogantnature, nor a surly--but the change in his environment had beenpainfully abrupt. All his life he had chosen for companions men whom helooked upon as his social equals, and he knew no others except as paidhirelings to do his bidding. And all his life money had removed fromhis pathway the physical discomforts incident to existence.
But all this was in the past. Unconsciously he was learning a lessonand this first lesson would be hard--but very thorough, and the nexttime he met Daddy Dunnigan he would take him by the hand. For here wasa man--a good man--in the making. But a man new to his surroundings. Aman who would learn hard--but quickly--and who would fight hard againstthe very conditions which were to make him.
His perspective must first be broken on the wheel of experience, thathe might know human nature, and the relative worth of men. Hisunplastic nature would one day be his chief bulwark; as now, it was hischief stumbling block. For in his chosen life-work he must takemen--many men--rough men--of diverse codes and warring creeds, and withthem build an efficient unit for the conquering of nature in her ownfastnesses. And this thing requires not only knowledge and strength,but courage, and the will to do or die.
Alighting from the caboose of the local freight train on the previousevening, he entered Hod Burrage's door as he had entered the doors oftrades-places all his life. To him, Hod Burrage was not a personality,but a menial existing for the sole purpose of waiting upon andattending to the wants of him, Bill Carmody. The others--the old men,and the crippled ones, and the hard-handed grubbers of stumps, who satabout in faded mackinaws and patched overalls--he regarded not at all.
He deposited his pack-sack on the floor where its canvas sides,outbulging with blankets and duffel, fairly shrieked their newness.
After some minutes of silence--a silence neither friendly nor hostile,during which Bill was conscious that all eyes were turned upon him infrank curiosity, he spoke--and in speaking, inadvertently antagonizedthe entire male population of Hilarity. For in his speech was no wordof greeting.
He addressed no one in particular, but called peremptorily, and with atrace of irritation, for a salesman.
Now, Hod Burrage was anything but a salesman. His goods either soldthemselves or remained on their shelves, and to Mr. Burrage it was amatter of supreme indifference which. He was wont to remark tohesitating or undecided customers that "if folks didn't know what theywanted when they come into the store, they better keep away till theyfind out."
So, in answer to the newcomer's demand, Hod shifted his quid and, withexasperating deliberation, spat in the direction of a sawdust-filledbox near which the other was standing.
Without rising from his seat in the one undamaged chair, he answered:"If it's the storekeeper you mean, I'm him." Then, as an after-thought."Was they somethin' you wanted?"
Bill resented the implied rebuke in the storekeeper's words even morethan he resented the bombardment of tobacco juice which barely missedhis boots. Take it all in all he was having a rather rough time of it.
The railway people had refused to stop their fast train at Hilarity forhis special benefit, and he had been compelled to get off at thenearest division point, some forty miles to the westward, and continuehis journey in the evil-smelling caboose of the local freight-trainwhich crawled jerkily over the rails, and stopped to shunt cars atevery siding.
Nearly the whole day had been consumed for the trip, during which timehe had sat in the stuffy, superheated car, whose foul air reeked ofcheap tobacco and drying garments, and listened to the guffaws of thetrain-crew as they regaled each other with vile stories and longaccounts of revolting personal experiences among the dives of cities.
So now, tired, grimy, and with his head aching dully from the longbreathing of foul air, he was in no humor for comprehensive amiability.
He made his few purchases and replied curtly to the questions of thestorekeeper. It is doubtful if he would have replied at all but for thefact that he must have information in regard to the whereabouts ofMoncrossen's Blood River camp.
There was a roar of merriment, which he answered with a scowl, when heinquired the location of the hotel.
"Jest help yourself, stranger," said Burrage, with a generous sweep ofthe arm which included all Hilarity not within the confines of theroom. "They's about fifty buildin's, cabins, an' shacks along thestreet, an' you can take your pick. Rent's the cheapest thing they isin Hilarity--jest kick out the rats an' spread your blankets."
It was when Bill stooped to add the gaudy-labeled cans to his pack thatDaddy Dunnigan, of the twisted leg, volunteered the bit of advice thatfell upon his ears unheeded.
He was openly resentful now, having detected certain smiles, winks, andnudgings with which the assembled men called each other's attention tovarious details of his clothing and pack.
During the stor
ekeeper's temporary cessation of vigilance while waitingupon his customer, the others had seized the opportunity to refreshthemselves at his expense.
A thick, heavy tumbler, so cloudy and begrimed as to be almost opaque,was filled from a large jug placed conveniently upon a sack ofpotatoes, and passed from one to the other, each absorbing little ormuch as the thirst was upon him, and passing it on to his neighbor.
Daddy Dunnigan offered it to Bill along with the advice; but the latterungraciously refused and, turning abruptly away, shouldered his packand proceeded to select his "hotel."
"Wonder who's he?" remarked Hod Burrage as he lazily resumed his seat.
"Too damned upity to suit me!" vociferated Creed, Hilarity'sself-alleged bad man, with a fierce exhalation that dislodged a thinvolley of cracker-crumbs from his overhanging mustache. "A heap toodamned upity for this camp, says I."
He shook a hairy fist menacingly toward the door through which the manhad departed. "It's lucky for him it was old Daddy there 'stead of mehe wouldn't drink with or I'd of went to the floor with him an' teachedhim his manners."
"Naw ye wouldn't, Creed," said the old man. "Ye'd done jest loike yedone--set there atop yer barr'l an' blinked. An' when he'd went outye'd blowed an' bragged an' blustered, an' then fizzled out like a wetfuse. 'Stead of which Oi predic' that the young feller's a realman--once he gets strung out. Anyways, Oi bet he does his foightin'whiles the other feller's there 'stead of settin' 'round an' snortin'folks' whisky full o' cracker-crumbs."
He gazed ruefully into his half-filled glass.
"Throw it out, Daddy, an' have one on me," offered Burrage, reachingfor the jug.
With a sly wink toward the others, the old man drained the glass at agulp and passed it innocently to be refilled.
"I'll let him go this time," rumbled Creed with a frown. "He's headin'for Buck Moncrossen's camp--Moncrossen'll break him!"
"Or he'll break Moncrossen!" interrupted Daddy, bringing his crutchdown upon the floor. "The one camp'll not hold the two o' thim f'rlong. Heed ye now, Oi predic' there'll be hell a poppin' on BloodRiver, an' be this time a year fr' now one o' thim two'll be broke f'rgood an' all, an', not to mention no names, it won't be yon stranger."
The strong liquor had loosened the tongue of the ordinarily silent oldman and he continued:
"Oi catched his eye fair; an' 'tis the eye of a foightin' man--an eye,the loike o' which Oi ain't seen since Oi looked f'r the last time inthe dead eyes o' Captain Fronte McKim, in the second outbreak o' thewild Boh, Hira Kal, in the brown hills o' the Punjab."
The men listened expectantly, for when the liquor was right the old mancould tell of strange wars in far climes.
"One night the little hillmen sneaked up on Captain Barkley's flyin'battery. They left his head an' his men's stickin' atop a row o' stakesan' dragged the guns to a hilltop overlookin' the pass. An' in themornin' they unlimbered, sweepin' our left wing.
"Fronte McKim was captain o' the Lights an' Oi was a corp'l. All thatmornin' the Boh kep' pepperin' away, wi' 'Miss Fanny,' the colonel hewas, an' his parade-groun' staff o' book sogers, wi' tables o' figgersan' the book o' rules an' maps an' a pair o' dividers, tryin' to figgerout how to chase a bad Boh offen a hilltop wi'out clim'in' the same.
"An' he lived a long time after, did Miss Fanny, to die in his bed o'some nice, fine disease, wi' his fambly an' his Scotch an' sodygathered about him.
"An' he was put in a foine, big coffin wi' a bran' new flag spread atopto keep off the dust, an' carried back to Englan' in a war-ship, wi'the harbor guns firin' salutes--the whiles Fronte McKim lays back amongthe hills o' Punjab, wropped in his powder-burnt, shot-tore blanket.
"The hillmen an' their women an' the shiny hill kids give wide berth inpassin', an' make low salaams to the grave o' the terrible fightin'_sahib_ that put the fear o' God in the heart o' the wild Boh. An' it'sas Captain Fronte would wished--Oi know'd um well.
"But, as Oi was sayin', the whiles Miss Fanny was tryin'--by nine timessix is forty-seven an' traject'ry an' muzzle v'locity an' fours rightan' holler squares--to wish the Boh offen the hilltop so he could marchus through the pass accordin' to Hoyle, Fronte McKim was off aheadamong the rocks, layin' on his belly behint a ant-hill studyin' thehillside through his spyglass.
"Well, 'long 'bout noon he come gallopin' up, wi' his big black horseall a lather, to where we was layin' in the scrub cursin' the flies an'the department an' the outbreaks o' Bohs.
"'Come on, boys!' he hollers, wi' the glitter in his eye; 'Oi found theway! All together now, an' we'll see the top o' yon hill or we'll seehell this day!'
"Wi' that he tears loose a yell 'twould strike a chill to the heart o'an iceberg, an' wheels his horse into the open--an' us in the saddlean' follerin', all yellin' like a hellful o' devils turned loose forrecess."
The old man shifted his crutch and sipped at his liquor.
"Most o' us seen the top o' the hill," he resumed, "an' the brownhillmen, what of 'em wasn't layin' limp by the guns, a skitterin'through the scrub after a Boh who'd took off on a stray cavalry horse.
"But they was a many o' us as didn't--layin' sprawled among the rockso' the bare hillside, an' their horses runnin' wild to keep up wi' thecharge. We found Captain Fronte wi' his whole front blow'd out by ashell an' his shoulders kind o' tumbled in where his lungsbelonged--but thim eyes was lookin' straight at the hilltop.
"An' Oi looked in 'em long--for Oi loved him--an' was glad. 'Cause Oiknow'd Captain Fronte McKim was seein' hell--an' enjoyin' it."
He set down the empty glass and favored Creed with a cold stare: "An'his eyes is like _that_--the stranger's--an' yours ain't, norMoncrossen's."
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