CHAPTER XVIII
PATTY MAKES HER STRIKE
It was noon, one week from the day she had returned from the Samuelsonranch, and Patty Sinclair stood upon the high shoulder of a butte andlooked down into a rock-rimmed valley. Her eyes roved slowly up anddown the depression where the dark green of the scrub contrastedsharply with the crinkly buffalo grass, yellowed to spun gold beneaththe rays of the summer sun.
She reached up and stroked the neck of her horse. "Just think, oldpartner, three days from now I may be teaching school in that horridlittle town with its ratty hotel, and its picture shows, and itssaloons, and you may be turned out in a pasture with nothing to do buteat and grow fat! If we don't find our claim to-day, or to-morrow,it's good-by hill country 'til next summer."
The day following her encounter with Bethune, Vil Holland hadappeared, true to his promise, and instructed her in the use of herfather's six-gun. At the end of an hour's practice, she had been ableto kick up the dirt in close proximity to a tomato can at fifteensteps, and twice she had actually hit it. "That's good enough for anyuse you're apt to have for it," her instructor had approved. "The mainthing is that you ain't afraid of it. An' remember," he added, "a gunain't made to bluff with. Don't pull it on anyone unless you gothrough with it. Only short-horns an' pilgrims ever pull a gun thatdon't need wipin' before it's put back--I could show you the graves ofseveral of 'em. I'm leavin' you some extry shells that you can shootup the scenery with. Always pick out somethin' little to shootat--start in with tin cans and work down to match-sticks. When you canbreak six match-sticks with six shots at ten steps in ten secondsfolks will call you handy with a gun." He had made no mention of histrip to town, of his filing a homestead, or of their conversation uponthe top of Lost Creek divide. When the lesson was finished, he hadrefused Patty's invitation to supper, mounted his horse, anddisappeared up the ravine that led to the notch in the hills. Althoughneither had mentioned it, Patty somehow felt that he had heard fromWatts of her encounter with Bethune. And now a week had passed and shehad seen neither Vil Holland nor the quarter-breed. It had been a weekof anxiety and hard work for the girl who had devoted almost everyhour of daylight to the unraveling of her father's map. Simple as thedirections seemed, her inability to estimate distances had proven aserious handicap. But by dogged perseverance, and much retracing ofsteps, and correcting of false leads, she finally stood upon the rimof the valley she judged to lie two miles east of the humpbacked buttethat she had figured to be the inverted U of her father's map.
"If this isn't the valley, I'm through for this year," she said. "AndI've got to-day and to-morrow to explore it." She wondered at herindifference--at her strange lack of excitement at this, the crucialmoment of her long quest, even as she had wondered at her absence offear, believing as she did, that Bethune was still in the hills. Thefeeling inspired by the outlaw had been a feeling of rage, rather thanterror, and had rapidly crystallized in her outraged mind into anabysmal soul-hate. She knew that, should the man accost her again, shewould kill him--and not for a single instant did she doubt her abilityto kill him. Vaguely, as she stood looking out over the valley, shewondered if he were following her--if at that moment he were lyingconcealed, somewhere among the surrounding rocks or patches of scrub?Yet, she was conscious of no feeling of fear. She even attempted noconcealment as, standing there upon the bare rock, she drew herfather's map and photographs from her pocket and subjected them to along and minute scrutiny. And then, still holding them in her hand,gazed once more over the valley. "To 'a,' to 'b,'" she repeated. "Whatis there that daddy would have designed as 'a,' and 'b?'" Suddenly,her glance became fixed upon a point up the valley that lay justwithin her range of vision. With puckered eyes and hat-brim drawn lowupon her forehead, she stared steadily into the distance. She knewthat she had never before seen this valley, and yet the place seemed,somehow, strangely familiar. With a low cry she bent over one of thephotographs. Her hands trembled violently as her eyes once more flewto the valley. Yes, there it was, spread out before her just the wayit was in the photograph--the rock-strewn ground--she could evenidentify the various rocks with the rocks in the picture. There wasthe lone tree, and the long rock wall, higher at its upper end,and--yes, she could just discern it--the zigzag crack in the rockledge! Jamming the papers into her pocket she leaped into the saddleand dashed toward a fringe of scrub that marked the course of a couleewhich led downward into the valley. Over its edge, and down itsbrush-choked course, slipping, sliding, scrambling, she urged herhorse, reckless of safety, reckless of anything except that her weary,and at times it had seemed her hopeless, search was about to end. Shehad stood where her daddy had stood when he took that photograph--hadseen with her own eyes--the jagged crack in the rock wall!
In the valley the going was better, and with quirt and spur she urgedher horse to his best, her eyes on the lone pine tree. At the rockwall beyond, she pulled up sharply and stared at the jagged crevicethat bisected it from top to bottom. It was the crevice of thephotograph! Very deliberately she began at the top and traced itscourse to the bottom. She noted the scraggly, stunted pines thatfringed the rim of the wall and that the crack started straight, andthen zigzagged to the ground. Producing the "close up" photograph, shecompared it with the reality before her--an entirely superfluous andneedless act, for each minute detail of the spot at which she staredwas indelibly engraved upon her memory. For hours on end, she hadstudied those photographs, and now--she laughed aloud, and the soundroused her to action. Slipping from the horse, she fumbled at the packstrings of the saddle and loosened the canvas bag. She reached intoit, and stood erect holding a light hand-axe. Once more she consultedher map. "Stake l. c.," she read. "That's lode claim--and then thatfunny wiggly mark, and then the word center." Her brows drew togetheras she studied the ground. Suddenly her face brightened. "Why, ofcourse!" she exclaimed. "That mark represents the crack, and daddymeant to stake the claim with the crack for the center. Well, heregoes!" She vehemently attacked a young sapling, and ten minutes laterviewed with pride her four roughly hacked stakes. Picking up one ofthem and the axe, she paced off her distance, and as she reached thefirst corner point, stared in surprise at the ground. The claim hadalready been staked! Eagerly she stooped to examine the bit of wood.It had evidently been in place for some time--how long, the girl couldnot tell. Long enough, though, for its surface to have becomeweather-grayed and discolored. "Daddy's stakes," she breathed softly,and as her fingers strayed over the surface two big tears welled intoher eyes and trickled unheeded down her cheeks. "If he staked theclaim, I wonder why he didn't file," she puzzled over the matter for amoment, and dismissed it. "I don't know why. But, anyway, the thingfor me to do is to get in my own stakes--only, I'll file, just as soonas I can get to the register's office."
After considerable difficulty, she succeeded in planting her own stakeclose beside the other, which marked the southwest corner of the claim, ashort time later the northwest corner was staked, and the girl stared againat the rock wall. "Why, I've got to put in my eastern boundary stakes up ontop--three hundred feet back from the edge!" she exclaimed; "maybe I'llfind his notice on one of those stakes." It required only a moment tolocate a ravine that led to the top of the ledge which was not nearly sohigh as the one that formed the opposite side of the valley. She found theold stakes, but no sign of a notice. "The wind, and the snow, and the rainhave destroyed it long ago," she muttered. "And, now for my own notice."Producing from her bag a pencil and a piece of paper, she wrote herdescription and affixed it to a stake by means of a bit of wire. Then,descending once more into the valley, she produced her luncheon and threwherself down beside the little creek. It was mid-afternoon, and shesuddenly discovered that she was ravenously hungry. With her back against arock fragment, she sat and feasted her eyes upon her claim--hers--HERS! Herthoughts flew backward to the enthusiasm of her father over this veryclaim. She remembered how his eyes had lighted as he told her of its hiddentreasure. She remembered the jibes, and doubts, and covert sneers of theMiddleton
people, her father's death, her own anger and revolt, when shehad suddenly decided, in the face of their council, entreaties, andcommands to take up his work where he had left it. With kaleidoscopicrapidity her thoughts flew over the events of the ensuing months--themeeting with Vil Holland, her disappointment in the Watts ranch, her eageracceptance of the sheep camp, the long weary weeks of patiently ridingalong rock walls, taking each valley in turn, the growing fear of runningout of funds before she could locate the claim. She shuddered as shethought of Monk Bethune, and of how nearly she had fallen a victim to hismachinations. Her thoughts returned to Vil Holland, her "guardian devil ofthe hills," who had turned out to be in reality a guardian angel indisguise. "Very much in disguise," she smiled, "with his jug of whisky."Nobody who had helped make up her little world of people in the hillcountry was forgotten, the Thompsons, the Samuelsons, and the Wattses--shethought of them all. "Why, I--I love every one of them," she cried, asthough the discovery surprised her. "They're all, every one of them, realfriends--they're not like the others, the smug, sleek, best citizens ofMiddleton. And I'll not forget one of them. We'll file that whole vein fromone end to the other!" Catching up her horse, she mounted, and sat for amoment irresolute. "I could make town, sometime to-night," she mused, andthen her eyes rested for a moment upon her horse's neck where the whitealkali dust lay upon the rough, sweat-dried hair. "No," she decided. "We'llgo back to the cabin, and you can rest up, and to-morrow we'll start atdaylight."
"Mr. Christie was right," she smiled, as she took the back trail forMonte's Creek. "I don't have to teach school. But, I wonder how hecould have gotten that 'hunch,' as he called it? When I've beensearching for the claim for months?"
In a little valley that ran parallel to Monte's Creek, Pattyencountered Microby Dandeline. The girl was lying stretched at fulllength upon the ground and did not notice her approach until she wasalmost on her, then she leaped to her feet, regarded her for a moment,and, with a frightened cry, sprang into the bush and scrambled out ofsight along the steep side of a ravine. In vain Patty called, but heronly answer was the diminishing sounds of the girl's scramblingflight. "What in the world has got into her of late," she wondered, asshe proceeded on her way. Certain it was that the girl avoided her,not only at the Watts ranch, but whenever they had chanced to meet inthe hills. At first she had attributed it to anger or resentment overher own treatment of her when she had tried to get possession of themap. But, surely, even the dull-witted Microby must know that theincident had been forgotten. "No," she decided, "there is somethingelse." Somehow, the girl no longer seemed the simple child-likecreature of the wild. There was a furtiveness about her, and she haddeveloped a certain crafty side glance, as though constantly seeking ameans of escape from something. Her mother had noticed the change,and had confided to Patty that she was "gittin' mo' triflin' everyday, a-rammin' 'round the hills a-huntin' her a mine." "There'ssomething worrying her," muttered the girl. "Something that she don'tdare tell anyone, and it's sapping what little wit she has."
It was late that evening when Patty ate her solitary supper. The sunhad long set, and the dusk of the late twilight had settled upon thevalley of Monte's Creek as she wiped the last dish and set it upon theshelf of her tiny cupboard. Suddenly she looked up. A form darkenedthe doorway, and quick as a flash, her eyes sought the six-gun thatlay in its holster upon the bunk.
"You won't need that." The voice was reassuring. It was Vil Holland'svoice; she had recognized him a second before he spoke and greeted himwith a smile, even as she wondered what had brought him there. Onlythree times before had he come to her cabin, once to ascertain who wasmoving into the sheep camp, once when he had pitched Lord Clendenninginto the creek, and again, only a few days before, when he had come toteach her to shoot. The girl noted that he seemed graver than usual,if that were possible. Certain it was that he appeared to be holdinghimself under restraint. She wondered if he had come to warn her ofthe proximity of Bethune.
"I was in town, to-day," he came directly to the point. "An' LenChristie told me you're goin' to teach school." He paused and his eyesrested upon her face as if seeking confirmation.
Patty laughed; she could afford to laugh, now that the necessity forteaching did not exist. "I asked him if he could find a school for mesometime ago," she replied, trying to fathom what was in his mind.
There was a moment of silence, during which Patty saw the man'sfingers tighten upon his hat brim. "I don't want you to do that. Itain't fit work--for you--teachin' other folks' kids."
Patty stared at him in surprise. The words had come slowly, and attheir conclusion he had paused.
"Maybe you could suggest some work that is more fit?"
The man ignored the hint of sarcasm. "Yes--I think I can." His headwas slightly bowed, and Patty saw that it was with an effort hecontinued: "That is, I don't know if I can make you see it like I do.It's awful real to me--an' plain. Miss Sinclair, I can't make any finespeeches like they do in books. I wouldn't if I could--it ain't myway. I love you more than I could tell you if I knew all the words inthe language, an' how to fit 'em together. I loved you that day Ifirst saw you--back there on the divide at Lost Creek. You was afraidof me, an' you wouldn't show it, an' you wouldn't own up that you waslost--'til I'd made the play of goin' off an' leavin' you. An' I'veloved you every minute since--an' every minute since, I've foughtagainst lovin' you. But, it's no use. The more I fight it, thestronger it gets. It's stronger than I am. I can't down it. It's thefirst time I ever ran up against anything I couldn't whip." Again hepaused. Patty advanced a step, and her eyes glowed softly as theyrested upon the form that stood in her doorway silhouetted against theafter-glow. She saw Buck rub his velvet nose affectionately up anddown the man's sleeve, and into her heart leaped a great longing forthis man who, with the unconscious dignity of the vast open placesupon him, had told her so earnestly of his love. She opened her lipsto speak but there was a great lump in her throat, and no words came.
"That's why," he continued, "I know it ain't just a flash in thepan--this love of mine ain't. All summer I've watched you, an' thehardest thing I ever had to do was to set back an' let you play alone hand against the worst devil that ever showed his face in thehills. But the way things stacked up, I had to. You had me sized upfor the one that was campin' on your trail, an' anything I'd have donewould have played into Bethune's hand. I know I ain't fit for you--noman is. But, I'll always do the best I know how by you--an' I'llalways love you. As for the rest of it, I never saved any money. Iknow there's gold here in the hills, an' I've spent years huntin' it.I'll find it, too--sometime. But, I ain't exactly a pauper, either.I've got my two hands, an' I've got a contract with Old Man Samuelsonto winter his cattle. I didn't want to do it first, but the figure henamed was about twice what I thought the job was worth. I told him soright out, an' he kind of laughed an' said maybe I'd need it all, an'anyhow, them cattle was all grade Herefords, an' was worth more towinter than common dogies. So, you see, we could winter through, allright, an' next summer, we could prospect together. The gold's here,somewhere--your dad knew it--an' I know it."
Receiving no answering pat, the buckskin left off his nuzzling of theman's sleeve, and turned from the doorway. As he did so the brownleather jug scraped lightly against the jamb. The girl's eyes flew tothe jug, and swiftly back to the man who stood framed in the doorway.She loved him! For days and days she had known that she loved him, andfor days and nights her thoughts had been mostly of him--thisunsmiling knight of the saddle--her "guardian devil of the hills."Without exception, the people whose regard was worth having respectedhim, and liked him, even though they deplored his refusal to acceptsteady work. They're just like the people back home, she thought. Theyhave no imagination. To their minds the cowpuncher who draws his fortydollars a month, year in and year out, is in some manner moredependable than the man whose imagination and love of the boundlessopen lead him to stake his time against millions. What do they know ofthe joys and the despairs of uncertainty? In a measure they, too, lovethe plain
s and the hills--but their love of the open is inextricablyinterwoven with their preconceived ideas of conduct. But, Vil Hollandis bound by no such convention; his "outfit," a pack horse to carryit, and his home--all outdoors! Her father had imagination, and yearafter year, in the face of the taunts and jibes of his small townneighbors, he had steadfastly allowed his imagination full sway, andat last--he had won. She had adored her father from whom she hadinherited her love of the wild. But--there was the jug! Always herthoughts of Vil Holland had led up to that brown leather jug until shehad come to hate it with an unreasoning hatred.
"I see you have not forgotten your jug."
"No, I got it filled in town." The man's reply was casual, as he wouldhave mentioned his gloves, or his hat.
"You said you had never run up against anything you couldn't whip,except--except----"
"Yes, except my love for you. That's right--an' I never expect to."
"How about that jug? Can you whip that?"
"Why, yes, I could. If there was any need. I never tried it."
"Suppose you try it for a while, and see."
The man regarded her seriously. "You mean, if I leave off packin' thatjug, you'll----"
"I haven't promised anything." The girl laughed a trifle nervously."But, I will tell you this much. I utterly despise a drunkard!"
Vil Holland nodded slowly. "Let's get the straight of it," he said."I didn't know--I didn't realize it was really hurtin' me any. Can yousee that it does? Have I ever done anything that you know of, or haveheard tell of, that a sober man wouldn't do?"
The girl felt her anger rising. "Nobody can drink as much as you do,and not be the worse for it. Don't try to defend yourself."
"No, I wouldn't do that. You see, if it's hurtin' me, there wouldn'tbe any defense--an' if it ain't, I don't need any."
For an instant Patty regarded the man who stood framed in the doorway."Clean-blooded," the doctor had called him, and clean-blooded helooked--the very picture of health and rugged strength, clear of eyeand firm of jaw, not one slightest hint or mark of the toper could shedetect, and the realization that this was so, angered her the more.
Abruptly, she changed the subject, and the moment the brown leatherjug was banished from her mind, her anger subsided. In the doorway,Vil Holland noted the undercurrent of suppressed excitement in hervoice as she said: "I have the most wonderful news! I--_I founddaddy's mine!_" Seconds passed as the man stood waiting for her toproceed. "I found it to-day," she continued, without noting that hislean brown hand gripped the hat brim even more tightly than before,nor that his lips were pressed into a thin straight line. "And mystakes are all in, and in the morning I'm going to file."
Vil Holland interrupted. "You--you say you located Rod Sinclair'sstrike? You really located it?" Somehow, his voice sounded different.
The girl sensed the change without defining it. "Yes, I really foundit!" she answered. "Do you want to know where?" Hastily she turned tothe cupboard and taking a match from a box, lighted the lamp. "Yousee," she laughed, "I am not afraid to trust you. I'm going to showyou daddy's map, and his photographs, and the samples. Oh, if you knewhow I've hunted and hunted through these hills for that rock wall! Yousee, the map was like so much Greek to me, until I happened byaccident to learn how to read it. Before that, I just rode up and downthe valleys hunting for the wall with the broad crooked crack in it.Here it is." The man had advanced to the table, and was bending overthe two photographs, examining them minutely. "And here's his map." Hepicked up the paper and for several minutes studied the pencileddirections. Then he laid it down, and turned his attention to thesamples.
"High grade," he appraised, and returned them to the table beside thephotographs. "So, you don't have to teach school," he said, speakingmore to himself than to her. "An' you'll be goin' out of the hillcountry for good an' all. There's nothin' here for you, now thatyou've got what you come after. You'll be goin' back--East."
Patty laughed, and as Vil Holland looked into her face he saw that hereyes held dancing lights. "I'm not going back East," she said. "I'velearned to love--the hill country. I have learned that--perhaps--thereis more here for me than--than even daddy's mine."
Vil Holland shook his head. "There's nothin' for you in the hills," herepeated, slowly, and abruptly extended his hand. "I'm glad for yoursake your luck changed, Miss Sinclair. I hope the gold you take out ofthere will bring you happiness. You've earnt it--every cent of it, an'you've got it, an' now, as far as the hill country goes--the books areclosed. Good-night, I must be goin', now."
Abruptly as he had offered his hand, he withdrew it, and turning,stepped through the door, mounted his horse, and rode out into thenight.
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