Boy With the U. S. Foresters

by William Henry Giles Kingston

  CHAPTER XIII

  HOW THE FOREST WON A GREAT DOCTOR

  In the middle of the night the telephone bell rang. Instantly Wilburheard the doctor's voice responding.

  "Yes, where is it?" he queried. "Where? Oh, just beyond Basco Aleck'splace. All right, I'll start right away."

  There was some rummaging in the other rooms, and in less than fiveminutes' time the clatter of hoofs outside told the boy that the doctorwas off, probably on the huge gray horse Wilbur had seen in the corralas he rode in that day. It was broad daylight when he wakened again, andMrs. Davis was standing beside him with his breakfast tray. It was solong since Wilbur had not had to prepare breakfast for himself that hefelt quite strange, but the night's rest had eased him wonderfully, andaside from a little soreness where he had had his scalp laid open, hewas quite himself again.

  "Did Doctor Davis have to go away in the night?" he asked. "I thought Iheard the telephone."

  "Yes," answered the doctor's wife. "But that is nothing new. Almost oncea week, at least, he is sent for in the night, or does not reach hometill late in the night. I've grown used to it," she added; "doctors'wives must."

  "But distances are so great, and there are so few trails," said the boy,"and Doctor Davis is so famous, one would think that he would do betterin a city."

  "Better for himself?" came the softly uttered query.

  The boy colored hotly as he realized the idea of selfishness that therehad been in his speech.

  "I beg your pardon," he said. "No, I see. But it does seem strange, justthe same, that he should be out here."

  "He wouldn't be happy anywhere else."

  "Excuse me, Mrs. Davis," said the boy, who had caught something of theSupervisor's abruptness, "but what brought him here?"

  "Do you not," answered the doctor's wife, giving question for question,"know the old hunter, 'Rifle-Eye Bill'? I don't know his right name.Why, of course, you must; he's the Ranger in your part of the forest."

  "Do I know him?" said Wilbur, and without stopping for further questiontalked for ten minutes on end, telling all that the old hunter had donefor him and how greatly he admired him. "Know him," he concluded, "Ishould just guess I did."

  "It was he," said the woman, "who persuaded us to come out here."

  "Won't you tell me?" pleaded the boy. "I'd love to hear anything aboutRifle-Eye. And the doctor, too," he added as an afterthought.

  "It was long ago," she began, "seventeen years ago. Yes," she continuedwith a smile at the lad's surprise, "I have lived here seventeen years."

  "Do you--" began the boy excitedly, "do you ride a white mare?"

  This time it was the doctor's wife who colored. She flushed to the rootsof her hair.

  "Yes," she answered hurriedly, and went on to explain the earlyconditions of the forest. But Wilbur was not listening, he wasremembering the stories that he had heard since his arrival into theforest of the "little white lady," of whom the ranchers and minersalways spoke so reverently. But presently Rifle-Eye's name attracted hisattention and he listened again.

  "We were camping," she said, "in one of the redwood groves not far fromSan Francisco for the summer, the doctor having been appointed anattending surgeon at one of the larger hospitals, although he was veryyoung. We had been married only a little over a year. One evening justafter supper, Rifle-Eye, although we did not know him then, walked intocamp.

  "'You are a doctor, an operating doctor?' he inquired.

  "'Yes,' my husband replied, 'I am a surgeon.'

  "Then the old hunter came to where I was standing.

  "'You are a doctor's wife?' he queried. You know that direct way ofhis?"

  "Indeed I do," Wilbur replied. "It's one you've got to answer."

  "So I said, 'Yes, I am a doctor's wife,' just as if I was a little girlanswering a catechism.

  "'The case is seventy miles away,' he said, 'and there's a horsesaddled.' He turned to me. 'A woman I know is coming over in a littlewhile to stay the night with you, so that you will not be lonely.Come, doctor.' There was a hurried farewell, and they were gone. I canlaugh now, as I think of it, but it was dreadful then.

  "Presently, however, the woman that he had spoken of came over to ourcamp. She was a mountaineer's wife, and very willing and helpful. But Iwas a little frightened, as I had never seen any one quite like herbefore."

  "You couldn't have had much in common," said Wilbur, who was observantenough to note the artistic nature of the room wherein he lay, theexquisite cleanliness and freshness of all his surroundings, and thefaultless English of the doctor's wife. Besides, she was pretty andsweet-looking, and boys are quick to note it.

  "We didn't," she answered, "but when I happened to mention the oldhunter, why the woman was transformed. She brightened up, and told metales far into the night of what the old hunter had done until," shesmiled, "I almost thought he must be as nice as Doctor Davis."

  "Doctor Davis does look awfully fine," agreed Wilbur.

  "I always think so," said his wife demurely. "Two days passed before themen returned, and when I got a chance alone with my husband, he wastwice as bad as the mountaineer's wife. He would talk of nothing butRifle-Eye and the need of surgical work in the mountains.

  "'And you, Violet,' he said, 'you're going to ride there with me to-dayand help look after this man.' It did rather surprise me, because I knewthat he hated to have me troubled with any details of his work, for heused to like to leave his profession behind when he came home. So I knewthat he thought it important, and I went. But I rode the greater part ofthe day with the old hunter, and long before he reached the place wherethe man was who needed me, all my objections had vanished and I waseager to begin."

  "That's just the way that Rifle-Eye does," said the boy, "he makes itseem that what he wants you to do is just what you want to do yourself."

  "When I got to the place," she went on, "I found that it was a Basqueshepherd, who had been hurt by some of the cattlemen. That made it muchmore interesting for me, for you know, my people were Basques, thatstrange old race, who, tradition tells, are all that are left of theshepherds on the mountains of the lost Atlantis. So I nursed him as bestI could, and presently, from far and wide over the Rockies I would getmessages from the Basque shepherds."

  "Didn't you put a stop to the feuds at one time?" asked Wilbur. "The oldhunter told me something about 'the little white lady' and the sheepwar."

  "I helped in many of them," she said simply, "and when they came to mefor advice I tried to give it. Doctor Davis was always there to suggestthe more advisable course, and I put it to these Bascos, as they calledthem, so that they would understand."

  "How about Burleigh?" asked Wilbur.

  But the doctor's wife disclaimed all knowledge of a sheep-owner calledBurleigh.

  "All right," said Wilbur, "then I'll give my share of the story, as theold hunter told it to me. That is, if you don't mind."

  "Tell it," she smiled, "if you like."

  "Well," said Wilbur, "one Sunday afternoon a Ranger, whose cabin wasnear a lookout point, said to his wife, 'I'll ride up to the peak, andbe back in time for supper.' He went off in his shirt-sleeves,bare-headed, for an hour's ride, and was gone a week. Up in the brush hefound the trail of a band of sheep, and although he was cold and hungryand his horse was playing out, he stuck right on the job until it gottoo dark to see. The second day he smashed in the door of a miner'scabin, got some grub, and nailed a note on the door saying who'd takenit, and kept on. He tired his horse out, and left him in anotherfellow's corral, but kept on going on foot. The sheepman was known asdangerous, but this little Ranger--did I tell you he was Irish--stuck toit, trusting to find some way out even if the grazer did get ugly.

  "At last he came on the sheep in a mountain meadow, and Burleigh on hishorse by them, a rifle across his saddle bow. The Ranger said little atthe time, and the two men went home to supper. After eating, as they satthere, the Ranger said his say. He told the grazer what were the ordershe had, and that he would have to live
up to them. But the grazer had acopy of 'orders,' too, and he had hired a lawyer to find out how hecould get out of them. So he lit into the Ranger.

  "'You see, Mac,' he said, 'those orders don't mean anything. They may beall right in Washington, but they don't go here. You can't stop me, norarrest me, nor hurt my sheep. Your bosses won't stand by you if you getinto any mix-up. The best thing you can do is to stay here to-night, andthen go home. Make a report on it, if you like, I don't care."

  "And then the Ranger began," the boy went on. "The old hunter told methat this little bit of an Irishman told the grazer about his work as aRanger. He told him how he had seen the good that was going to be done,and that having put his hand to the plow, he couldn't let it go again.He didn't know much about it, and he'd never tried to talk about itbefore, but the natural knack of talking which his race always has cameto help him out. Then he began to talk of the sheep and cattle war, andthe shame that it was to have them killing each other's flocks andshooting each other because they could not agree about the right tograss.

  "'An' there's one more thing,' he said, ''tis only the other day that Iwas talkin' to the "little white lady," and she said she knew that youwouldn't be the one to start up trouble again.' And he wound up with anappeal to his better judgment, which, so the old hunter told me thegrazer said afterward, would have got a paralyzed mule on the move.

  "When he got through, Burleigh merely answered:

  "'Mac, take that blanket and go to bed. I'll talk to you in themorning.'

  "When the Ranger woke, a little after daylight, the grazer sat besidehis blanket, smoking. He began without wasting any time.

  "'Mac,' he said, 'I'm going to take my sheep out to-day. Not because ofany of your little bits of printed orders--I could drive a whole herdthrough them; and not because of any of your bosses back in Washington,who wouldn't know a man's country if they ever got into it, and couldn'tfind their way out; and not entirely because, as you say, "the littlewhite lady" trusts me, though perhaps that's got a good deal to do withit. But when I find a man who is so many different kinds of a fool asyou seem to be, it looks some like my moral duty to keep him out of anasylum.' And that's the story I heard about Burleigh.

  "But I interrupted you," the boy continued, "you were going to tell meabout Doctor Davis. Didn't you ever go back to the city?"

  "Oh, yes," she replied. "The doctor had to take his hospital service,and for three years he spent six months in the hospital in the city,and six months out here in the mountains. But there were several goodsurgeons in the city, and only one on the great wide Sierras, and, asyou know, he is strong enough for the hardest work. So,--I remember wellthe night,--he came to me, and hesitatingly suggested that we shouldlive out here for always, but that he didn't wish to take me away frommy city friends. And I--oh, I had been wanting to come all the time. Iwas just one out of so many in the city, paying little social calls, buthere I found so many people to be fond of. I think I know every one onthe mountains here, and they are all so kind to me. And," she addedproudly, "so appreciative of the doctor."

  Wilbur laughed as she gathered up the things on the tray.

  "Well," he said, "I don't believe the old hunter ever did a better thingwhen he got Doctor Davis to come to the forest--unless, it was the day'the little white lady' came with him. Haven't I had a broken head, andam I not her patient? You bet!"

  But Mrs. Davis only smiled as she passed from the room.

  Wilbur spent the rest of the morning in the doctor's library, and wasmore than delighted to learn that these books were there for borrowing,on the sole condition that they should be returned. He learned, later,that under the guise of a library to lend books, all sorts of littleplans were done for the cheering of the lives of those who lived inisolated portions of the mountain range. The boy had not beentwenty-four hours under the doctor's roof, yet he was quite at home, andsorry to go when the Supervisor rode up. He had been careful to groomKit very thoroughly, and she was standing saddled at the door, half anhour before the time appointed. He was ready to swing into the saddle assoon as Merritt appeared.

  "Not so fast, Loyle," he said, "this is once that promptness is a badthing. I must have a word or two with Mrs. Davis; he'd be a pretty poorstick who ever missed that chance."

  So, while he went inside, Wilbur looked over the pack to see that it wasriding easily, and led Baldy to where he could have a few mouthfuls ofgrass. And when he came out the Forester was even more silent thanusual, and rode for two hours without uttering a syllable.

  "Did you find everything going on all right for the pulp-mill?" askedWilbur, finally desiring to give a chance for conversation. But Merrittsimply replied, "Fairly so," and relapsed into silence. He wakened intosudden energy, however, when, a half an hour later, in making a shortcutto headquarters he came upon an old abandoned trail. It was somewhatovergrown, but the Supervisor turned into it and followed it for somelength, finally arriving at a large spring, one of the best in theforest, which evidently had been known at some time prior to the ForestService taking control, but now had passed into disuse. But Merritt waseven more surprised to find beside the spring a prospector of the oldtype, with his burro and pack, evidently making camp for the night.

  "Evenin'," said Merritt, "where did you get hold of this trail?"

  "Allers knew about it," said the prospector. "I s'pose," he added,noting the bronze "U. S." on the khaki shirt, "that you're the Ranger."

  "Supervisor," replied Merritt. "Locating a mineral claim, are you?"

  "Not yet," the other replied; "I ain't located any mineral to claim yet.I'll come to you for a permit as soon as I do. But I'm lookin' forBurns's lost mine."

  "You don't believe in that old yarn, surely?" questioned the othersurprisedly.

  "Would I be lookin' for it if I hadn't doped it out that it was there?"

  "Where?"

  "Oh, somewheres around here. I reckon it's further north. But if youdon't take any stock in it, there's no use talkin'."

  "I'm not denying its existence," said Merritt, "but you know dozens ofmen have looked for that and no one's found it yet."

  "There can't be but one find it," said the prospector. "I aims to bethat one. I used to think it was further south. Twenty years ago I spenta lot o' time down at the end of the range. Two seasons ago I got ahunch it was further north. I couldn't get away last year, so here I am.I've been busy on Indian Creek for some years."

  "Got a claim there?"

  "Got the only jade in the country."

  "Was it you located that mine in the Klamath Forest?" queried theSupervisor interestedly. "But that's quite a good deposit. I shouldn'tthink you'd be prospecting now."

  "I didn't for two years. But, pard, it was dead slow, an' so I hired aman to run the works while I hit the old trail again. I don't have toget anybody to grubstake me now. I've been able to boost some of theothers who used to help me."

  "But what started you looking for Burns's mine? I thought that story hadbeen considered a fake years ago."

  "What is a lost mine?" asked Wilbur.

  Merritt looked at him a moment thoughtfully, then turned to theprospector.

  "You tell the yarn," he said. "You probably know it better than I do."

  "I'm not much on talkin'," began the prospector. "Away back in thesixties, after the first gold-rush, Jock Burns, one of the oldForty-niners, started prospectin' in the Sierras. There's not much here,but one or two spots pay. By an' by Burns comes into the settlementswith a few little bags of gold dust, an' nuggets of husky size. He blowsit all in. He spends free, but he's nowise wasteful, so he stays in townmaybe a month.

  "Then he disappears from view, an' turns up in less than another monthin town with another little bundle of gold dust. It don't take muchfigurin' to see that where there's a pay streak so easy worked as that,there's a lot more of it close handy. An' so they watches Burns close.Burns, he can't divorce himself from his friends any more than an Indiancan from his color. This frequent an' endurin' friendliness preys someon B
urns's nature, an' bein' of a bashful disposition, he makes severalbreaks to get away. But while the boys are dead willin' to see him startfor the mountains, they reckon an escort would be an amiable form ofappreciation. Also, they ain't got no objection to bein' shown the wayto the mine.

  "Burns gets a little thin an' petered out under the strain, but time an'agin he succeeds in givin' 'em the slip. Sure enough he lines up a monthor two later with some more of the real thing. Finally, one of thesehere friends gets a little peevish over his frequent failures to stackthe deck on Burns. He avers that he'll insure that Burns don't spend anymore coin until he divvys up, an' accordin'ly he hands him a couple ofbullets where he thinks they'll do most good."

  "What did he want to kill him for?" asked Wilbur.

  "He didn't aim to kill him prompt," was the reply. "His idee was to trothim down the hill by easy stages, an' gradooally indooce the oldskinflint to talk. But his shootin' was a trifle too straight, andBurns jest turns in his toes then an' there. This displeases thesentiment of the community. Then some literary shark gits up and spins ayarn about killin' some goose what laid eggs that assayed a hundred percent., an' they decides that it would be a humane thing to arrange thatBurns shan't go out into the dark without some comfortin' friend besidehim. So they dispatches the homicide, neat an' pretty, with the aid of arope, an' remarks after the doin's is over that Burns is probably a heapless lonesome."

  "Well, I should think that would have stopped all chance of furthersearch," said Wilbur.

  "It did. But a year or two after that, Burns acquires the habit ofintrudin' his memory on the minds of some of these here friends. When itgits noised about that a certain kind of nose-paint is some advantageoustoward this particular brand of dream, why, there ain't no way ofkeeping a sufficient supply in camp. I goes up against her myself, an'wild licker she is. But one by one, the boys all gets to dreamin' thatBurns has sorter floated afore them, accordin' to ghostly etiquette, an'pointed a ghostly finger at the ground. Which ain't so plumb exact, forno one supposes a mine to be up in the air. But different ones affirmsthat they can recognize the features of the landscape which the ghost ofBurns frequents. As, however, they all strikes out in differentdirections, I ain't takin' no stock therein.

  "But, two years ago, when I was meanderin' around lookin' for signs, Icomes across the bones of an old mule with the remains of a saddle onhis back, an' I didn't have any trouble in guessin' it to be Burns's.There was no way of tellin', though, whether he was goin' or returnin'when the mule broke down, or if he was far or near the mine, but,anyhow, it gave some idee of direction, an' I reckon I'm goin' to findit."

  "All right," said the Supervisor as they shook up their horses ready togo, "I hope you have good luck and find it."

  "I'll let you or Rifle-Eye know as soon as I do," called back theprospector, "an' you folks can pan out some samples. If I find it, we'llmake the Yukon look sick."

  Merritt laughed as they cantered down the trail to headquarters.

  SAND BURYING A PEAR ORCHARD.

  Almost too late to save a fine plantation which a suitable wind-break oftrees would have guarded.

  _Photo by U. S. Forest Service._]