by Various
"Dolls?"
"Yes, dolls. Stimpson over on Clear Creek has a little girl. She lost a doll. Mrs. Stimpson said the kid was sure she never lost it-- that it was took. Wal, they got her another doll, an' by golly, not longer after, when the family was all away, thet doll disappeared, too.
"Now I tax myself, I can remember the darndest lot of things the loss of which was laid on thet locoed thief. Comb an' brush, silver buckles, beads, handkerchiefs, socks, cough medicine, face powder, lace curtains, towels, mirror, bell, clock. Oh, Lord, there's no end to them. Yet nothin' worth much, so to speak. Everybody just laughs an' says, 'wal, by gosh, the camp robber has been here."
Stimpson pushed back his papers on the desk and looked up at the rider with a keen interest.
"So your name's Wingfield?"
"Yes, sir," was the quiet reply.
The rancher surveyed the lithe figure, dusty and worn, the dark, lined face and its piercing eyes, with appreciation of the strong impression they gave.
"Where have you been ridin'?" Stimpson asked.
"I rode for, Stillwell durin' the spring roundup. But he didn't need me longer. I got on at Brandon's. Lasted only one pay day. Next got a job at Hall's. Couldn't stay there. Then Randall's . . . An' as I told you I've been ridin' a grub line since."
"Wingfield, tell me just why you couldn't hold a job?" asked Stimpson.
"It was my fault, sir."
"You don't look like a drinkin' man."
"Well, I hit the bottle pretty stiff some years ago--just after . . . But I tapered off--an' lately I haven't drank at all."
"Because you were broke?"
"No. I've a little money left. I just got sick of it."
"I can understand that. Now if you want to work for me, come clean about this trouble you've been havin'. Tell me why a man of your evident intelligence an' ability can't hang on here."
Wingfield looked out of the window, across the summer range, where the heat veils were rising. His face twitched. It was somber and sad. And when he turned again, Stimpson saw that the dark lightning of his eyes had dimmed.
"Seems, sir, that I can't stay anywhere long. I've been restless, an' I reckon I'm irritable. Can't make friends. I don't care about anythin'. But I realize now that I've got to correct that. An' I promise you, if you'll take me on, I'll try to overcome it."
"I'll take you on, Wingfield. Thanks for your confidence. I appreciate it. I'd like to know more, though. What happened to such a fine fellow as you--that you don't care for anythin'?"
"Some years ago I--I lost my wife--an' it knocked me out," said Wingfield.
"Ahuh. Too bad! . . . I didn't take you for a married man. How old are you, Wingfield?
"I'm twenty-nine."
"Well, that surprises me. You look older . . . All right, Wingfield, you're on. An', let us hope, to your advantage as well as mine. Report to Neff, an' ask for quarters, by yourself, if you prefer. Later today we can talk wages an' what this particular job is."
That deal was consummated in July. Wingfield made a valiant effort to prove worthy of the opportunity Stimpson had placed in his way. And he succeeded so far as the work was concerned. He overcame much to stick to that job, but he could not correct his taciturn habit, his aloofness, and sharpness of tongue, when he did speak.
Naturally he had not made friends with Stimpson's foreman, Neff. Signs were not wanting, however, that some of the riders looked favorably upon him. He had even been asked to accompany them to town this Saturday night, which was the end of August, and pay day.
Late that afternoon Wingfield rode back to the ranch, and before he dismounted in front of Neff's cabin he sensed trouble. All the riders were in. Wingfield went in without greeting any of those who regarded him curiously.
"Wingfield," spoke up Stimpson, "the payroll is missin'."
"It is, sir? . . . Well!--How you mean--missin'?" asked Wingfield, flashing his eyes from Neff to the rancher.
"I don't know how," said Stimpson, slowly, guarded in his speech. "I just got here . . . Speak up, Neff."
"It--it was this way, boss," replied Neff, hurriedly. "Reckon I got here about ten o'clock. Straight from the house, when you gave me the money. Wally Peters over there helped me count it. Didn't you, Wally?"
"Yes, I did," answered a cleancut young cowboy, stepping forward to confront the rancher. "There was two thousand, three hundred an' sixty dollars. Neff put it in the desk here, shut the drawer--this one, sir, but he didn't lock it. Then we went out together."
"Had there been anyone about the place?" inquired Stimpson.
"Yes, sir. Wingfield must have been in--I found the paper--here it is--shows the time of his outfit. I always pay from his figures . . . This paper was here when I came back. But not when I left," said Neff.
Wingfield spoke up instantly. "That is correct, sir. I left my time paper here about noon. There was no one in."
A silence ensued that developed from embarrassment to a strained suspense.
Then Stimpson, seeing that Neff would not or could not accuse Wingfield to his face burst out impatiently:
"Wingfield, I'm sorry I have to explain. Neff has charged you with theft of the payroll!"
Wingfield gave a gasp that sounded like suppression of a cry of pain. His dark face went ashen. With one swift lunge he struck Neff a terrific blow, knocking him over a chair, to crash into a corner. Then Wingfield leaped clear, drawing his gun.
The spectators of that move waved in noisy pell-mell to one side, leaving Stimpson standing his ground. With a long stride he got in front of Wingfield.
"Hold on!" he called, sharply. "There's no call for gun play."
Indeed there did not appear to be at least at the moment, for Neff had been completely knocked out. Wingfield slowly sheathed his gun. The fury that had actuated him seemed to shudder out.
"My God--YOU don't believe I stole that money!" he asked Stimpson.
The rancher took one long look at the man's convulsed face.
"No, Wingfield, I don't," he replied, feelingly. "But Neff does, an' no doubt he's not the only one. Somethin' must be done about it."
"Thank you. Stimpson," said Wingfield huskily. "I swear to God I didn't take the money."
"You need not deny that to me." replied the rancher. "But you can see, Wingfield, if you're to stay on here, you must try to PROVE you didn't."
"Yes. I see. An' I've fallen pretty low--when any range rider dares think me a thief," muttered Wingfield.
"Circumstantial evidence has hanged many a man. Don't let it beat you here. You're valuable to me. An' it's sure plain, Wingfield-- either you crack an' lose out, or you prove what I think you are."
Winfield raised his bowed head and the harshest of the bitter darkness left his face. He made no move to reach the rancher's half-proffered hand.
"I'll take your hand when I show these men your faith in me is justified."
That night Wingfield lay dressed on his bed in the darkness and silence. All hands had gone to town for the dance.
Lying there in the blackness he waged the battle. If he had not become a sore and strange outsider all over the range, if he had hid the secret of his misery in wholesome labor and friendliness, he would never have been accused of theft. That was the last straw.
He did not choose to sink under that. He would disprove the charge, and thereafter regulate his conduct to harmonize with his environment. Stimpson had been right--he must mend his character or crack for good.
But there could never be any mending of his broken heart. In the five years since the catastrophe there had never been a single night, when he was sober, that he had not lain awake, thinking, remembering, suffering. He had wronged his wife, and in the shame of his unworthiness he had augmented the quarrel that had ended in her leaving him. It all came back mockingly, and he lived over again his fruitless search for her, and then his despair.
He beheld for the thousandth time a vision of the bonny head, with its curly golden locks, and the flower-like blue eye
s, and the frail graceful shape. Long ago he divined she was dead. She could never have borne grief and privation together. She had never been strong, though she had gained somewhat after he took her from school teaching and married her. He recalled with agony his panic, his joy, his pride, when she shyly imparted a secret, and how zealously from that moment he had guarded her health.
Then came his fall, a natural though despicable thing. Vain regret! Sleepless and eternal remorse! But these pangs were softening with the years. He knew that before she died she had forgiven him, and that if he could have found her they would have been reunited.
There in the dead hour of midnight he struggled for faith to believe she might hear his whisper and give him strength to live better the life that had to be lived.
Sunrise found him out behind Neff's cabin, studying in the clear light of day some strange tracks he had found.
A faint long flat depression of grass and dust and on each side of it a small round mark, scarcely a hole. Wingfield followed the tracks at a walk into the woods.
In places, where the pine needles formed thick springy mats, devoid of grass or flowers, he passed quickly on in the direction in which the trail headed, and sooner or later, on more favorable ground he would find it again. It led deeper and deeper into the woods.
In the afternoon on the first clear spot of soft ground that he had encountered in miles he found the well-defined print of a large flat foot. Close on each side was the accompanying little round mark.
"Ahuh! He's slipped off that long thing which gave me such trouble," Wingfield, as he surveyed the trail. "Quit on me, huh? Feelin' pretty safe now! . . . ONE FOOT-TRACK! . . . By thunder! I've got it. He's a cripple. A one-legged man! An' these little round tracks were made by crutches . . . I'm a locoed son-of-a- gun!"
With renewed enthusiasm and stronger resolve and curiosity, Wingfield pressed on; and now, owing to the slackened vigilance of the man he was trailing, he made fast time.
Almost at his feet showed a narrow trail leading down the precipitous wall. And the tracks he was trailing stood out like print on a page.
Five hundred feet down, the trail emerged from the shade into the open canyon, where Wingfield's advent scarcely disturbed the turkeys and deer.
He proceeded slowly and cautiously. A little gray burro grazed in the one open glade. Beyond this, a jutting wall shut off extended view.
He kept close to the wall, under cover, and soon peeped around the yellow stone corner. He was amazed to discover a child playing in front of an old weatherbeaten cabin.
Wingfield sheathed his gun and stepped out, to approach the little girl. She saw him before he spoke.
"Hello, little girl. Do you live here?"
"Who's you?" she asked, without alarm, though she ceased her play.
"I'm a cowboy. Where's your mother--an' your daddy?"
"My muvver's dead . . . I never had no daddy," she said.
She could not have been more than five years old. She was very pretty with eyes as blue as cornflowers. It needed not a second glance at her crude strange garments for even Wingfield to see that no woman had made them. Her little dress had been fashioned from a cowboy's shirt.
Upon her feet were moccasins made from sheepskin, with the wool outside; and Wingfield believed that material had come from a range rider's vest. Then the thought that had been dammed by his consciousness burst through--he had stumbled upon the retreat of the camp robber.
"My grandad's sick," said the little girl, seriously.
"Where is he?" asked Wingfield, thickly.
She pointed toward the cabin. The door was open and the sunlight poured in.
An old man, with face as gray as his hair and beard, lay upon a bed. His bright eyes fixed in terrible earnestness upon the visitor.
"Well, old timer, who are you?" burst out Wingfield, taking in the gaunt form and the wooden leg strapped to a short thigh.
"Did you ever--hear--of Peg-leg Smith?" came the husky response.
"Sure I have. Old prospector--traveled round with a burro. I've heard the cowboys talk . . . Ahuh! Are you that hombre?"
"Yes . . . Did you trail me?"
"I did--old timer. I'm sorry. The little girl said you were sick."
"Aye, I am indeed . . . sick unto death."
"Aw, no. Don't say that. Maybe I can do somethin'. What ails you?"
"Old age. Love an'--fear," he returned.
"I don't just savvy the last," said Wingfield, approaching the bed in quandary. But pity was paramount.
"Did you trail me?"
"Yes, but you needn't fear me. Only tell me, old timer."
"You trailed me to get back the money I stole from Stimpson's ranch?"
"I did, Smith. You see they accused me of stealin' it."
"It is here--every dollar," hurriedly cried the man, and laboriously fumbling under his head he found a packet, and held it out with shaking hand.
"Thanks, old timer. That'll help a lot," said Wingfield, huskily. "How'd you come to--to take it?"
"Stranger, I never stole a cent in my life until then. All I stole was for the child. But that day--when was it?--yesterday? When I saw the money I had a wild idea. I would steal that--and with it-- I'd take my little girl away--and find a home and comfort for her-- some one to love her . . . So I stole it. And when I got back--I fell here--it's the end . . . Thank God, you came. I can die in peace."
"Is this child related to you?" asked Wingfield.
"No. Five years ago--over on the mountain range--I happened to find a woman along the road . . . She was a crazed thing--ill-- suffering. I put her on my burro. Fetched her here. She gave birth to a child . . . Then she lingered a few days--and died. The child lived. Meant to take her--somewhere--to a home. But I loved her. I kept her. All these years I've kept her. No cowboy or hunter ever found me until now. No one ever dreamed old Peg-leg Smith had a little angel in his canyon . . . I stole for her. I became the camp robber of the range. Many's the time I have laughed over my other name . . . The camp robber!"
Wingfield fell on his knees beside the bed.
"Old timer, tell me--her name?" he begged, hoarsely, his lean hands clutching at the blanket.
"Her name is Fay."
"No. Not the child . . . the woman--her mother . . . her name?"
"I never knew. She never told. But in her delirium she would cry out: 'Lex--LEX! Oh, Lex, my husband! . . . An' she died crying that name. I've never forgotten."
"Merciful God!" moaned Wingfield, sinking down. "Man--I was that husband . . . this is my baby."
"Who are you?" queried Smith, rising upon his elbow, with hope illuminating his face.
"Lex Wingfield . . . Her name was Fay Kingsley. . . . We were married in Denver . . . It was here in Arizona--on this range--at Springer that I--I made her unhappy, and she left me."
"Kingsley--Denver--Springer, yes, she mentioned those names," replied Smith eagerly and softly. "How strange! I never wanted to leave this canyon. Something chained me here . . . I gave up prospecting . . . I took to stealing . . . So, it was the camp robber who found little Fay's father."
Wingfield leaped up with a start. The child had come in.
"Is you better?" she asked, with sweet solicitude.
"No, little Fay . . . You are losing grandad . . . But you--are gaining--your daddy."
Contents
THE GREAT SLAVE
By Zane Grey
A voice on the wind whispered to Siena the prophecy of his birth. "A chief is born to save the vanishing tribe of Crows! A hunter to his starving people!"
While he listened, at his feet swept swift waters, the rushing, green-white, thundering Athabasca, spirit-forsaken river; and it rumbled his name and murmured his fate. "Siena! Siena! His bride will rise from a wind kiss on the flowers in the moonlight! A new land calls to the last of the Crows! Northward where the wild goose ends its flight Siena will father a great people!"
So Siena, a hunter of the leafy trails, dreamed his dreams; and at sixte
en he was the hope of the remnant of a once powerful tribe, a stripling chief, beautiful as a bronzed autumn god, silent, proud, forever listening to voices on the wind.
All the signs of a severe winter were in the hulls of the nuts, in the fur of the foxes, in the flight of water-fowl. Siena was spearing fish for winter store. None so keen of sight as Siena, so swift of arm; and as he was the hope, so he alone was the provider for the starving tribe. Siena stood to his knees in a brook where it flowed over its gravelly bed into the Athabasca. Poised high was his wooden spear. It glinted downward swift as a shaft of sunlight through the leaves. Then Siena lifted a quivering whitefish and tossed it upon the bank where his mother Ema, with other women of the tribe, sun-dried the fish upon a rock.
Again and again, many times, flashed the spear. The oldest squaw could not remember such a run of fish. Ema sang the praises of her son; the other women ceased the hunger chant of the tribe.
Suddenly a hoarse shout pealed out over the waters.
Ema fell in a fright; her companions ran away; Siena leaped upon the bank, clutching his spear. A boat in which were men with white faces drifted down toward him.
"Palefaces," he whispered, trembling, yet stood his ground ready to fight for his mother. He remembered stories of an old Indian who had journeyed far to the south and had crossed the trails of the dreaded white men. There stirred in him vague memories of strange Indian runners telling camp-fire tales of white hunters with weapons of lightning and thunder.
As the boat beached on the sand Siena saw men lying with pale faces upward to the sky, and voices in an unknown tongue greeted him. The tone was friendly, and he lowered his threatening spear. Then a man came up the bank, his hungry eyes on the pile of fish, and he began to speak haltingly in mingled Cree and Chippewayan language.
"Boy--we're white friends--starving--let us buy fish--trade for fish--we're starving and we have many moons to travel."
"Siena's tribe is poor," replied the lad; "sometimes they starve too. But Siena will divide his fish and wants no trade."
Whereupon he portioned out a half of the fish. The white men built a fire and sat around it feasting like famished wolves around a fallen stag. When they had appeased their hunger they packed the remaining fish in the boat, whistling and singing the while. Then the leader made offer to pay, which Siena refused, though the covetous light in his mother's eyes hurt him sorely.