by Unknown
"They've got us located, then. Old Man Trouble headed this way. Something liable to start. Soon now."
The minutes dragged. Bob's eyes blurred from the intensity with which he watched.
A bullet struck the edge of the pit. Bob ducked involuntarily. Presently there was a second shot--and a third.
"They're gettin' warm," Dud said.
He and Bob fired at the smoke puffs, growing now more frequent. Both of them knew it would be only a short time till one of them was hit unless their friends came to the rescue. Spurts of sand flew every few moments.
There was another undesirable prospect. The Utes might charge and capture the pit, wiping out the defenders. To prevent this the cowpunchers kept up as lively a fire as possible.
From down the valley came the sound of scattered shots and yells. Dud swung his hat in glee.
"Good boys! They're comin' in on the rear. Hi yi yippy yi!"
Firing began again on the other side. The Utes were caught between the rangers to the left and the soldiers to the right. Bob could see them breaking through the willows toward the river. It was an easy guess that their horses were bunched here and that they would be forced to cross the stream to escape.
Five minutes later Harshaw broke through the saplings to the pit. "Either of you boys hurt?" he demanded anxiously.
"Not a scratch on either of us," Dud reported.
The boss of the Slash Lazy D wrung their hands. "By Godfrey! I'm plumb pleased. Couldn't get it outa my head that they'd got you lads. How's Houck?"
"He's right sick. Doc had ought to look after him soon. He's had one mighty bad day of it."
Houck was carried on a blanket to the riverbank, where camp was being made for the night. The Utes had been routed. It was estimated that ten or twelve of them had been killed, though the number could not be verified, as Indians always if possible carry away their dead. For the present, at least, no further pursuit of them was feasible.
Dr. Tuckerman dressed the wounds of the Brown's Park man and looked after the others who had been hurt. All told, the whites had lost four killed. Five were wounded more or less seriously.
The wagons had been left on the mesa three miles away. Houck was taken here next day on a stretcher made of a blanket tied to willow poles. The bodies of the dead were also removed.
Two days later the rangers reached Bear Cat. They had left the soldiers to complete the task of rounding up the Utes and taking them back to the reservation.
CHAPTER XXXVI
A HERO IS EMBARRASSED
Following the Ute War, as it came to be called, there was a period of readjustment on the Rio Blanco. The whites had driven off the horses and the stock of the Indians. Two half-grown boys appropriated a flock of several thousand sheep belonging to the Indians and took them to Glenwood Springs. On the way they sold the sheep right and left. The asking price was a dollar. The selling price was twenty-five cents, a watermelon, a slice of pie, or a jack-knife with a broken blade.
The difficulties that ensued had to be settled. To get a better understanding of the situation the Governor of the State and a general of the United States Army with their staffs visited the White River country. While in Bear Cat they put up at the hotel.
Mollie did a land-office business, but she had no time to rest day or night. Passing through the office during the rush of the dinner hour, she caught sight of Blister Haines sprawled on two chairs. He was talking with Bob Dillon.
"Hear you done quit the Slash Lazy D outfit. What's the idee?" he said.
"Nothin' in ridin'," Bob told him. "A fellow had ought to get a piece of land on the river an' run some cattle of his own. Me an' Dud aim to do that."
"Hmp! An' meanwhile?"
"We're rip-rappin' the river for old man Wilson."[4]
Blister was pleased, but he did not say so. "Takes a good man to start on a s-shoestring an' make it go with cattle."
"That's why we're going into it," Bob modestly explained.
Mollie broke in. "What are you boys loafin' here for when I need help in the dining-room? Can either of you sling hash?"
The fat man derricked himself out of the chairs. "We can. L-lead us to the job, ma'am."
So it happened that Blister, in a white apron, presently stood before the Governor ready to take orders. The table was strewn with used dishes and food, débris left there by previous diners. The amateur waiter was not sure whether the Governor and his staff had eaten or were ready to eat.
"D-do you want a r-reloadin' outfit?" he asked.
The general, seated beside the Governor, had lived his life in the East. He stared at Blister in surprise, for at a council held only an hour before this ample waiter had been the chief spokesman in behalf of fair play to the Indians. He decided that the dignified thing to do was to fail to recognize the man.
Blister leaned toward the Governor and whispered confidentially. "Say, Gov, take my tip an' try one o' these here steaks. They ain't from dogy stock."
The Governor had been a cattleman himself. The free-and-easy ways of the West did not disturb him. "Go you once, Blister," he assented.
The waiter turned beaming on the officer. His fat hand rested on the braided shoulder. "How about you, Gen? Does that go d-double?"
Upon Blister was turned the cold, hard eye of West Point. "I'll take a tenderloin steak, sir, done medium."
"You'll sure find it'll s-stick to yore ribs," Blister said cheerfully.
Carrying a tray full of dishes, Bob went into the kitchen choking down his mirth.
"Blister's liable to be shot at daybreak. He's lessie-majesting the U.S. Army."
Chung Lung shuffled to the door and peered through. Internal mirth struggled with his habitual gravity. "Gleat smoke, Blister spill cup cloffee on general."
This fortunately turned out to be an exaggeration. Blister, in earnest conversation with himself, had merely overturned a half-filled cup on the table in the course of one of his gestures.
Mollie retired him from service.
Alone with Bob for a moment in the kitchen, June whispered to him hurriedly. "Before you an' Dud go away I want to see you a minute."
"Want to see me an' Dud?" he asked.
She flashed a look of shy reproach at him. "No, not Dud--you."
Bob stayed to help wipe the dishes. It was a job at which he had been adept in the old days when he flunkied for the telephone outfit. Afterward he and June slipped out of the back door and walked down to the river.
June had rehearsed exactly what she meant to say to him, but now that the moment had arrived it did not seem so easy. He might mistake her friendliness. He might think there was some unexpressed motive in the back of her mind, that she was trying to hold him to the compact made in Blister Haines's office a year ago. It would be hateful if he thought that. But she had to risk it if their comradeship was going to mean anything. When folks were friends they helped each other, didn't they? Told each other how glad they were when any piece of good luck came. And what had come to Bob Dillon was more than good luck. It was a bit of splendid achievement that made her generous blood sing.
This was all very well, but as they moved under the cottonwoods across the grass tessellated with sunshine and shadow, the fact of sex thrust itself up and embarrassed her. She resented this, was impatient at it, yet could not escape it. Beneath the dusky eyes a wave of color crept into the dark cheeks.
Though they walked in silence, Bob did not guess her discomposure. As clean of line as a boy, she carried herself resiliently. He thought her beautiful as a wild flower. The lift and tender curve of the chin, the swell of the forearms above the small brown hands that had done so much hard work so competently, filled him with a strange delight. She had emerged from the awkwardness and heaviness of the hoydenish age. It was difficult for him to identify her with the Cinderella of Piceance Creek except by the eager flash of the eyes in those moments when her spirit seemed to be rushing toward him.
They stood on the bank above the edge of the ford.
June looked down into the tumbling water. Bob waited for her to speak. He had achieved a capacity for silence and had learned the strength of it.
Presently June lifted her eyes to his. "Dud says you an' he are going to take up preëmptions and run cattle of your own," she began.
"Yes. Harshaw's going to stake us. We'll divide the increase."
"I'm glad. Dud ought to quit going rippity-cut every which way. No use his wastin' five or six years before he gets started for himself."
"No," Bob assented.
"You're steadier than he is. You'll hold him down."
Bob came to time loyally. "Dud's all right. You'll find him there like a rock when you need him. Best fellow in all this White River country."
Her shining eyes sent a stab of pain through his heart. She was smiling at him queerly. "One of the best," she said.
"Stay with you to a fare-you-well," he went on. "If I knew a girl--if I had a sister--well, I'd sure trust her to Dud Hollister. All wool an' a yard wide that boy is."
"Yes," June murmured.
"Game as they make 'em. Know where he's at every turn of the road. I'd ce'tainly back his play to a finish."
"I know you would."
"Best old pal a fellow ever had."
"It's really a pity you haven't a sister," she teased.
Bob guessed that June had brought him here to talk about Dud. He did, to the exclusion of all other topics. The girl listened gravely and patiently, but imps of mischief were kicking up their heels in her eyes.
"You give him a good recommendation," she said at last. "How about his friend?"
"Tom Reeves?"
"No, Bob Dillon." Her dark eyes met his fairly. "Oh, Bob, I'm so glad."
He was suddenly flooded with self-consciousness. "About us preëmptin'?" he asked.
"No. About you being the hero of the campaign."
The ranger was miserably happy. He was ashamed to have the thing he had done dragged into the light, embarrassed to hear her use so casually a word that made him acutely uncomfortable. Yet he would not for the world have missed the queer little thrills that raced through him.
"That's plumb foolishness," he said.
"Yes, it is--not. Think I haven't heard all about it? How you dragged Jake Houck into the willows right spang from among the Utes? How you went to the river an' got him water? How you went for help when everybody thought you'd be killed? An' how you shamed Dud into going back with you? I made Mr. Harshaw tell me all he knew--and Dud too. He said--Mr. Harshaw said--"
Bob interrupted this eager attack. "I'll tell you how it was, June. When I saw Houck lying out there with a busted leg I didn't know who he was--thought maybe it was Dud. So I had to go an' get him. If I'd known it was Houck--"
"You knew it was Houck before you dragged him back, didn't you?" she charged. "You knew it when you went to the river to get him water?"
"Truth is, I was scared so I shook," he confessed humbly. "But when a fellow's sufferin' like Jake Houck was--"
"Even your enemy."
"Oh, well, enemies don't count when you're fightin' Utes together. I had to look after him--couldn't duck it. Different with Dud when he rode back to get Tom Reeves. Did you hear about that?"
She put a damper on the sudden enthusiasm that lilted into his voice. "Yes, I heard about that," she said dryly. "But we're talking of another man now. You've got to stand there an' take it, Bob. It won't last but a minute anyhow. I never was so tickled in my life before. When I thought of all you've suffered an' gone through, an' how now you've stopped the tongues of all the folks who jeered at you, I went to my room and cried like a little girl. You'll understand, won't you? I had to tell you this because we've promised to be friends. Oh, I am so glad for you, Bob."
He swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded. "Yes, I'll understand, June. It--it was awful nice of you to tell me. I reckon you ought to hate me, the way I treated you. Most girls would."
She flashed a quick look at his flaming face. His embarrassment relieved hers.
"As if you knew what most girls would think," she derided. Nevertheless she shifted the conversation to grounds less personal and dangerous. "Now you can tell me some more about that Dud you're always braggin' of."
Bob did not know as he talked of his friend that June found what he said an interpretation of Robert Dillon rather than Dudley Hollister.
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[4] Piling up brush to protect the bank from being washed away.
CHAPTER XXXVII
A RESPONSIBLE CITIZEN
Dillon and Hollister were lounging on the bank of Elk Creek through the heat of the day. They had been chasing a jack-rabbit across the mesa for sport. Their broncos were now grazing close at hand.
"Ever notice how a jack-rabbit jumps high when it's crowded?" Dud asked idly.
Bob nodded. "Like a deer. Crowd one an' he gets to jumpin' high. 'D you see that jack turn a somersault just as I threw my rope the last time?"
Dud's keen eyes ranged the landscape. They were on the edge of the mesa where it dipped down into the valley. Since he and Bob had decided to preëmpt a quarter-section each, it had become a habit of his to study the localities over which they rode.
"Country looks good round here," he suggested.
"Yes," agreed his friend.
"What we lookin' for anyhow, Bob?"
"Wood, grass, and water."
"Well, they're right here, ain't they?"
Bob had been thinking the same thing himself. They saddled and quartered over the ground carefully. There was a wide stretch of meadow close to the junction of Elk Creek and the river. Upon part of it a growth of young willow had sprung up. But he judged that there was nearly one hundred and fifty acres of prairie. This would need no clearing. Rich wild grass already covered it luxuriously. For their first crop they could cut the native hay. Then they could sow timothy. There would be no need to plough the meadow. The seed could be disked in. Probably the land never would need ploughing, for it was a soft black loam.
"How about roads?" Bob asked. "The old-timers claim we'll never get roads here."
"Some one's going to take up all this river land mighty soon. That's a cinch. An' the roads will come right soon after the settlers. Fact is, we've got to jump if we're going to take up land on the river an' get a choice location."
"My notion too," agreed Bob. "We'd better get a surveyor out here this week."
They did. Inside of a month they had filed papers at the land office, built cabins, and moved their few possessions to the claims. Their houses were made of logs mud-chinked, with dirt floors and shake roofs instead of the usual flat dirt ones. They expected later to whipsaw lumber for the floors. A huge fireplace in one end of each cabin was used for cooking as well as for heat until such time as they could get stoves. Already they planned a garden, and in the evenings were as likely to talk of turnips, beets, peas, beans, and potatoes as of the new Hereford bulls Larson and Harshaw were importing from Denver.
For the handwriting was on the wall. Cattlemen must breed up or go out of business. The old dogy would not do any longer. Already Utah stock was displacing the poor southern longhorns. Soon these, too, would belong to the past. Dud and Bob had vision enough to see this and they were making plans to get a near-pedigreed bull.
Dud sighed in reminiscent appreciation of the old days that were vanishing. He might have been seventy-two instead of twenty-two coming February. Behind him lay apparently all his golden youth.
"We got to adopt ourselves to new ways, old Sure-Shot," he ruminated aloud. "Got to quit hellin' around an' raisin' Cain. Leastways I have. You never did do any o' that. Yes, sir, I got to be a responsible citizen."
The partner of the responsible citizen leaned back in a reclining chair which he had made from a plank sawed into five parts that were nailed together at angles.
"You'll be raisin' little towheads right soon," he said through a cloud of smoke.
"No, sir. Not me. Not Dud Hollister. I can boss my own se'f for a spell y
et," the fair-haired youth protested vehemently. "When I said we got to adopt ourselves, I was thinkin' of barb-wire fences an' timothy hay. 'S all right to let the dogies rough through the winter an' hunt the gulches when the storms come. But it won't do with stock that's bred up. Harshaw lost close to forty per cent of his cattle three years ago. It sure put some crimp in him. He was hit hard again last winter. You know that. Say he'd had valuable stock. Why, it would put him outa business. Sure would."
"Yes," admitted Bob. "There's a schoolmarm down at Meeker was askin' me about you. You know her--that snappin'-eyed brunette. Wanted to know all about yore claim, an' was it a good one, an' didn't I think Mr. Hollister a perfect gentleman, an'--"