by B. M. Bower
“Here’s the place,” Pink called back to them, after some minutes of riding. “Andy’s horse is down there, too, but I don’t see Andy—”
“Chances is—” began Happy Jack, but found no one listening.
It would be impossible to ride down, so they dismounted and prepared for the scramble. They could see Buck, packed as if for the homeward trail, and they could see Andy’s horse, saddled and feeding with reins dragging. He looked up at them and whinnied, and the sound but accentuated the loneliness of the place. Buck, too, saw them and came toward them, whinnying wistfully; but, though they strained eyes in every direction, they could see nothing of the man they sought.
It was significant of their apprehension that not even Happy Jack made open comment upon the strangeness of it. Instead, they dug bootheels deep where the slope was loose gravel, and watched that their horses did not slide down upon them; climbed over rocks where the way was barred, and prayed that horse and man might not break a leg. They had been over rough spots, and had climbed in and out of deep coulees, but never had they travelled a rougher trail than that.
“My God! boys, look down there!” Pink cried, when yet fifty perpendicular feet lay between them and the level below.
They looked, and drew breath sharply. Huddled at the very foot of the last and worst slope lay Andy, and they needed no words to explain what had happened. It was evident that he had started to climb the bluff and had slipped and fallen to the bottom, And from the way he was lying—The Happy Family shut out the horror of the thought and hurried recklessly to the place.
It was Pink who, with a last slide and a stumbling recovery at the bottom, reached him first. It was Jack Bates who came a close second and helped to turn him—for he had fallen partly on his face. From the way one arm was crumpled back under him, they knew it to be broken. Further than that they could only guess and hope. While they were feeling for heart-beats, the others came down and crowded close. Pink looked up at them strainedly.
“Oh, for God’s sake, some of yuh get water,” he cried sharply. “What good do yuh think you’re doing, just standing around?”
“We ought to be hung for letting him come down here alone,” Weary repented. “It ain’t safe for one man in this cursed country. Where’s he hurt, Cadwolloper?”
“How in hell do I know?” Anxiety ever sharpened the tongue of Pink. “If somebody’d bring some water—”
“Happy’s gone. And there ain’t a drop uh whisky in the crowd! Can’t we get him into the shade? This damned sun is enough to—”
“Look out how yuh lift him, man! You ain’t wrassling a calf, remember! You take his shoulder, Jack—easy, yuh damned, awkward—”
“Here comes Happy, with his hat full. Don’t slosh it all on at once! A little at a time’s better. Get some on his head.”
So with much incoherence and with everybody giving orders and each acting independently, they bore him tenderly into the shade of a rock and worked over him feverishly, their faces paler than his. When he opened his eyes and stared at them dully, they could have shouted for very relief. When he closed them again they bent over him solicitously and dripped more water from the hat of Happy Jack. And not one of them but remembered remorsefully the things they had said of him, not an hour before; the things they had said even when he was lying there alone and hurt—hurt unto death, for all they knew.
When he was roused enough to groan when they moved him, however gently, they began to consider the problem of getting him to camp, and they cursed the long, hot miles that lay between. They tried to question him, but if he understood what they were saying he could not reply except by moaning, which was not good to hear. All that they could gather was that when they moved his body in a certain way the pain of it was unbearable. Also, he would faint when his head was lowered, or even lifted above the level. They must guard against that if they meant to get him to camp alive.
“We’ll have to carry him up this cussed hill, and then—If he could ride at all, we might make it.”
“The chances is he’ll die on the road,” croaked Happy Jack tactlessly, and they scowled at him for voicing the fear they were trying to ignore. They had been trying not to think that he might die on the road, and they had been careful not to mention the possibility. As it was, no one answered.
How they ever got him to the top of that heartbreaking slope, not one of them ever knew. Twice he fainted outright. And Happy Jack, carefully bearing his hat full of water for just that emergency, slipped and spilled the whole of it just when they needed it most. At the last, it was as if they carried a dead man between them—Jack Bates and Cal Emmett it was who bore him up the last steep climb—and Pink and Weary, coming behind with all the horses, glanced fearfully into each other’s eyes and dared not question.
At the top they laid him down in the grass and swore at Happy Jack, because they must do something, and because they dared not face what might be before them. They avoided looking at one another while they stood helplessly beside the still figure of the man they had maligned. If he died, they would always have that bitter spot in their memory—and even with the fear of his dying they stood remorseful.
Of a sudden Andy opened his eyes and looked at them with the light of recognition, and they bent eagerly toward him. “If—yuh could—on—my horse—I—I—could ride—maybe.” Much pain it cost him, they knew by the look on his face. But he was game to the last—just as they knew he would be.
“Yuh couldn’t ride Twister, yuh know yuh couldn’t,” Pink objected gently. “But—if yuh could ride Jack’s horse—he’s dead gentle, and we’d help hold yuh on. Do you think yuh could?”
Andy moved his head uneasily. “I—I’ve got to,” he retorted weakly, and even essayed a smile to reassure them. “I—ain’t all—in yet,” he added with an evident effort, and the Happy Family gulped sympathetically, and wondered secretly if they would have such nerve under like conditions.
“It’s going to be one hell of a trip for yuh,” Weary murmured commiseratingly, when they were lifting him into the saddle. Of a truth, it did seem absolutely foolhardy to attempt it, but there was nothing else to do, unless they left him there. For no wagon could possibly be driven within miles of the place.
Andy leaned limply over the saddle-horn, his face working with the agony he suffered. Somehow they had got him upon the horse of Jack Bates, but they had felt like torturers while they did it, and the perspiration on their faces was not all caused by heat.
“My God, I’d rather be hung than go through this again,” muttered Cal, white under the tan. “I—”
“I’ll tackle—it now,” gasped Andy, with a pitiful attempt to sit straight in the saddle. “Get on—boys—”
Reluctantly they started to obey, when the horse of Jack Bates gave a sudden leap ahead. Many hands reached out to grasp him by the bridle, but they were a shade too late, and he started to run, with Andy swaying in the saddle. While they gazed horrified, he straightened convulsively, turned his face toward them and raised a hand; caught his hat by the brim and swung it high above his head.
“Much obliged, boys,” he yelled derisively. “I sure do appreciate being packed up that hill; it was too blamed hot to walk. Say! if you’d gone around that bend, you’d uh found a good trail down. Yuh struck about the worst place there is. So-long—I ain’t all in yet!” He galloped away, while the Happy Family stared after him with bulging eyes.
“The son-of-a-gun!” gasped Weary weakly, and started for his horse.
“Darn yuh, you’ll be all in when we get hold of yuh!” screamed Jack Bates, and gave chase.
It was when they were tearing headlong after him down the coulee’s rim and into a shallow gully which seamed unexpectedly the level, that they saw his horse swerve suddenly and go bounding along the edge of the slope with Andy “sawing” energetically upon the bit.
“What trick’s he up to now?” cried Cal Emmett resentfully, feeling that, in the light of what had gone before, Andy could not possibly make
a single motion in good faith.
Andy brought his horse under control and turned back to meet them, and the Happy Family watched him guardedly until they reached the gulley and their own horses took fright at a dark, shambling object that scuttled away down toward the coulee-head. Andy was almost upon them before they could give him any attention.
“Did you see it?” he called excitedly. “It was a bear, and he was digging at something under that shelving rock. Come on and let’s take a look.”
“Aw, gwan!” Happy Jack adjured crossly. He was thinking of all the water he had carried painstakingly in his hat, for the relief of this conscienceless young reprobate, and he was patently suspicious of some new trick.
“Well, by gracious!” Andy rode quite close—dangerously close, considering the mood they were in—and eyed them queerly. “I sure must have a horrible rep, when yuh won’t believe your own eyes just because I happen to remark that a bear is a bear. I’ll call it a pinto hog, if it’ll make yuh feel any better. And I’ll say it wasn’t doing any digging; only, I’m going down there and take a look. There’s an odor—”
There was, and they could not deny it, even though Andy did make the assertion. And though they had threatened much that was exceedingly unpleasant, and what they would surely do to Andy if they ever got him within reach, they followed him quite peaceably.
They saw him get off his horse and stand looking down at something—and there was that in his attitude which made them jab spurs against their horses’ flanks. A moment later they, too, were looking down at something, and they were not saying a word.
“It’s Dan, all right,” said Andy at last, and his tone was hushed. “I hunted the coulee over—every foot of it—and looked up some of the little draws, and went along the river; but I couldn’t find any trace of him. I never thought about coming up here.
“Look there. His head was smashed in with a rock or something—ugh! Here, let me away, boys.
This thing—” He walked uncertainly away and sat down upon a rock with his face in his hands, and what they could see of his face was as white as the tan would permit. Somehow, not a man of them doubted him then. And not a man of them but felt much the same. They backed away and stood close to where Andy was sitting.
“You wouldn’t believe me when I told yuh,” he reproached, when the sickness had passed and he could lift his head and look at them. “You thought I was lying, and yuh made yourselves pretty blamed obnoxious to me—but I got even for that.” There was much satisfaction in his tone, and the Happy Family squirmed. “Yuh see, I was telling the truth, all right—and now I’m going to get even some more. I’m going to take—er—Pink along for a witness, and notify the outfit that yuh won’t be back for a day or two, and send word to the sheriff. And you jaspers can have the pleasure uh standing guard over—that.” He shivered a little and turned his glance quickly away. “And I hope,” he added maliciously, as he mounted his own horse, “you’ll make Jack Bates stand an all-night guard by his high lonesome. He’s sure got it coming to him!”
With Pink following close at his heels he rode away up the ridge.
“Say, there’s grub enough on old Buck to do yuh tonight,” he called down to them, “in case Chip don’t send yuh any till tomorrow.” He waved a subdued farewell and turned his face again up the ridge, and before they had quite decided what to do about it, he was gone.
“WOLF! WOLF!”
Andy Green, of the Flying U, loped over the grassy level and hummed a tune as he rode. The sun shone just warm enough to make a man feel that the world was good enough for him, and the wind was just a lazy, whispering element to keep the air from growing absolutely still and stagnant. There was blue sky with white, fluffy bits of cloud like torn cotton drifting as lazily as the wind, and there were meadow-larks singing and swaying, and slow-moving range cattle with their calves midway to weaning time. Not often may one ride leisurely afar on so perfect a day, and while Andy was a sunny-natured fellow at all times, on such a day he owned not a care.
A mile farther, and he rode over a low shoulder of the butte he was passing, ambled down the long slope on the far side, crossed another rounded hill, followed down a dry creek-bed at the foot of it, sought with his eye for a practicable crossing and went headlong down a steep, twenty-foot bank; rattled the loose rocks in the dry, narrow channel and went forging up a bank steeper than the first, with creaking saddle-leather and grunting horse, and struck again easy going.
“She slipped on me,” he murmured easily, meaning the saddle. “I’m riding on your tail, just about; but I guess we can stand it the rest uh the why, all right.” If he had not been so lazy and self-satisfied he would have stopped right there and reset the saddle. But if he had, he might have missed something which he liked to live over o’ nights.
He went up a gentle rise, riding slowly because of the saddle, passed over the ridge and went down another short slope. At the foot of the slope, cuddled against another hill, stood a low, sod-roofed cabin with rusty stove-pipe rising aslant from one corner. This was the spot he had been aiming for, and he neared it slowly.
It was like a dozen other log cabins tucked away here and there among the foothills of the Bear Paws. It had an air of rakish hominess, as if it would be a fine, snuggy place in winter, when the snow and the wind swept the barren land around. In the summer, it stood open-doored and open-windowed, with all the litter of bachelor belongings scattered about or hanging from pegs on the wall outside. There was a faint trail of smoke from the rusty pipe, and it brought a grunt of satisfaction from Andy.
“He’s home, all right. And if he don’t throw together some uh them sour-dough biscuits uh his, there’ll be something happen! Hope the bean-pot’s full. G’wan, yuh lazy old skate.” He slapped the rein-ends lightly down the flanks of his horse and went at a trot around the end of the cabin. And there he was so utterly taken by surprise that he almost pulled his mount into a sitting posture.
A young woman was stooping before the open door, and she was pouring something from a white earthen bowl into a battered tin pan. Two waggle-tailed lambs—a black one and a white—were standing on their knees in their absorption, and were noisily drinking of the stuff as fast as it came within reach.
Andy had half a minute in which to gaze before the young woman looked up, said “Oh!” in a breathless sort of way and retreated to the doorstep, where she stood regarding him inquiringly.
Andy, feeling his face go unreasonably red, lifted his hat. He knew that she was waiting for him to speak, but he could not well say any of the things he thought, and blurted out an utterly idiotic question.
“What are yuh feeding ’em?”
The girl looked down at the bowl in her hands and laughed a little.
“Rolled oats,” she answered, “boiled very thin and with condensed cream added to taste. Good morning.” She seemed about to disappear, and that brought Andy to his senses. He was not, as a rule, a bashful young man.
“Good morning. Is—er—Mr. Johnson at home?” He came near saying “Take-Notice,” but caught himself in time. Take-Notice Johnson was what men called the man whom Andy had ridden over to see upon a more or less trivial matter.
“He isn’t, but he will be back—if you care to wait.” She spoke with a certain preciseness which might be natural or artificial, and she stood in the doorway with no symptoms of immediate disappearance.
Andy slid over a bit in the saddle, readjusted his hat so that its brim would shield his eyes from the sunlight, and prepared to be friendly. “Oh, I’ll wait,” he said easily. “I’ve got all the time there is. Would you mind if I smoked a cigarette?”
“Indeed, I was wishing you would,” she told him, with surprising frankness. “I’ve so longed to see a dashing young cowboy roll a cigarette with deft, white fingers.”
Andy, glancing at her startled, spilled much tobacco down the front of him, stopped to brush it away and let the lazy breeze snatch the tiny oblong of paper from between his unwatchful fingers. Of cou
rse, she was joshing him, he thought uneasily, as he separated the leaves of his cigarette book by blowing gently upon them, and singled out another paper. “Are yuh so new to the country that it’s anything of a treat?” he asked guardedly.
“Yes, I’m new. I’m what you people call a pilgrim. Don’t you do it with one hand? I thought—oh, yes! You hold the reins between your firm, white teeth while you roll—”
“Lady, I never travelled with no show,” Andy protested mildly and untruthfully. Was she just joshing? Or didn’t she know any better? She looked sober as anything, but somehow her eyes kind of—
“You see, I know some things about you. Those are chaps” (Heavens! She called them the way they are spelled, without the soft sound of s!) “That you’re wearing for—trousers” (Andy blushed modestly. He was not wearing them “for trousers”.), “and you’ve got jingling rowels at your heels, and those are taps—”
“You’re going to be shy a yard or two of calico if that black lamb-critter has his say-so,” Andy cut in remorselessly, and hastily made and lighted his cigarette while she was rescuing her blue calico skirt from the jaws of the black lamb and puckering her eyebrows over the chewed place. When her attention was once more given to him, he was smoking as unobtrusively as possible, and he was gazing at her with a good deal of speculative admiration. He looked hastily down at the lambs. “Mary had two little lambs,” he murmured inanely.
“They’re not mine,” she informed him, taking him seriously—or seeming to do so. Andy had some trouble deciding just how much of her was sincere. “They were here when I came, and I can’t take them back with me, so there’s no use in claiming them. They’d be such a nuisance on the train—”
“I reckon they would,” Andy agreed, “if yuh had far to go.”
“Well, you can’t call San Jose close,” she observed, meditatively. “It takes four days to come.”