CHAPTER I
THE CAMPERS
Inside the cabin a man was baking biscuits and singing joyously, "It's aLong, Long Way to Tipperary." Outside, another whistled softly tohimself while he arranged his fishing tackle. From his book he hadselected three flies and was attaching them to the leader. Nearest therod he put a royal coachman, next to it a blue quill, and at the end aginger quill.
The cook, having put his biscuits in the oven, filled the doorway. Hewas a big, strong-set man, with a face of leather. Rolled-up sleevesshowed knotted brown arms white to the wrists with flour. His eyes werehard and steady, but from the corners of them innumerable littlewrinkles fell away and crinkled at times to mirth.
"First call to dinner in the dining-car," he boomed out in a heavy bass.
Two men lounging under a cottonwood beside the river showed signs oflife. One of them was scarcely more than a boy, perhaps twenty, apleasant amiable youth with a weak chin and eyes that held no steel.His companion was nearer forty than thirty, a hard-faced citizen whochewed tobacco and said little.
"Where you going to fish to-night, Crumbs?" the cook asked of the manbusy with the tackle.
"Think I'll try up the river, Colter--start in above the Narrows andwork down, mebbe. Where you going?"
"Me for the Meadows. I'm after the big fellows. Going to hang the Indiansign on them with a silver doctor and a Jock Scott. The kid here got histhree-pounder on a Jock Scott."
The man who had been called Crumbs put his rod against the side of thehouse and washed his hands in a tin pan resting on a stump. He was aslender young fellow with lean, muscular shoulders and the bloom of manydesert suns on his cheeks and neck.
"Going to try a Jock Scott myself after it gets dark."
The boy who had come up from the river's bank grinned. "Now I've shownyou lads how to do it you'll all be catching whales."
"Once is a happenstance, twice makes a habit. Do it again, Curly, andwe'll hail you king of the river," Colter promised, bringing to thetable around which they were seating themselves a frying pan full oftrout done to a crisp brown. "Get the coffee, Mosby. There's beer in theicebox, kid."
They ate in their shirtsleeves, camp fashion, on an oil cloth scarredwith the marks left by many hot dishes. They brought to dinner theappetites of outdoors men who had whipped for hours a turbid streamunder an August sun. Their talk was strong and crisp, after the fashionof the mining West. It could not be printed without editing, yet in thatatmosphere it was without offense. There is a time for all things, evenfor the elemental talk of frontiersmen on a holiday.
Dinner finished, the fishermen lolled on the grass and smoked.
A man cantered out of the patch of woods above and drew up at the cabin,disposing himself for leisurely gossip.
"Evening, gentlemen. Heard the latest?" He drew a match across his chapsand lit the cigarette he had rolled.
"We'll know after you've told us what it is," Colter suggested.
"The Gunnison country ce'tainly is being honored, boys. A party ofeffete Britishers are staying at the Lodge. Got in last night. I seenthem when they got off the train--me lud and me lady, three young ladiesthat grade up A1, a Johnnie boy with an eyeglass, and another lad wholooks like one man from the ground up. Also, and moreover, there's acook, a hawss wrangler, a hired girl to button the ladies up the back,and a valley chap to say 'Yes, sir, coming, sir,' to the dude."
"You got it all down like a book, Steve," grinned Curly.
"Any names?" asked Colter.
"Names to burn," returned the native. "A whole herd of names, honest toGod. Most any of 'em has five or six, the way the Denver _Post_ tellsit. Me, I can't keep mind of so many fancy brands. I'll give you the A BC of it. The old parties are Lord James and Lady Jim Farquhar, leastwaysI heard one of the young ladies call her Lady Jim. The dude has Verinderburnt on about eight trunks, s'elp me. Then there's a Miss Dwight and aMiss Joyce Seldon--and, oh, yes! a Captain Kilmeny, and an HonorableMiss Kilmeny, by ginger."
Colter flashed a quick look at Crumbs. A change had come over that youngman's face. His blue eyes had grown hard and frosty.
"It's a plumb waste of money to take a newspaper when you're around,Steve," drawled Colter, in amiable derision. "Happen to notice the colorof the ladies' eyes?"
The garrulous cowpuncher was on the spot once more. "Sure, I did,leastways one of them. I want to tell you lads that Miss Joyce Seldon isthe prettiest skirt that ever hit this neck of the woods--and her eyes,say, they're like pansies, soft and deep and kinder velvety."
The fishermen shouted. Their mirth was hearty and uncontained.
"Go to it, Steve. Tell us some more," they demanded joyously.
Crumbs, generally the leader in all the camp fun, had not joined in thelaughter. He had been drawing on his waders and buckling on his creel.Now he slipped the loop of the landing net over his head.
"We want a full bill of particulars, Steve. You go back and size up theeyes of the lady lord and the other female Britishers," ordered Curlygayly.
"Go yore own self, kid. I ain't roundin' up trouble for no babe just outof the cradle," retorted the grinning rider. "What's yore hurry,Crumbs?"
The young man addressed had started away but now turned. "No hurry, Ireckon, but I'm going fishing."
Steve chuckled. "You're headed in a bee line for Old Man Trouble. TheJohnnie boy up at the Lodge is plumb sore on this outfit. Seems that youlads raised ructions last night and broken his sweet slumbers. He's gotthe kick of a government mule coming. Why can't you wild Injuns behaveproper?"
"We only gave Curly a chapping because he let the flapjacks burn,"returned Crumbs with a smile. "You see, he's come of age most, Curlyhas. He'd ought to be responsible now, but he ain't. So we gave him whatwas coming to him."
"Well, you explain that to Mr. Verinder if he sees you. He's sure on hishind laigs about it."
"I expect he'll get over it in time," Crumbs said dryly. "Well, so-long,boys. Good fishing to-night."
"Same to you," they called after him.
"Some man, Crumbs," commented Steve.
"He'll stand the acid," agreed Colter briefly.
"What's his last name? I ain't heard you lads call him anything butCrumbs. I reckon that's a nickname."
Curly answered the question of the cowpuncher. "His name 'sKilmeny--Jack Kilmeny. His folks used to live across the water. Maybethis Honorable Miss Kilmeny and her brother are some kin of his."
"You don't say!"
"Course I don't know about that. His dad came over here when he was awild young colt. Got into some trouble at home, the way I heard it.Bought a ranch out here and married. His family was high moguls inEngland--or, maybe, it was Ireland. Anyhow, they didn't like Mrs.Kilmeny from the Bar Double C ranch. Ain't that the way of it, Colter?"
The impassive gaze of the older man came back from the rushing river."You know so much about it, Curly, I'll not butt in with any moremisinformation," he answered with obvious sarcasm.
Curly flushed. "I'd ought to know. Jack's father and mine were friends,so's he and me."
"How come you to call him Crumbs?"
"That's a joke, Steve. Jack's no ordinary rip-roaring, hell-raisin'miner. He knows what's what. That's why we call him Crumbs--because he'sfine bred. Pun, see. Fine bred--crumbs. Get it?"
"Sure I get it, kid. I ain't no Englishman. You don't need a two-by-fourto pound a josh into my cocoanut," the rider remonstrated.
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