A Bear-Raising Ride

With an expression of mingled horror and disgust on his leathery, weather-beaten face, old “Whiskers” Graham, senior driver for the Wells Fancher Stage Company, Como to Fairplay and all intermediate points, shrank back from the Como barn boss.

“What’s that?” he exclaimed, uneasily.

Jim Burgess, the barn boss, looked surprised.

“Why, gee whiz!” he said, in astonishment, “this here ain’t nuthin’, Whiskers, ’ceptin’ one b’arskin overcoat, belongin’, as yuh should know, to Joe McGraw, the superintendent, who left it stored up here las’ winter, afore he was transferred to Fairplay, an’ who wants it brung down to him on the stage.”

Whiskers fixed watery, faded, blue eyes on the big coat.

“Huh!” he grunted, “ain’t that the same b’arskin overcoat Bill Troy, Joe McGraw’s uncle, had on the time he was shot through the head an’ kilt by that rustler over on Elk Creek?”

The barn foreman shook the big, shaggy, black coat.

“Waal,” he muttered, “supposin’ so; what of it?”

Whiskers shrank back again, putting his hands up in front of him as if to shut out the unwelcome sight of the overcoat.

“An’ wasn’t Sam Reedy wearin’ that same b’arskin coat when lightnin’ struck him top o’ Rabbit Ear Pass an’ knocked him seventeen ways from Sunday?” demanded Whiskers.

Again the barn boss shrugged his shoulders.

“Waal, what ef so?” he grumbled, “I kain’t see——”

Whiskers folded his arms and glared at the barn boss. No wonder such a dumb-bell as Jim Burgess wasn’t fit for anything but to take care of the stage lines’ stock in the Como terminal!

“Huh!” said Whiskers, with scorn, “what ef so, yuh ask. Has it ever sunken through yuhr thick skull, Jim, that this here b’arskin overcoat is bad luck, mebbe? Jus’ like a dang black ket crossin’ the road in front o’ yuhr team, eh? Huh, I wouldn’t wear that b’arskin overcoat fer all the money thar is in——”

Burgess scowled.

“Who in Hail Columbia, Gem o’ the Ocean, is askin’ yuh to wear this coat, Santa Claus?” he asked, angrily, “I ain’t; I’m just a-carryin’ out the supe’s orders, which cum in by mail las’ night, sayin’ fer me to send down his b’arskin overcoat with yuh t’day—that’s all! He’s mighty proud o’ that coat.”

Whiskers grunted disdainfully.

“Dang, haunted, bad luck b’arskin!” he declared, “I won’t have nuthin’ to do with it, Jim—not me—I——”

Jim Burgess laughed out loud.

“Orders,” he reminded the old stage driver, “is orders; when the supe says fer me to send that b’arskin overcoat down to Fairplay with yuh t’-day, yuh takes it! An’ they ain’t no argument—they ain’t no exchange o’ words worth mentionin’.”

Whiskers Graham glared.

“However,” said the barn boss, deciding not to antagonize the old driver further, “I’m also sendin’ something else down with yuh o’ more interest to yuh, mebbe. I’ve booked that purty schoolteacher who is goin’ out on her vacation fer yuhr down trip t’-day—she’s goin’ to Fairplay to see some friends.”

Whiskers smiled at that announcement.

“Miss Rosie Roach?” he asked, hopefully.

“The same,” said the barn boss, “an’ seein’ yuh ain’t sentimental about the b’arskin overcoat, I’ll wrap it fer yuh an’ put it up on the seat with yuh, whar yuh kin watch it. The supe wrote he wouldn’t take twenty-five dollars for that b’arskin overcoat—so yuh gotta be keerful; ef yuh want, I’ll wrap up that purty schoolma’am, too—ef yuh’re bashful.”

The old driver shook his head.

“Leave her be,” he said, “but as fer the supe not takin’ twenty-five dollars fer that b’arskin coat, sa-a-ay, I wouldn’t give him two-bits!”

The stage started for Fairplay fifteen minutes later. High on the driver’s seat, handling the reins on the six frisky mustangs, sat Whiskers Graham, known up and down the South Park district as not only the oldest driver on the Q-B lines, and the man with the longest, whitest whiskers, but the most fearless driver in Colorado as well. An expert, with half a century’s service on the mountain trails behind him, old Whiskers took delight in handling the meanest bronchos he could get in his six-horse hitch. He picked his teams for speed—and he let ’em run. That was why he always covered the long, winding Como to Fairplay route in faster time than any of the other drivers. He wasn’t reckless, but he “knew his onions,” as the bosses said.

Now, as he started his agile broncs and the big creaking stage out of Como, old Whiskers was divided between two strong emotions. He was tickled to death, for instance, that right beside him, on the driver’s long seat, sat Miss Rosie Roach, yellow-haired, blue-eyed, dimple-cheeked, the fairest girl in the South Park region, and schoolteacher at the Como school. She was his only passenger, but she made up in beauty and charm for lack of numbers. It was nice to have her along to chat with, but——

Whiskers cast a wary eye at a big package done up in tough brown wrapping paper that rested on the seat between himself and the pretty girl. That was Superintendent Joe McGraw’s b’arskin overcoat, which Whiskers was taking down much against his will. It wasn’t so nice to have that thing along! Dark thoughts raced through Whiskers’ mind as he stared at that bulky package, containing the tanned and dressed and tailored remains of what had once been a mighty big Colorado black bear.

“’Tain’t right,” grumbled Whiskers, under his breath, as cold perspiration broke out on his brow, “to make me take that thing down to Fairplay! It’s bad luck, sure! Pore ol’ Bill Troy was wearin’ that when that Elk Creek rustler ambushed him an’ plugged him right through the haid—ugh! An’ Sam Reedy was wearin’ it, havin’ borrowed it, when lightnin’ got him.”

The old stage driver glanced at the heavens.

“Waal, it won’t lightnin’ t’-day, anyhow!” he said.

“I beg pardon?” the pretty Miss Roach said questioningly.

“I was jus’ remarkin’ foolishness to myself,” explained Whiskers, shaking out the reins in an embarrassed manner and clucking hastily to his six-horse outfit. “How yuh like these hosses, Miss Roach, ef I may ask? Them roan leaders are sure fancy steppers, ain’t they? I got ’em off a Three H rancho grub wagon—they was too fast fer the cook—ran away twice.”

“My goodness!”

“Ya,” went on Whiskers proudly, “an’ them swing hosses—them bays—purty, ain’t they? That off bay came from Monte Vista. He was a outlaw until he was six year ol’, too! Buck, my lands! But not any more—but he still kin travel some. His mate I got off a ore wagon from Central City, an’ the wheelers, here, the blacks, I got from the circus was through here three years back—they was too gay fer the circus.”

“My goodness!” said the young woman, shivering slightly, “an’ are yuh sure they’re—they’re safe?”

Whiskers misunderstood the girl’s shiver.

“Come, Miss Roach, it is kinda cool t’-day,” he said, “yuh just take this here raincoat slicker an’ slip it over yuhr shoulders. Thar now—yuh’ll feel warmer—I should o’ knowed it would be breezy up here fer yuh, an’ yuh not used to it.”

“Thank you!” said Miss Roach.

“Funny thing!” chuckled Whiskers, getting back to his favorite subject after a suspicious look at the paper bundle containing the b’arskin overcoat, “it was jus’ a day like this, with the breezes driftin’ down off Mount Baldy up yonder, in October er November, las’ year, that them dog-gone bay swing hosses got to actin’ frisky! That off hoss he kicks out one side o’ the traces, scarin’ my leaders, what start humpin’ theirselves, while the wheelers, gettin’ scared——”

The pretty schoolteacher’s face went white, and she gripped the edge of the seat with trembling hands, while her eyes went wide as saucers as she stared down on the sleek backs of Whiskers’ six fast-trotting horses.

“Please, Mr. Driver!” she begged, “can’t we—oh, I’m scared—don’t talk any more about—about——”

“What?” asked Whiskers above the rumble of the coach.

“I’m frightened,” repeated the girl, “let’s change the subject from hosses to—to—well—the weather.”

Whiskers put a hand to his ear.

“Hey?”

The pretty schoolteacher became desperate.

“Let’s talk about robbers,” she suggested, wildly. “You know, sir—robbers—r-o-b-b-e-r-s—or anything else—but not, please, about these hosses! I’m really a ’fraidy cat, I suppose.”

Whiskers caught the word “robbers” and grinned. He started to fish in an inner pocket of his old leather jacket just as the six-horse team took a sharp curve at a smart trot. The old stagecoach swayed dangerously. Miss Roach’s face went pale. At that, Whiskers decided that he wouldn’t do as he intended. He brought his hand out of his pocket—empty—and laid it on the trembling girl’s arm to reassure her.

“Why, sister!” he bellowed, above the roar of the screeching stage, “don’t be so scared, gal! I ain’t seen a robber up this road in ten years! O’ course thar used to be some—like ol’ ‘Jagged Knife Keating,’ who kilt them four men at Mesquite Town in the ’80s—he was a bad aigg—yessir—I mean yes, ma’am! He was a tough cooky; an’ then thar was ‘Lame Pete,’ that guy who——”

Old Whiskers broke off suddenly.

“But ef yuh’re scared o’ robbers, gal,” he said, “we won’t talk about ’em no more. I’ll jus’ tell yuh about the time I was comin’ down this grade right here with a full load o’ tourists, from the mines yonder, when that off roan sees a rattlesnake in the road ahead an’ shies, an’ a wheel comes off and I sure had to——”

“Please!” begged the unhappy, jolting girl, and at the same moment Whiskers’ hand slipped down off her shaking arm and lit, for a fraction of a split second, on the brown paper package that rested on the seat. Whiskers jumped as if the rattlesnake he had just been telling about had struck at him. The mere touch of that b’arskin overcoat package sent shivers racing up and down his back. The girl’s scream further alarmed him.

“What——?” he began, glancing at her, but at that moment both roan leaders jumped halfway out of their harness, skidding toward the far edge of the road, which overhung a deep gulch. The bay swing team shied, too, and jumped.

“Whoa!” whooped Whiskers, hauling back on his ribbons.

And at that moment, a couple of yards ahead of the roan leaders, a hatless, coatless man stepped from a clump of willows, a large gun in one hand. He waved the gun at Whiskers threateningly.

“Stop!”

The old driver was already sawing on the lines before he saw the apparition ahead. It was too late to disobey. He played in the reins, expertly, all the time calling soothingly to his horses. The big stagecoach stopped within its own length, so that the stranger was waiting at the right front wheel hub.

“Say,” he growled, gruffly, “good thing yuh stopped, ol’-timer! I’m sot on gettin’ me a lift down the road a piece. I’m kinda bunged up—hoss stepped in a gopher hole back o’ here a bit in the hills an’ threw me—hurt my arm an’ laig.”

Whiskers was shaking like a leaf.

“Dog-gone!” he began, “I guess——”

The stranger waved the gun at him again.

“Yuh’re guessin’ outa turn, grandpa!” he cried. “Yuh clamp them teeth t’gether an’ keep yuhr guessin’ to yoreself. I’m comin’ up—hold them danged broncs quiet!”

The man came up. He tossed a little, heavy bag into the stage seat and then came up himself, with a painful effort. He grinned at the speechless schoolteacher. Then he picked up a length of rope off the top of the stage and, without a word, tied Whiskers’ feet together snugly. Then he tied his hands together in front. Then he pushed the old man rudely, shoving him along the seat.

“I’m sure lucky,” said the stranger, holstering his gun serenely. “I wanted a nice ride in a hurry. I’ll handle these nags fer a few miles, an’ I’d throw yuh out now, ol’-timer, ef it wasn’t that we might meet somebody an’ it wouldn’t look nice ef yuh wasn’t along with us, but we’ll pass ’em so fast that nobody will notice that yuh are trussed up like a calf fer brandin’, an’ ef yuh holler I’ll——”

“Whar yuh want to go?” asked Whiskers miserably.

“That’s my business!” snapped the stranger, reaching over to pat the cringing girl on one shoulder, “it’s whar we’re goin’, honey, that really counts! I never figgered on finding a stagecoach an’ a purty gal all to once, an’ me needin’ transportation an’ charmin’ company, too.”

“Say, yuh!” protested Whiskers, bristling.

“Aw, shet up!” said the gunman, shoving Whiskers farther along the seat. “I ain’t talkin’ to yuh, Merry Christmas! But I’ll tell yuh how far yuh’re goin’, brother! When we gits down around that red rock section me an’ the lady here is gettin’ off—an’ yuh an’ yuhr hosses are goin’ on—over the cliff inter Big Muddy River—ef I figgers correctly. Yuh kain’t drive tied up, an’ ef I whack them nags after we’re off——”

The girl screamed in terror.

“Waal, I might have knowed this!” howled Whiskers dismally. “Dog-gone that Burgess anyhow—that——”

Whiskers’ eyes dropped to the bad-luck b’arskin.

“Ho!” cried the stranger, suddenly, “what have we here, folks, done up like a million dollars? Must be kinda precious seein’ how ol’ Me-Thuse-Lum here looks at it. Let’s see!”

The gunman ripped the package open with an oath.

“A coat!” he yelled, delightedly. “A b’arskin overcoat, an’ me like to freezin’ t’ death, too!”

He slipped into the big, shaggy coat. Then he sat down, between Whiskers and the girl, and took over the reins. He swore at the horses and swung the whip, and the big coach lurched forward suddenly. The pretty schoolteacher put her little hands to her face in terror. Old Whiskers groaned aloud in his misery. Everything would go wrong now, with the bandit wearing that unlucky b’arskin overcoat! The whole outfit would probably plunge off the road at the first sharp turn and drop a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet into the Big Muddy River or onto the spear-like points of some pine trees in the canyon below. Pleasant thought! Whiskers shivered and cursed the superintendent roundly, but silently, while the gunman swore at the six-horse hitch and whipped them forward. The stranger was evidently in a hurry.

Down the road whirled the stagecoach, swaying from side to side, all six horses at a gallop, with a madman in a great shaggy overcoat handling the ribbons. The girl began to sob, while Whiskers continued to swear over the b’arskin coat and to wonder where in heck the stage would land eventually. The old driver held his breath as the vehicle took the turns on two wheels, scraping the hubs on the jutting rocks in the cliff face. The stranger wanted speed, and he was getting it. The six horses were running madly. They seemed to sense that something terrible was wrong and they wanted to get away from it. The whip cracked over their ears. Curses urged them on.

“Giddap—dag-gone it all—giddap!”

And then the whip would crack again.

The stage covered the first mile in nothing flat, almost. There was nothing on the road, fortunately. The second mile took a trifle longer to cover, seeing it was up grade; but whatever time the bandit driver lost on the second mile he made up on the third mile, which was mostly downhill. How the stage did fly! It threatened, at times, to overtake the black wheelers and literally run over them. The wheelers had their tails tucked down between their hind legs and were running like deer, occasionally stumbling on the galloping heels of the swing team, which would have run faster if the roan leaders weren’t in the way. The roans, bless their hearts, were not as excited as the other four horses in the hitch. They couldn’t hear the ominous threat of the rumbling coach right on them, as the wheelers could, for one thing. And for another, the whip wouldn’t reach their flanks, no matter how hard the bandit driver tried to make it stretch, for the whip was short. Old Whiskers had never needed a whip for the speedy roans. He thanked his stars now that the leaders couldn’t be reached. If they could——

Another mile spun under the shrieking wheels. Miss Roach was pale and her red eyes told their own story. The bandit was roaring profanity at the horses. Old Whiskers was mumbling prayers now, convinced that his time had surely come. With all his daring, he had never driven his horses along this stretch of treacherous road at such a breakneck speed! Another mile! Another! And another! The big coach scraped a sapling along the road and snapped it off clean. The coach swayed dizzily for a second. Whiskers’ groan echoed loudly.

“Shet up!” whooped the bandit driver.

“Sufferin’ cats!” wailed old Whiskers, hopelessly.

“Oh, please!” screamed the frightened girl.

“Shet up, both o’ yuh, I say!” roared the wild driver, with a volley of oaths, and he shook out the reins again, so that the six-horse hitch fairly flew. But old Whiskers could not remain silent any longer.

“Holy mackerel!” he moaned.

“Say!” shouted the madman in the bearskin overcoat, glancing at Whiskers suddenly, “what ails yuh? Didn’t I tell yuh to dry up? Ef yuh don’t, I’ll throw yuh off.”

Old Whiskers blubbered in his fright.

“Mister!” he yelled shrilly. “I—I jus’ kain’t help it—I—that is—that off roan leader thar has the bit clean outa his mouth—another minute an’ we’ll smash.”

The bandit peered at the roan leaders.

“Naw, he ain’t!” he howled, “I kain’t see——”

“He has!” wailed Whiskers, “he has! Yuh gotta fix it afore he gits in his haid to jump off the road—he’s a spirited hoss, anyhow.”

The bandit sawed on the reins.

“I’ll fix it,” he cried, “seein’ it ain’t time fer the ol’ trap to go over yit! But ef he ain’t got that bit out, as yuh say, I’ll come back here an’ throw yuh off.”

“Yuh look an’ see!” insisted Whiskers.

Hauling on the ribbons, setting the big brake, the madman driver eventually brought the six-horse hitch to a panting stop. He lumbered down off the stage, after drawing the reins through the dash rail, and after pausing to plant a kiss on the white face of the pretty schoolteacher, who shrank back in terror from him. He looked like a great nightmare, in that huge, shaggy, black bearskin overcoat.

“Lissen, girlie,” he purred, huskily, “I’ll fix that bit, an’ then we’ll fly fer the next few miles; then yuh an’ me will git off an’ watch this ol’ stage an’ ol’ grandpa here go skyrocketin’ off the trail straight inter space.”

Grumbling the man climbed down the side of the stage.

He groped his way along the steaming horses. The off wheeler, Blackie, started as the stranger passed him, and Whiskers grunted softly. Steve, the off swing horse, likewise jumped as the man passed him, and Whiskers grunted again, louder this time. He was gasping now. The man in the big coat reached the leaders and stepped quickly around in front of Bluey, the off leader. The roans saw that apparition simultaneously. A huge, shaggy, black bear, stalking on its hind legs! The roans were half frightened before they saw that, and now, just as the black monster stepped in front of them, came a wild yell from old Whiskers.

“Yip-pee-eee-yow-ow-ow-eeee!”

The roans jumped into their collars as if a bolt of lightning had touched their sensitive flanks. The bay wheelers plunged forward instantly. A roan shoulder caught the walking “bear” and sent it spinning headlong off the road. The black wheelers tightened the traces immediately. The big coach shot forward like a cannon ball! A black something, shaggy and indistinct, went rolling down the rocky embankment, headed straight for the Big Muddy River. The six horses were running now—running as they had not run before—because that wild, “yip-pee-yowie,” in that familiar voice, had been enough, to say nothing of the bear that had appeared under their noses! That yell they recognized as their master’s war cry. They stretched!

Bracing his knees against the dash, old Whiskers worked at the tangled reins with his tied hands. The schoolteacher, who might have been a help, had fainted. Eventually, he gave up the task and began to call out soothingly to the running team. Again and again he spoke to them, as he worked frantically to untie the knots on his hands with his teeth. It was a long job, but finally he got one hand free. It took but a moment to loose the other one. Quickly he bent and untied the rope from his feet. Then he got the reins and got them quick.

The schoolteacher regained consciousness just as the big coach lumbered slowly across the bridge into Fairplay.

“Where—where is that—that man?” she asked, opening her big blue eyes anxiously, but Whiskers was at ease now.

“Everything is hunkydory,” he assured her. “We’re in Fairplay; be at the barn in a minnit—the stage station is thar—I’ll help yuh off.”

The six-horse hitch stopped of its own accord at the stage barn. For some reason, no one ran out to assist in the unloading, so old Whiskers himself helped the pretty Miss Roach down. She was weak and trembling. He helped her to a bench just beside the stage station door, where she sat down. Then Whiskers went back up on the stage for the girl’s grip and the little bag the stranger had tossed aboard.

A man ran out of the barn.

“Hey, Whiskers, got my b’arskin coat?”

The old driver climbed down before he replied.

“No, Mr. McGraw, sir, I ain’t got yuh b’arskin coat!” cried Whiskers, gruffly. “I lost it—in the Big Muddy River—eight miles back up the road.”

“Lost it?”

“Yessir, lost it!” repeated Whiskers, sourly, “an’ ut was a blamed fine loss, too, all things considered. That b’arskin coat was unlucky, sir.”

“I wouldn’t o’ took twenty-five dollars fer it!” said McGraw angrily, “an’ ef yuh lost it through carelessness, ol’ man, I’ll——”

Whiskers held up a protesting hand.

“I lost it through design an’ deceit!” he cried, hotly. “Thar was a man inside o’ it—a man with a gun—a danged outlaw who held me up, took over the reins, an’ said he was goin’ to wreck the whole shebang. He put on the coat. I happened to recollect that my roans had once run away on account o’ seein’ a b’ar, so I lied to him to git him down to examine their bits. I lost the b’arskin coat, boss, but I lost the feller, too, at the same time.”

“Who?”

“I figger it was ‘Demon’ Bosler, a danged bank robber,” said Whiskers softly, reaching into an inside pocket to pull out a circular. “I recognized him right off. It says here in this circular which I got six months ago that he’s holdin’ up banks right an’ left an’ that thar’s a reward o’ five hundred dollars on his haid. I’m goin’ back to fish him outa the river.”

“Bosler!” cried the young superintendent, “why, a man by that name held up the bank at Caseyville jus’ a few hours ago—got away with three thou—

“He didn’t git far,” said Whiskers, holding up the heavy sack the bandit had left in the stage. “I guess this is it. I saved it, an’ the team, an’ the stage, an’ the gal——”

The superintendent gasped.

“What gal?”

“Her!” said Whiskers, pointing to the schoolteacher, and then he dived into a pocket, “but seein’ yuh valued that dog-gone unlucky b’arskin so high I’ll just pay yuh twenty-five dollars fer it, boss.”

Whiskers counted out five five-dollar bills and looked up, holding them out to his boss. But his boss wasn’t standing where he had been a moment before. Instead, the superintendent was ten feet away, his arms around pretty Miss Roach, who had run forward to meet him. Her head was on his shoulder. His face was all aglow with happiness.

Old Whiskers gasped.

“Dang sentimental wimmen!” he exploded. “Here it was me as saved her an’ she collapses in the arms o’ the fust young man she sees! Huh—here, boss.” The superintendent chuckled.

“Keep yuhr money, Whiskers!” he exclaimed, happily. “I don’t care about no b’arskin coat as long as yuh brought Rosie here through safe, which she says yuh did with a awful lot o’ trouble! Rosie was comin’ to-morrow, I thought—an’—waal, yuh see, Whiskers, nobody knows it but yuh—she was—we are engaged—an’ we’re to be married right away an’——”

The old stage driver blinked.

“Waal!” he exclaimed, “it’s a good thing I’m goin’ to collect some rewards ef I got to buy a big weddin’ present. Congratulations, boss—an’ Missus Boss—but—but——”

“Yes?” asked the supe, genially.

“I kain’t see fer the life o’ me how a feller ownin’ a unlucky b’arskin like yuh did could win a gal like—like——”

Whiskers stammered, stuttered, blushed, and turned away, while the superintendent and his bride-to-be smiled at him.

“Mebbe,” admitted Whiskers, softly, “that ol’ b’arskin wasn’t so unlucky, after all!”