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[TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: In many older texts, the character combination "oe"
was tied together with a ligature. Such instances are represented in
this ASCII text by enclosing them in brackets. Hence in words
such as Oedipus, for example, when the 'O' and the 'e' are connected with a
ligature, they will be shown as [Oe]dipus. In addition, the text contains
a ranch brand consisting of the characters J and H connected (no space
between). This brand is shown in the text as [JH].]




[Illustration: He had been shot through the body and was dead. His
rifle lay across a rock trained carefully on the trail.]




THE KILLER

BY

STEWART EDWARD WHITE

AUTHOR OF
THE BLAZED TRAIL,
THE RIVERMAN,
ARIZONA NIGHTS, ETC.



GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS  NEW YORK



COPYRIGHT, 1919, 1920, BY
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF
TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES,
INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N.Y.

COPYRIGHT 1919, 1920, BY THE RED BOOK CORPORATION




CONTENTS


                              PAGE

THE KILLER                       3

THE ROAD AGENT                 135

THE TIDE                       157

CLIMBING FOR GOATS             189

MOISTURE, A TRACE              211

THE RANCH                      229





THE KILLER




CHAPTER I


I want to state right at the start that I am writing this story twenty
years after it happened solely because my wife and Señor Buck Johnson
insist on it. Myself, I don't think it a good yarn. It hasn't any love
story in it; and there isn't any plot. Things just happened, one thing
after the other. There ought to be a yarn in it somehow, and I suppose
if a fellow wanted to lie a little he could make a tail-twister out of
it. Anyway, here goes; and if you don't like it, you know you can quit
at any stage of the game.

It happened when I was a kid and didn't know any better than to do such
things. They dared me to go up to Hooper's ranch and stay all night; and
as I had no information on either the ranch or its owner, I saddled up
and went. It was only twelve miles from our Box Springs ranch--a nice
easy ride. I should explain that heretofore I had ridden the Gila end of
our range, which is so far away that only vague rumours of Hooper had
ever reached me at all. He was reputed a tough old devil with horrid
habits; but that meant little to me. The tougher and horrider they came,
the better they suited me--so I thought. Just to make everything
entirely clear I will add that this was in the year of 1897 and the Soda
Springs valley in Arizona.

By these two facts you old timers will gather the setting of my tale.
Indian days over; "nester" days with frame houses and vegetable patches
not yet here. Still a few guns packed for business purposes; Mexican
border handy; no railroad in to Tombstone yet; cattle rustlers lingering
in the Galiuros; train hold-ups and homicide yet prevalent but frowned
upon; favourite tipple whiskey toddy with sugar; but the old fortified
ranches all gone; longhorns crowded out by shorthorn blaze-head
Herefords or near-Herefords; some indignation against Alfred Henry
Lewis's _Wolfville_ as a base libel; and, also but, no gasoline wagons
or pumps, no white collars, no tourists pervading the desert, and the
Injins still wearing blankets and overalls at their reservations instead
of bead work on the railway platforms when the Overland goes through. In
other words, we were wild and wooly, but sincerely didn't know it.

While I was saddling up to go take my dare, old Jed Parker came and
leaned himself up against the snubbing post of the corral. He watched me
for a while, and I kept quiet, knowing well enough that he had something
to say.

"Know Hooper?" he asked.

"I've seen him driving by," said I.

I had: a little humped, insignificant figure with close-cropped white
hair beneath a huge hat. He drove all hunched up. His buckboard was a
rattletrap, old, insulting challenge to every little stone in the road;
but there was nothing the matter with the horses or their harness. We
never held much with grooming in Arizona, but these beasts shone like
bronze. Good sizeable horses, clean built--well, I better not get
started talking horse! They're the reason I had never really sized up
the old man the few times I'd passed him.

"Well, he's a tough bird," said Jed.

"Looks like a harmless old cuss--but mean," says I.

"About this trip," said Jed, after I'd saddled and coiled my
rope--"don't, and say you did."

I didn't answer this, but led my horse to the gate.

"Well, don't say as how I didn't tell you all about it," said Jed, going
back to the bunk house.

Miserable old coot! I suppose he thought he _had_ told me all about it!
Jed was always too loquacious!

But I hadn't racked along more than two miles before a man cantered up
who was perfectly able to express himself. He was one of our outfit and
was known as Windy Bill. Nuff said!

"Hear you're goin' up to stay the night at Hooper's," said he. "Know
Hooper?"

"No, I don't," said I, "are you another of these Sunbirds with glad
news?"

"Know about Hooper's boomerang?"

"Boomerang!" I replied, "what's that?"

"That's what they call it. You know how of course we all let each
other's strays water at our troughs in this country, and send 'em back
to their own range at round up."

"Brother, you interest me," said I, "and would you mind informing me
further how you tell the dear little cows apart?"

"Well, old Hooper don't, that's all," went on Windy, without paying me
any attention. "He built him a chute leading to the water corrals, and
half way down the chute he built a gate that would swing across it and
open a hole into a dry corral. And he had a high platform with a handle
that ran the gate. When any cattle but those of his own brands came
along, he had a man swing the gate and they landed up into the dry
corral. By and by he let them out on the range again."

"Without water?"

"Sure! And of course back they came into the chute. And so on. Till they
died, or we came along and drove them back home."

"Windy," said I, "you're stuffing me full of tacks."

"I've seen little calves lyin' in heaps against the fence like drifts of
tumbleweed," said Windy, soberly; and then added, without apparent
passion, "The old----!"

Looking at Windy's face, I knew these words for truth.

"He's a bad _hombre_," resumed Windy Bill after a moment. "He never does
no actual killing himself, but he's got a bad lot of oilers[A] there,
especially an old one named Andreas and another one called Ramon, and
all he has to do is to lift one eye at a man he don't like and that man
is as good as dead--one time or another."

This was going it pretty strong, and I grinned at Windy Bill.

"All right," said Windy, "I'm just telling you."

"Well, what's the matter with you fellows down here?" I challenged. "How
is it he's lasted so long? Why hasn't someone shot him? Are you all
afraid of him or his Mexicans?"

"No, it ain't that, exactly. I don't know. He drives by all alone, and
he don't pack no gun ever, and he's sort of runty--and--I do'no _why_ he
ain't been shot, but he ain't. And if I was you, I'd stick home."

Windy amused but did not greatly persuade me. By this time I was fairly
conversant with the cowboy's sense of humour. Nothing would have tickled
them more than to bluff me out of a harmless excursion by means of
scareful tales. Shortly Windy Bill turned off to examine a distant bunch
of cattle; and so I rode on alone.

It was coming on toward evening. Against the eastern mountains were
floating tinted mists; and the cañons were a deep purple. The cattle
were moving slowly so that here and there a nimbus of dust caught and
reflected the late sunlight into gamboge yellows and mauves. The magic
time was near when the fierce, implacable day-genius of the desert would
fall asleep and the soft, gentle, beautiful star-eyed night-genius of
the desert would arise and move softly. My pony racked along in the
desert. The mass that represented Hooper's ranch drew imperceptibly
nearer. I made out the green of trees and the white of walls and
building.




CHAPTER II


Hooper's ranch proved to be entirely enclosed by a wall of adobe ten
feet high and whitewashed. To the outside it presented a blank face.
Only corrals and an alfalfa patch were not included. A wide, high
gateway, that could be closed by massive doors, let into a stable yard,
and seemed to be the only entrance. The buildings within were all
immaculate also: evidently Old Man Hooper loved whitewash. Cottonwood
trees showed their green heads; and to the right I saw the sloped
shingled roof of a larger building. Not a living creature was in sight.
I shook myself, saying that the undoubted sinister feeling of utter
silence and lifelessness was compounded of my expectations and the time
of day. But that did not satisfy me. My aroused mind, casting about,
soon struck it: I was missing the swarms of blackbirds, linnets, purple
finches, and doves that made our own ranch trees vocal. Here were no
birds. Laughing at this simple explanation of my eerie feeling, I passed
under the gate and entered the courtyard.

It, too, seemed empty. A stable occupied all one side; the other three
were formed by bunk houses and necessary out-buildings. Here, too, dwelt
absolute solitude and absolute silence. It was uncanny, as though one
walked in a vacuum. Everything was neat and shut up and whitewashed and
apparently dead. There were no sounds or signs of occupancy. I was as
much alone as though I had been in the middle of an ocean. My mind, by
now abnormally sensitive and alert, leaped on this idea. For the same
reason, it insisted--lack of life: there were no birds here, not even
_flies_! Of course, said I, gone to bed in the cool of evening: why
should there be? I laughed aloud and hushed suddenly; and then nearly
jumped out of my skin. The thin blue curl of smoke had caught my eye;
and I became aware of the figure of a man seated on the ground, in the
shadow, leaning against the building. The curl of smoke was from his
cigarette. He was wrapped in a _serape_ which blended well with the cool
colour of shadow. My eyes were dazzled with the whitewash--natural
enough--yet the impression of solitude had been so complete. It was
uncanny, as though he had materialized out of the shadow itself. Silly
idea! I ranged my eye along the row of houses, and I saw three other
figures I had missed before, all broodingly immobile, all merged in
shadow, all watching me, all with the insubstantial air of having as I
looked taken body from thin air.

This was too foolish! I dismounted, dropped my horse's reins over his
head, and sauntered to the nearest figure. He was lost in the dusk of
the building and of his Mexican hat. I saw only the gleam of eyes.

"Where will I find Mr. Hooper?" I asked.

The figure waved a long, slim hand toward a wicket gate in one side of
the enclosure. He said no word, nor made another motion; and the other
figures sat as though graved from stone.

After a moment's hesitation I pushed open the wicket gate, and so found
myself in a smaller intimate courtyard of most surprising character. Its
centre was green grass, and about its border grew tall, bright flowers.
A wide verandah ran about three sides. I could see that in the numerous
windows hung white lace curtains. Mind you, this was in Arizona of the
'nineties!

I knocked at the nearest door, and after an interval it opened and I
stood face to face with Old Man Hooper himself.

He proved to be as small as I had thought, not taller than my own
shoulder, with a bent little figure dressed in wrinkled and baggy store
clothes of a snuff brown. His bullet head had been cropped so that his
hair stood up like a short-bristled white brush. His rather round face
was brown and lined. His hands, which grasped the doorposts
uncompromisingly to bar the way, were lean and veined and old. But all
that I found in my recollections afterward to be utterly unimportant.
His eyes were his predominant, his formidable, his compelling
characteristic. They were round, the pupils very small, the irises large
and of a light flecked blue. From the pupils radiated fine lines. The
blank, cold, inscrutable stare of them bored me through to the back of
the neck. I suppose the man winked occasionally, but I never got that
impression. I've noticed that owls have this same intent, unwinking
stare--and wildcats.

"Mr. Hooper," said I, "can you keep me over night?"

It was a usual request in the old cattle country. He continued to stare
at me for some moments.

"Where are you from?" he asked at length. His voice was soft and low;
rather purring.

I mentioned our headquarters on the Gila: it did not seem worth while
to say anything about Box Springs only a dozen miles away. He stared at
me for some time more.

"Come in," he said, abruptly; and stood aside.

This was a disconcerting surprise. All I had expected was permission to
stop, and a direction as to how to find the bunk house. Then a more or
less dull evening, and a return the following day to collect on my
"dare." I stepped into the dimness of the hallway; and immediately after
into a room beyond.

Again I must remind you that this was the Arizona of the 'nineties. All
the ranch houses with which I was acquainted, and I knew about all of
them, were very crudely done. They comprised generally a half dozen
rooms with adobe walls and rough board floors, with only such
furnishings as deal tables, benches, homemade chairs, perhaps a battered
old washstand or so, and bunks filled with straw. We had no such things
as tablecloths and sheets, of course. Everything was on a like scale of
simple utility.

All right, get that in your mind. The interior into which I now stepped,
with my clanking spurs, my rattling _chaps_, the dust of my
sweat-stained garments, was a low-ceilinged, dim abode with faint, musty
aromas. Carpets covered the floors; an old-fashioned hat rack flanked
the door on one side, a tall clock on the other. I saw in passing framed
steel engravings. The room beyond contained easy chairs, a sofa
upholstered with hair cloth, an upright piano, a marble fireplace with a
mantel, in a corner a triangular what-not filled with objects. It, too,
was dim and curtained and faintly aromatic as had been the house of an
old maiden aunt of my childhood, who used to give me cookies on the
Sabbath. I felt now too large, and too noisy, and altogether mis-dressed
and blundering and dirty. The little old man moved without a sound, and
the grandfather's clock outside ticked deliberately in a hollow silence.

I sat down, rather gingerly, in the chair he indicated for me.

"I shall be very glad to offer you hospitality for the night," he said,
as though there had been no interim. "I feel honoured at the
opportunity."

I murmured my thanks, and a suggestion that I should look after my
horse.

"Your horse, sir, has been attended to, and your _cantinas_[B] are
undoubtedly by now in your room, where, I am sure, you are anxious to
repair."

He gave no signal, nor uttered any command, but at his last words a
grave, elderly Mexican appeared noiselessly at my elbow. As a matter of
fact, he came through an unnoticed door at the back, but he might as
well have materialized from the thin air for the start that he gave me.
Hooper instantly arose.

"I trust, sir, you will find all to your liking. If anything is lacking,
I trust you will at once indicate the fact. We shall dine in a half
hour----"

He seized a small implement consisting of a bit of wire screen attached
to the end of a short stick, darted across the room with the most
extraordinary agility, thwacked a lone house fly, and returned.

"--and you will undoubtedly be ready for it," he finished his speech,
calmly, as though he had not moved from his tracks.

I murmured my acknowledgments. My last impression as I left the room was
of the baleful, dead, challenging stare of the man's wildcat eyes.

The Mexican glided before me. We emerged into the court, walked along
the verandah, and entered a bedroom. My guide slipped by me and
disappeared before I had the chance of a word with him. He may have been
dumb for all I know. I sat down and tried to take stock.




CHAPTER III


The room was small, but it was papered, it was rugged, its floor was
painted and waxed, its window--opening into the court, by the way--was
hung with chintz and net curtains, its bed was garnished with sheets and
counterpane, its chairs were upholstered and in perfect repair and
polish. It was not Arizona, emphatically not, but rather the sweet and
garnished and lavendered respectability of a Connecticut village. My
dirty old _cantinas_ lay stacked against the washstand. At sight of them
I had to grin. Of course I travelled cowboy fashion. They contained a
toothbrush, a comb, and a change of underwear. The latter item was
sheer, rank pride of caste.

It was all most incongruous and strange. But the strangest part, of
course, was the fact that I found myself where I was at that moment. Why
was I thus received? Why was I, an ordinary and rather dirty cowpuncher,
not sent as usual to the men's bunk house? It could not be possible that
Old Man Hooper extended this sort of hospitality to every chance
wayfarer. Arizona is a democratic country, Lord knows: none more so! But
owners are not likely to invite in strange cowboys unless they
themselves mess with their own men. I gave it up, and tried
unsuccessfully to shrug it off my mind, and sought distraction in
looking about me. There was not much to see. The one door and one
window opened into the court. The other side was blank except that near
the ceiling ran a curious, long, narrow opening closed by a transom-like
sash. I had never seen anything quite like it, but concluded that it
must be a sort of loop hole for musketry in the old days. Probably they
had some kind of scaffold to stand on.

I pulled off my shirt and took a good wash: shook the dust out of my
clothes as well as I could; removed my spurs and _chaps_; knotted my
silk handkerchief necktie fashion; slicked down my wet hair, and tried
to imagine myself decently turned out for company. I took off my gun
belt also; but after some hesitation thrust the revolver inside the
waistband of my drawers. Had no reason; simply the border instinct to
stick to one's weapon.

Then I sat down to wait. The friendly little noises of my own movements
left me. I give you my word, never before nor since have I experienced
such stillness. In vain I told myself that with adobe walls two feet
thick, a windless evening, and an hour after sunset, stillness was to be
expected. That did not satisfy. Silence is made up of a thousand little
noises so accustomed that they pass over the consciousness. Somehow
these little noises seemed to lack. I sat in an aural vacuum. This
analysis has come to me since. At that time I only knew that most
uneasily I missed something, and that my ears ached from vain listening.

At the end of the half hour I returned to the parlour. Old Man Hooper
was there waiting. A hanging lamp had been lighted. Out of the shadows
cast from it a slender figure rose and came forward.

"My daughter, Mr.----" he paused.

"Sanborn," I supplied.

"My dear, Mr. Sanborn has most kindly dropped in to relieve the tedium
of our evening with his company--his distinguished company." He
pronounced the words suavely, without a trace of sarcastic emphasis, yet
somehow I felt my face flush. And all the time he was staring at me
blankly with his wide, unblinking, wildcat eyes.

The girl was very pale, with black hair and wide eyes under a fair, wide
brow. She was simply dressed in some sort of white stuff. I thought she
drooped a little. She did not look at me, nor speak to me; only bowed
slightly.

We went at once into a dining room at the end of the little dark hall.
It was lighted by a suspended lamp that threw the illumination straight
down on a table perfect in its appointments of napery, silver, and
glass. I felt very awkward and dusty in my cowboy rig; and rather too
large. The same Mexican served us, deftly. We had delightful food, well
cooked. I do not remember what it was. My attention was divided between
the old man and his daughter. He talked, urbanely, of a wide range of
topics, displaying a cosmopolitan taste, employing a choice of words and
phrases that was astonishing. The girl, who turned out to be very pretty
in a dark, pale, sad way, never raised her eyes from her plate.

It was the cool of the evening, and a light breeze from the open window
swung the curtains. From the blackness outside a single frog began to
chirp. My host's flow of words eddied, ceased. He raised his head
uneasily; then, without apology, slipped from his chair and glided from
the room. The Mexican remained, standing bolt upright in the dimness.

For the first time the girl spoke. Her voice was low and sweet, but
either I or my aroused imagination detected a strained under quality.

"Ramon," she said in Spanish, "I am chilly. Close the window."

The servant turned his back to obey. With a movement rapid as a snake's
dart the girl's hand came from beneath the table, reached across, and
thrust into mine a small, folded paper. The next instant she was back in
her place, staring down as before in apparent apathy. So amazed was I
that I recovered barely soon enough to conceal the paper before Ramon
turned back from his errand.

The next five minutes were to me hours of strained and bewildered
waiting. I addressed one or two remarks to my companion, but received
always monosyllabic answers. Twice I caught the flash of lanterns beyond
the darkened window; and a subdued, confused murmur as though several
people were walking about stealthily. Except for this the night had
again fallen deathly still. Even the cheerful frog had hushed.

At the end of a period my host returned, and without apology or
explanation resumed his seat and took up his remarks where he had left
them.

The girl disappeared somewhere between the table and the sitting room.
Old Man Hooper offered me a cigar, and sat down deliberately to
entertain me. I had an uncomfortable feeling that he was also amusing
himself, as though I were being played with and covertly sneered at.
Hooper's politeness and suavity concealed, and well concealed, a bitter
irony. His manner was detached and a little precise. Every few moments
he burst into a flurry of activity with the fly whacker, darting here
and there as his eyes fell upon one of the insects; but returning always
calmly to his discourse with an air of never having moved from his
chair. He talked to me of Praxiteles, among other things. What should an
Arizona cowboy know of Praxiteles? and why should any one talk to him of
that worthy Greek save as a subtle and hidden expression of contempt?
That was my feeling. My senses and mental apperceptions were by now a
little on the raw.

That, possibly, is why I noticed the very first chirp of another frog
outside. It continued, and I found myself watching my host covertly.
Sure enough, after a few repetitions I saw subtle signs of uneasiness,
of divided attention; and soon, again without apology or explanation, he
glided from the room. And at the same instant the old Mexican servitor
came and pretended to fuss with the lamps.

My curiosity was now thoroughly aroused, but I could guess no means of
satisfying it. Like the bedroom, this parlour gave out only on the
interior court. The flash of lanterns against the ceiling above reached
me. All I could do was to wander about looking at the objects in the
cabinet and the pictures on the walls. There was, I remember, a set of
carved ivory chessmen and an engraving of the legal trial of some
English worthy of the seventeenth century. But my hearing was alert, and
I thought to hear footsteps outside. At any rate, the chirp of the frog
came to an abrupt end.

Shortly my host returned and took up his monologue. It amounted to
that. He seemed to delight in choosing unusual subjects and then backing
me into a corner with an array of well-considered phrases that allowed
me no opening for reply nor even comment. In one of my desperate
attempts to gain even a momentary initiative I asked him, apropos of the
piano, whether his daughter played.

"Do you like music?" he added, and without waiting for a reply seated
himself at the instrument.

He played to me for half an hour. I do not know much about music; but I
know he played well and that he played good things. Also that, for the
first time, he came out of himself, abandoned himself to feeling. His
close-cropped head swayed from side to side; his staring, wildcat eyes
half closed----

He slammed shut the piano and arose, more drily precise than ever.

"I imagine all that is rather beyond your apperceptions," he remarked,
"and that you are ready for your bed. Here is a short document I would
have you take to your room for perusal. Good-night."

He tendered me a small, folded paper which I thrust into the breast
pocket of my shirt along with the note handed me earlier in the evening
by the girl. Thus dismissed I was only too delighted to repair to my
bedroom.

There I first carefully drew together the curtains; then examined the
first of the papers I drew from my pocket. It proved to be the one from
the girl, and read as follows:

     I am here against my will. I am not this man's daughter. For God's
     sake if you can help me, do so. But be careful for he is a
     dangerous man. My room is the last one on the left wing of the
     court. I am constantly guarded. I do not know what you can do. The
     case is hopeless. I cannot write more. I am watched.

I unfolded the paper Hooper himself had given me. It was similar in
appearance to the other, and read:

     I am held a prisoner. This man Hooper is not my father but he is
     vindictive and cruel and dangerous. Beware for yourself. I live in
     the last room in the left wing. I am watched, so cannot write more.

The handwriting of the two documents was the same. I stared at one paper
and then at the other, and for a half hour I thought all the thoughts
appropriate to the occasion. They led me nowhere, and would not interest
you.




CHAPTER IV


After a time I went to bed, but not to sleep. I placed my gun under my
pillow, locked and bolted the door, and arranged a string cunningly
across the open window so that an intruder--unless he had extraordinary
luck--could not have failed to kick up a devil of a clatter. I was
young, bold, without nerves; so that I think I can truthfully say I was
not in the least frightened. But I cannot deny I was nervous--or rather
the whole situation was on my nerves. I lay on my back staring straight
at the ceiling. I caught myself gripping the sheets and listening. Only
there was nothing to listen to. The night was absolutely still. There
were no frogs, no owls, no crickets even. The firm old adobe walls gave
off no creak nor snap of timbers. The world was muffled--I almost said
smothered. The psychological effect was that of blank darkness, the
black darkness of far underground, although the moon was sailing the
heavens.

How long that lasted I could not tell you. But at last the silence was
broken by the cheerful chirp of a frog. Never was sound more grateful to
the ear! I lay drinking it in as thirstily as water after a day on the
desert. It seemed that the world breathed again, was coming alive after
syncope. And then beneath that loud and cheerful singing I became aware
of duller half-heard movements; and a moment or so later yellow lights
began to flicker through the transom high at the blank wall of the
room, and to reflect in wavering patches on the ceiling. Evidently
somebody was afoot outside with a lantern.

I crept from the bed, moved the table beneath the transom, and climbed
atop. The opening was still a foot or so above my head. Being young,
strong, and active, I drew myself up by the strength of my arms so I
could look--until my muscles gave out!

I saw four men with lanterns moving here and there among some willows
that bordered what seemed to be an irrigating ditch with water. They
were armed with long clubs. Old Man Hooper, in an overcoat, stood in a
commanding position. They seemed to be searching. Suddenly from a clump
of bushes one of the men uttered an exclamation of triumph. I saw his
long club rise and fall. At that instant my tired fingers slipped from
the ledge and I had to let myself drop to the table. When a moment later
I regained my vantage point, I found that the whole crew had
disappeared.

Nothing more happened that night. At times I dozed in a broken sort of
fashion, but never actually fell into sound sleep. The nearest I came to
slumber was just at dawn. I really lost all consciousness of my
surroundings and circumstances, and was only slowly brought to myself by
the sweet singing of innumerable birds in the willows outside the blank
wall. I lay in a half stupor enjoying them. Abruptly their music ceased.
I heard the soft, flat _spat_ of a miniature rifle. The sound was
repeated. I climbed back on my table and drew myself again to a position
of observation.

Old Man Hooper, armed with a .22 calibre rifle, was prowling along the
willows in which fluttered a small band of migratory birds. He was just
drawing bead on a robin. At the report the bird fell. The old man darted
forward with the impetuosity of a boy, although the bird was dead. An
impulse of contempt curled my lips. The old man was childish! Why should
he find pleasure in hunting such harmless creatures? and why should he
take on triumph over retrieving such petty game? But when he reached the
fallen bird he did not pick it up for a possible pot-pie as I thought he
would do. He ground it into the soft earth with the heel of his boot,
stamping on the poor thing again and again. And never have I seen on
human countenance such an expression of satisfied malignity!

I went to my door and looked out. You may be sure that the message I had
received from the unfortunate young lady had not been forgotten; but Old
Man Hooper's cynical delivery of the second paper had rendered me too
cautious to undertake anything without proper reconnaissance. The left
wing about the courtyard seemed to contain two apartments--at least
there were two doors, each with its accompanying window. The window
farthest out was heavily barred. My thrill at this discovery was,
however, slightly dashed by the further observation that also all the
other windows into the courtyard were barred. Still, that was peculiar
in itself, and not attributable--as were the walls and remarkable
transoms--to former necessities of defence. My first thought was to
stroll idly around the courtyard, thus obtaining a closer inspection.
But the moment I stepped into the open a Mexican sauntered into view
and began to water the flowers. I can say no more than that in his hands
that watering pot looked fairly silly. So I turned to the right and
passed through the wicket gate and into the stable yard. It was natural
enough that I should go to look after my own horse.

The stable yard was for the moment empty; but as I walked across it one
of its doors opened and a very little, wizened old man emerged leading a
horse. He tied the animal to a ring in the wall and proceeded at once to
currying.

I had been in Arizona for ten years. During that time I had seen a great
many very fine native horses, for the stock of that country is directly
descended from the barbs of the _conquistadores_. But, though often well
formed and as tough and useful as horseflesh is made, they were small.
And no man thought of refinements in caring for any one of his numerous
mounts. They went shaggy or smooth according to the season; and not one
of them could have called a curry comb or brush out of its name.

The beast from which the wizened old man stripped a _bona fide_ horse
blanket was none of these. He stood a good sixteen hands; his head was
small and clean cut with large, intelligent eyes and little, well-set
ears; his long, muscular shoulders sloped forward as shoulders should;
his barrel was long and deep and well ribbed up; his back was flat and
straight; his legs were clean and--what was rarely seen in the cow
country--well proportioned--the cannon bone shorter than the leg bone,
the ankle sloping and long and elastic--in short, a magnificent creature
whose points of excellence appeared one by one under close scrutiny.
And the high lights of his glossy coat flashed in the sun like water.

I walked from one side to the other of him marvelling. Not a defect, not
even a blemish could I discover. The animal was fairly a perfect
specimen of horseflesh. And I could not help speculating as to its use.
Old Man Hooper had certainly never appeared with it in public; the fame
of such a beast would have spread the breadth of the country.

During my inspection the wizened little man continued his work without
even a glance in my direction. He had on riding breeches and leather
gaiters, a plaid waistcoat and a peaked cap; which, when you think of
it, was to Arizona about as incongruous as the horse. I made several
conventional remarks of admiration, to which he paid not the slightest
attention. But I know a bait.

"I suppose you claim him as a Morgan," said I.

"Claim, is it!" grunted the little man, contemptuously.

"Well, the Morgan is not a real breed, anyway," I persisted. "A
sixty-fourth blood will get one registered. What does that amount to?"

The little man grunted again.

"Besides, though your animal is a good one, he is too short and straight
in the pasterns," said I, uttering sheer, rank, wild heresy.

After that we talked; at first heatedly, then argumentatively, then with
entire, enthusiastic agreement. I saw to that. Allowing yourself to be
converted from an absurd opinion is always a sure way to favour. We
ended with antiphonies of praise for this descendant of Justin Morgan.

"You're the only man in all this God-forsaken country that has the
sense of a Shanghai rooster!" cried the little man in a glow. "They ride
horses and they know naught of them; and they laugh at a horseman! Your
hand, sir!" He shook it. "And is that your horse in number four? I
wondered! He's the first animal I've seen here properly shod. They use
the rasp, sir, on the outside the hoof, and on the clinches, sir; and
they burn a seat for the shoe; and they pare out the sole and trim the
frog--bah! You shoe your own horse, I take it. That's right and proper!
Your hand again, sir. Your horse has been fed this hour agone."

"I'll water him, then," said I.

But when I led him forth I could find no trough or other facilities
until the little man led me to a corner of the corral and showed me a
contraption with a close-fitting lid to be lifted.

"It's along of the flies," he explained to me. "They must drink, and we
starve them for water here, and they go greedy for their poison yonder."
He indicated flat dishes full of liquid set on shelves here and about.
"We keep them pretty clear."

I walked over, curiously, to examine. About and in the dishes were
literally quarts of dead insects, not only flies, but bees, hornets, and
other sorts as well. I now understood the deadly silence that had so
impressed me the evening before. This was certainly most ingenious; and
I said so.

But at my first remark the old man became obstinately silent, and fell
again to grooming the Morgan horse. Then I became aware that he was
addressing me in low tones out of the corner of his mouth.

"Go on; look at the horse; say something," he muttered, busily
polishing down the animal's hind legs. "You're a man who _saveys_ a
horse--the only man I've seen here who does. _Get out_! Don't ask why.
You're safe now. You're not safe here another day. Water your horse; eat
your breakfast; then _get out_!"

And not another word did I extract. I watered my horse at the covered
trough, and rather thoughtfully returned to the courtyard.

I found there Old Man Hooper waiting. He looked as bland and innocent
and harmless as the sunlight on his own flagstones--until he gazed up at
me, and then I was as usual disconcerted by the blank, veiled, unwinking
stare of his eyes.

"Remarkably fine Morgan stallion you have, sir," I greeted him. "I
didn't know such a creature existed in this part of the world."

But the little man displayed no gratification.

"He's well enough. I have him more to keep Tim happy than anything else.
We'll go in to breakfast."

I cast a cautious eye at the barred window in the left wing. The
curtains were still down. At the table I ventured to ask after Miss
Hooper. The old man stared at me up to the point of embarrassment, then
replied drily that she always breakfasted in her room. The rest of our
conversation was on general topics. I am bound to say it was
unexpectedly easy. The old man was a good talker, and possessed social
ease and a certain charm, which he seemed to be trying to exert. Among
other things, I remember, he told me of the Indian councils he used to
hold in the old days.

"They were held on the willow flat, outside the east wall," he said. "I
never allowed any of them inside the walls." The suavity of his manner
broke fiercely and suddenly. "Everything inside the walls is mine!" he
declared with heat. "Mine! mine! mine! Understand? I will not tolerate
in here anything that is not mine; that does not obey my will; that does
not come when I say come; go when I say go; and fall silent when I say
be still!"

A wild and fantastic idea suddenly illuminated my understanding.

"Even the crickets, the flies, the frogs, the birds," I said,
audaciously.

He fixed his wildcat eyes upon me without answering.

"And," I went on, deliberately, "who could deny your perfect right to do
what you will with your own? And if they did deny that right what more
natural than that they should be made to perish--or take their
breakfasts in their rooms?"

I was never more aware of the absolute stillness of the house than when
I uttered these foolish words. My hand was on the gun in my
trouser-band; but even as I spoke a sickening realization came over me
that if the old man opposite so willed, I would have no slightest chance
to use it. The air behind me seemed full of menace, and the hair crawled
on the back of my neck. Hooper stared at me without sign for ten
seconds; his right hand hovered above the polished table. Then he let it
fall without giving what I am convinced would have been a signal.

"Will you have more coffee--my guest?" he inquired. And he stressed
subtly the last word in a manner that somehow made me just a trifle
ashamed.

At the close of the meal the Mexican familiar glided into the room.
Hooper seemed to understand the man's presence, for he arose at once.

"Your horse is saddled and ready," he told me, briskly. "You will be
wishing to start before the heat of the day. Your _cantinas_ are ready
on the saddle."

He clapped on his hat and we walked together to the corral. There
awaited us not only my own horse, but another. The equipment of the
latter was magnificently reminiscent of the old California
days--gaily-coloured braided hair bridle and reins; silver _conchas_;
stock saddle of carved leather with silver horn and cantle; silvered bit
bars; gay Navajo blanket as corona; silver corners to skirts, silver
_conchas_ on the long _tapaderos_. Old Man Hooper, strangely incongruous
in his wrinkled "store clothes," swung aboard.

"I will ride with you for a distance," he said.

We jogged forth side by side at the slow Spanish trot. Hooper called my
attention to the buildings of Fort Shafter glimmering part way up the
slopes of the distant mountains, and talked entertainingly of the Indian
days, and how the young officers used to ride down to his ranch for
music.

After a half hour thus we came to the long string of wire and the huge,
awkward gate that marked the limit of Hooper's "pasture." Of course the
open range was his real pasture; but every ranch enclosed a thousand
acres or so somewhere near the home station to be used for horses in
active service. Before I could anticipate him, he had sidled his horse
skillfully alongside the gate and was holding it open for me to pass. I
rode through the opening murmuring thanks and an apology. The old man
followed me through, and halted me by placing his horse square across
the path of mine.

"You are now, sir, outside my land and therefore no longer my guest," he
said, and the snap in his voice was like the crackling of electricity.
"Don't let me ever see you here again. You are keen and intelligent. You
spoke the truth a short time since. You were right. I tolerate nothing
in my place that is not my own--no man, no animal, no bird, no insect
nor reptile even--that will not obey my lightest order. And these
creatures, great or small, who will not--_or even cannot_--obey my
orders must go--or die. Understand me clearly?

"You have come here, actuated, I believe, by idle curiosity, but without
knowledge. You made yourself--ignorantly--my guest; and a guest is
sacred. But now you know my customs and ideas. I am telling you. Never
again can you come here in ignorance; therefore never again can you come
here as a guest; and never again will you pass freely."

He delivered this drily, precisely, with frost in his tones, staring
balefully into my eyes. So taken aback was I by this unleashed hostility
that for a moment I had nothing to say.

"Now, if you please, I will take both notes from that poor idiot: the
one I handed you and the one she handed you."

I realized suddenly that the two lay together in the breast pocket of my
shirt; that though alike in tenor, they differed in phrasing; and that I
had no means of telling one from the other.

"The paper you gave me I read and threw away," I stated, boldly. "It
meant nothing to me. As to any other, I do not know what you are talking
about."

"You are lying," he said, calmly, as merely stating a fact. "It does not
matter. It is my fancy to collect them. I should have liked to add
yours. Now get out of this, and don't let me see your face again!"

"Mr. Hooper," said I, "I thank you for your hospitality, which has been
complete and generous. You have pointed out the fact that I am no longer
your guest. I can, therefore, with propriety, tell you that your ideas
and prejudices are noted with interest; your wishes are placed on file
for future reference; I don't give a damn for your orders; and you can
go to hell!"

"Fine flow of language. Educated cowpuncher," said the old man, drily.
"You are warned. Keep off. Don't meddle with what does not concern you.
And if the rumour gets back to me that you've been speculating or
talking or criticizing----"

"Well?" I challenged.

"I'll have you killed," he said, simply; so simply that I knew he meant
it.

"You are foolish to make threats," I rejoined. "Two can play at that
game. You drive much alone."

"I do not work alone," he hinted, darkly. "The day my body is found dead
of violence, that day marks the doom of a long list of men whom I
consider inimical to me--like, perhaps, yourself." He stared me down
with his unwinking gaze.




CHAPTER V


I returned to Box Springs at a slow jog trot, thinking things over. Old
Man Hooper's warning sobered, but did not act as a deterrent of my
intention to continue with the adventure. But how? I could hardly storm
the fort single handed and carry off the damsel in distress. On the
evidence I possessed I could not even get together a storming party. The
cowboy is chivalrous enough, but human. He would not uprise
spontaneously to the point of war on the mere statement of incarcerated
beauty--especially as ill-treatment was not apparent. I would hardly
last long enough to carry out the necessary proselyting campaign. It
never occurred to me to doubt that Hooper would fulfill his threat of
having me killed, or his ability to do so.

So when the men drifted in two by two at dusk, I said nothing of my real
adventures, and answered their chaff in kind.

"He played the piano for me," I told them the literal truth, "and had me
in to the parlour and dining room. He gave me a room to myself with a
bed and sheets; and he rode out to his pasture gate with me to say
good-bye," and thereby I was branded a delicious liar.

"They took me into the bunk house and fed me, all right," said Windy
Bill, "and fed my horse. And next morning that old Mexican Joe of his
just nat'rally up and kicked me off the premises."

"Wonder you didn't shoot him," I exclaimed.

"Oh, he didn't use his foot. But he sort of let me know that the place
was unhealthy to visit more'n once. And somehow I seen he meant it; and
I ain't never had no call to go back."

I mulled over the situation all day, and then could stand it no longer.
On the dark of the evening I rode to within a couple of miles of
Hooper's ranch, tied my horse, and scouted carefully forward afoot. For
one thing I wanted to find out whether the system of high transoms
extended to all the rooms, including that in the left wing: for another
I wanted to determine the "lay of the land" on that blank side of the
house. I found my surmise correct as to the transoms. As to the blank
side of the house, that looked down on a wide, green, moist patch and
the irrigating ditch with its stunted willows. Then painstakingly I went
over every inch of the terrain about the ranch; and might just as well
have investigated the external economy of a mud turtle. Realizing that
nothing was to be gained in this manner, I withdrew to my strategic base
where I rolled down and slept until daylight. Then I saddled and
returned toward the ranch.

I had not ridden two miles, however, before in the boulder-strewn wash
of Arroyo Seco I met Jim Starr, one of our men.

"Look here," he said to me. "Jed sent me up to look at the Elder
Springs, but my hoss has done cast a shoe. Cain't you ride up there?"

"I cannot," said I, promptly. "I've been out all night and had no
breakfast. But you can have my horse."

So we traded horses and separated, each our own way. They sent me out by
Coyote Wells with two other men, and we did not get back until the
following evening.

The ranch was buzzing with excitement. Jim Starr had not returned,
although the ride to Elder Springs was only a two-hour affair. After a
night had elapsed, and still he did not return, two men had been sent.
They found him half way to Elder Springs with a bullet hole in his back.
The bullet was that of a rifle. Being plainsmen they had done good
detective work of its kind, and had determined--by the direction of the
bullet's flight as evidenced by the wound--that it had been fired from a
point above. The only point above was the low "rim" that ran for miles
down the Soda Springs Valley. It was of black lava and showed no tracks.
The men, with a true sense of values, had contented themselves with
covering Jim Starr with a blanket, and then had ridden the rim for some
miles in both directions looking for a trail. None could be discovered.
By this they deduced that the murder was not the result of chance
encounter, but had been so carefully planned that no trace would be left
of the murderer or murderers.

No theory could be imagined save the rather vague one of personal
enmity. Jim Starr was comparatively a newcomer with us. Nobody knew
anything much about him or his relations. Nobody questioned the only man
who could have told anything; and that man did not volunteer to tell
what he knew.

I refer to myself. The thing was sickeningly clear to me. Jim Starr had
nothing to do with it. I was the man for whom that bullet from the rim
had been intended. I was the unthinking, shortsighted fool who had done
Jim Starr to his death. It had never occurred to me that my midnight
reconnoitring would leave tracks, that Old Man Hooper's suspicious
vigilance would even look for tracks. But given that vigilance, the rest
followed plainly enough. A skillful trailer would have found his way to
where I had mounted; he would have followed my horse to Arroyo Seco
where I had met with Jim Starr. There he would have visualized a rider
on a horse without one shoe coming as far as the Arroyo, meeting me, and
returning whence he had come; and me at once turning off at right
angles. His natural conclusion would be that a messenger had brought me
orders and had returned. The fact that we had shifted mounts he could
not have read, for the reason--as I only too distinctly remembered--that
we had made the change in the boulder and rock stream bed which would
show no clear traces.

The thought that poor Jim Starr, whom I had well liked, had been
sacrificed for me, rendered my ride home with the convoy more deeply
thoughtful than even the tragic circumstances warranted. We laid his
body in the small office, pending Buck Johnson's return from town, and
ate our belated meal in silence. Then we gathered around the corner
fireplace in the bunk house, lit our smokes, and talked it over. Jed
Parker joined us. Usually he sat with our owner in the office.

Hardly had we settled ourselves to discussion when the door opened and
Buck Johnson came in. We had been so absorbed that no one had heard him
ride up. He leaned his forearm against the doorway at the height of his
head and surveyed the silenced group rather ironically.

"Lucky I'm not nervous and jumpy by nature," he observed. "I've seen
dead men before. Still, next time you want to leave one in my office
after dark, I wish you'd put a light with him, or tack up a sign, or
even leave somebody to tell me about it. I'm sorry it's Starr and not
that thoughtful old horned toad in the corner."

Jed looked foolish, but said nothing. Buck came in, closed the door, and
took a chair square in front of the fireplace. The glow of the leaping
flames was full upon him. His strong face and bulky figure were
revealed, while the other men sat in half shadow. He at once took charge
of the discussion.

"How was he killed?" he inquired, "bucked off?"

"Shot," replied Jed Parker.

Buck's eyebrows came together.

"Who?" he asked.

He was told the circumstances as far as they were known, but declined to
listen to any of the various deductions and surmises.

"Deliberate murder and not a chance quarrel," he concluded. "He wasn't
even within hollering distance of that rim-rock. Anybody know anything
about Starr?"

"He's been with us about five weeks," proffered Jed, as foreman. "Said
he came from Texas."

"He was a Texican," corroborated one of the other men. "I rode with him
considerable."

"What enemies did he have?" asked Buck.

But it developed that, as far as these men knew, Jim Starr had had no
enemies. He was a quiet sort of a fellow. He had been to town once or
twice. Of course he might have made an enemy, but it was not likely; he
had always behaved himself. Somebody would have known of any trouble----

"Maybe somebody followed him from Texas."

"More likely the usual local work," Buck interrupted. "This man Starr
ever met up with Old Man Hooper or Hooper's men?"

But here was another impasse. Starr had been over on the Slick Rock ever
since his arrival. I could have thrown some light on the matter,
perhaps, but new thoughts were coming to me and I kept silence.

Shortly Buck Johnson went out. His departure loosened tongues, among
them mine.

"I don't see why you stand for this old _hombre_ if he's as bad as you
say," I broke in. "Why don't some of you brave young warriors just
naturally pot him?"

And that started a new line of discussion that left me even more
thoughtful than before. I knew these men intimately. There was not a
coward among them. They had been tried and hardened and tempered in the
fierceness of the desert. Any one of them would have twisted the tail of
the devil himself; but they were off Old Man Hooper. They did not make
that admission in so many words; far from it. And I valued my hide
enough to refrain from pointing the fact. But that fact remained: they
were off Old Man Hooper. Furthermore, by the time they had finished
recounting in intimate detail some scores of anecdotes dealing with what
happened when Old Man Hooper winked his wildcat eye, I began in spite
of myself to share some of their sentiments. For no matter how flagrant
the killing, nor how certain morally the origin, never had the most
brilliant nor the most painstaking effort been able to connect with the
slayers nor their instigator. He worked in the dark by hidden hands; but
the death from the hands was as certain as the rattlesnake's. Certain of
his victims, by luck or cleverness, seemed to have escaped sometimes as
many as three or four attempts but in the end the old man's Killers got
them.

A Jew drummer who had grossly insulted Hooper in the Lone Star Emporium
had, on learning the enormity of his crime, fled to San Francisco. Three
months later Soda Springs awoke to find pasted by an unknown hand on the
window of the Emporium a newspaper account of that Jew drummer's taking
off. The newspaper could offer no theory and merely recited the fact
that the man suffered from a heavy-calibred bullet. But always the talk
turned back at last to that crowning atrocity, the Boomerang, with its
windrows of little calves, starved for water, lying against the fence.

"Yes," someone unexpectedly answered my first question at last, "someone
could just naturally pot him easy enough. But I got a hunch that he
couldn't get fur enough away to feel safe afterward. The fellow with a
hankering for a good _useful_ kind of suicide could get it right there.
Any candidates? You-all been looking kinda mournful lately, Windy;
s'pose you be the human benefactor and rid the world of this yere
reptile."

"Me?" said Windy with vast surprise, "me mournful? Why, I sing at my
work like a little dicky bird. I'm so plumb cheerful bull frogs ain't
in it. You ain't talking to me!"

But I wanted one more point of information before the conversation
veered.

"Does his daughter ever ride out?" I asked.

"Daughter?" they echoed in surprise.

"Or niece, or whoever she is," I supplemented impatiently.

"There's no woman there; not even a Mex," said one, and "Did you see any
sign of any woman?" keenly from Windy Bill.

But I was not minded to be drawn.

"Somebody told me about a daughter, or niece, or something," I said,
vaguely.




CHAPTER VI


I lay in my bunk and cast things up in my mind. The patch of moonlight
from the window moved slowly across the floor. One of the men was
snoring, but with regularity, so he did not annoy me. The outside
silence was softly musical with all the little voices that at Hooper's
had so disconcertingly lacked. There were crickets--I had forgotten
about them--and frogs, and a hoot owl, and various such matters, beneath
whose influence customarily my consciousness merged into sleep so
sweetly that I never knew when I had lost them. But I was never wider
awake than now, and never had I done more concentrated thinking.

For the moment, and for the moment, only, I was safe. Old Man Hooper
thought he had put me out of the way. How long would he continue to
think so? How long before his men would bring true word of the mistake
that had been made? Perhaps the following day would inform him that Jim
Starr and not myself had been reached by his killer's bullet. Then, I
had no doubt, a second attempt would be made on my life. Therefore,
whatever I was going to do must be done quickly.

I had the choice of war or retreat. Would it do me any good to retreat?
There was the Jew drummer who was killed in San Francisco; and others
whose fates I have not detailed. But why should he particularly desire
my extinction? What had I done or what knowledge did I possess that had
not been equally done and known by any chance visitor to the ranch? I
remembered the notes in my shirt pocket; and, at the risk of awakening
some of my comrades, I lit a candle and studied them. They were
undoubtedly written by the same hand. To whom had the other been
smuggled? and by what means had it come into Old Man Hooper's
possession? The answer hit me so suddenly, and seemed intrinsically so
absurd, that I blew out the candle and lay again on my back to study it.

And the more I studied it, the less absurd it seemed, not by the light
of reason, but by the feeling of pure intuition. I knew it as sanely as
I knew that the moon made that patch of light through the window. The
man to whom that other note had been surreptitiously conveyed by the
sad-eyed, beautiful girl of the iron-barred chamber was dead; and he was
dead because Old Man Hooper had so willed. And the former owners of the
other notes of the "Collection" concerning which the old man had spoken
were dead, too--dead for the same reason and by the same hidden hands.

Why? Because they knew about the girl? Unlikely. Without doubt Hooper
had, as in my case, himself made possible that knowledge. But I
remembered many things; and I knew that my flash of intuition, absurd as
it might seem at first sight, was true. I recalled the swift, darting
onslaughts with the fly whackers, the fierce, vindictive slaughter of
the frogs, his early-morning pursuit of the flock of migrating birds.
Especially came clear to my recollection the words spoken at breakfast:

"Everything inside the walls is mine! Mine! Mine! Understand? I will
not tolerate anything that is not mine; that does not obey my will; that
does not come when I say come; go when I say go; and fall silent when I
say be still!"

My crime, the crime of these men from whose dead hands the girl's
appeals had been taken for the "Collection," was that of curiosity! The
old man would within his own domain reign supreme, in the mental as in
the physical world. The chance cowboy, genuinely desirous only of a
resting place for the night, rode away unscathed; but he whom the old
man convicted of a prying spirit committed a lese-majesty that could not
be forgiven. And I had made many tracks during my night reconnaissance.

And the same flash of insight showed me that I would be followed
wherever I went; and the thing that convinced my intuitions--not my
reason--of this was the recollection of the old man stamping the remains
of the poor little bird into the mud by the willows. I saw again the
insane rage of his face; and I felt cold fingers touching my spine.

On this I went abruptly and unexpectedly to sleep, after the fashion of
youth, and did not stir until Sing, the cook, routed us out before dawn.
We were not to ride the range that day because of Jim Starr, but Sing
was a person of fixed habits. I plunged my head into the face of the
dawn with a new and light-hearted confidence. It was one of those clear,
nile-green sunrises whose lucent depths go back a million miles or so;
and my spirit followed on wings. Gone were at once my fine-spun theories
and my forebodings of the night. Life was clean and clear and simple.
Jim Starr had probably some personal enemy. Old Man Hooper was
undoubtedly a mean old lunatic, and dangerous; very likely he would
attempt to do me harm, as he said, if I bothered him again, but as for
following me to the ends of the earth----

The girl was a different matter. She required thought. So, as I was
hungry and the day sparkling, I postponed her and went in to breakfast.




CHAPTER VII


By the time the coroner's inquest and the funeral in town were over it
was three o'clock of the afternoon. As I only occasionally managed Soda
Springs I felt no inclination to hurry on the return journey. My
intention was to watch the Overland through, to make some small
purchases at the Lone Star Emporium, to hoist one or two at McGrue's,
and to dine sumptuously at the best--and only--hotel. A programme simple
in theme but susceptible to variations.

The latter began early. After posing kiddishly as a rough, woolly,
romantic cowboy before the passengers of the Overland, I found myself
chaperoning a visitor to our midst. By sheer accident the visitor had
singled me out for an inquiry.

"Can you tell me how to get to Hooper's ranch?" he asked.

So I annexed him promptly in hope of developments.

He was certainly no prize package, for he was small, pale, nervous,
shifty, and rat-like; and neither his hands nor his eyes were still for
an instant. Further to set him apart he wore a hard-boiled hat, a
flaming tie, a checked vest, a coat cut too tight for even his emaciated
little figure, and long toothpick shoes of patent leather. A fairer mark
for cowboy humour would be difficult to find; but I had a personal
interest and a determined character so the gang took a look at me and
bided their time.

But immediately I discovered I was going to have my hands full. It
seemed that the little, shifty, rat-faced man had been possessed of a
small handbag which the negro porter had failed to put off the train;
and which was of tremendous importance. At the discovery it was lacking
my new friend went into hysterics. He ran a few feet after the
disappearing train; he called upon high heaven to destroy utterly the
race of negro porters; he threatened terrible reprisals against a
delinquent railroad company; he seized upon a bewildered station agent
over whom he poured his troubles in one gush; and he lifted up his voice
and wept--literally wept! This to the vast enjoyment of my friends.

"What ails the small party?" asked Windy Bill coming up.

"He's lost the family jewels!" "The papers are missing." "Sandy here
(meaning me) won't give him his bottle and it's past feeding time."
"Sandy's took away his stick of candy and won't give it back." "The
little son-of-a-gun's just remembered that he give the nigger porter two
bits," were some of the replies he got.

On the general principle of "never start anything you can't finish," I
managed to quell the disturbance; I got a description of the bag, and
arranged to have it wired for at the next station. On receiving the news
that it could not possibly be returned before the following morning, my
protégé showed signs of another outburst. To prevent it I took him
firmly by the arm and led him across to McGrue's. He was shivering as
though from a violent chill.

The multitude trailed interestedly after; but I took my man into one of
McGrue's private rooms and firmly closed the door.

"Put that under your belt," I invited, pouring him a half tumbler of
McGrue's best, "and pull yourself together."

He smelled it.

"It's only whiskey," he observed, mournfully. "That won't help much."

"You don't know this stuff," I encouraged.

He took off the half tumbler without a blink, shook his head, and poured
himself another. In spite of his scepticism I thought his nervousness
became less marked.

"Now," said I, "if you don't mind, why do you descend on a peaceful
community and stir it all up because of the derelictions of an absent
coon? And why do you set such store by your travelling bag? And why do
you weep in the face of high heaven and outraged manhood? And why do you
want to find Hooper's ranch? And why are you and your vaudeville make
up?"

But he proved singularly embarrassed and nervous and uncommunicative,
darting his glance here and there about him, twisting his hands, never
by any chance meeting my eye. I leaned back and surveyed him in
considerable disgust.

"Look here, brother," I pointed out to him. "You don't seem to realize.
A man like you can't get away with himself in this country except behind
footlights--and there ain't any footlights. All I got to do is to throw
open yonder door and withdraw my beneficent protection and you will be
set upon by a pack of ravening wolves with their own ideas of humour,
among whom I especially mention one Windy Bill. I'm about the only thing
that looks like a friend you've got."

He caught at the last sentence only.

"You my friend?" he said, breathlessly, "then tell me: is there a
doctor around here?"

"No," said I, looking at him closely, "not this side of Tucson. Are you
sick?"

"Is there a drug store in town, then?"

"Nary drug store."

He jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair as he did so.

"My God!" he cried in uncontrollable excitement, "I've got to get my
bag! How far is it to the next station where they're going to put it
off? Ain't there some way of getting there? I got to get to my bag."

"It's near to forty miles," I replied, leaning back.

"And there's no drug store here? What kind of a bum tank town is this,
anyhow?"

"They keep a few patent medicines and such over at the Lone Star
Emporium----" I started to tell him. I never had a chance to finish my
sentence. He darted around the table, grabbed me by the arm, and urged
me to my feet.

"Show me!" he panted.

We sailed through the bar room under full head of steam, leaving the
gang staring after us open-mouthed. I could feel we were exciting
considerable public interest. At the Lone Star Emporium the little freak
looked wildly about him until his eyes fell on the bottle shelves. Then
he rushed right in behind the counter and began to paw them over. I
headed off Sol Levi, who was coming front making war medicine.

"_Loco_," says I to him. "If there's any damage, I'll settle."

It looked like there was going to be damage all right, the way he
snatched up one bottle after the other, read the labels, and thrust
them one side. At last he uttered a crow of delight, just like a kid.

"How many you got of these?" he demanded, holding up a bottle of
soothing syrup.

"You only take a tablespoon of that stuff----" began Sol.

"How many you got--how much are they?" interrupted the stranger.

"Six--three dollars a bottle," says Sol, boosting the price.

The little man peeled a twenty off a roll of bills and threw it down.

"Keep the other five bottles for me!" he cried in a shaky voice, and ran
out, with me after him, forgetting his change and to shut the door
behind us.

Back through McGrue's bar we trailed like one of these moving-picture
chases and into the back room.

"Well, here we are home again," said I.

The stranger grabbed a glass and filled it half full of soothing syrup.

"Here, you aren't going to drink that!" I yelled at him. "Didn't you
hear Sol tell you the dose is a spoonful?"

But he didn't pay me any attention. His hand was shaking so he could
hardly connect with his own mouth, and he was panting as though he'd run
a race.

"Well, no accounting for tastes," I said. "Where do you want me to ship
your remains?"

He drank her down, shut his eyes a few minutes, and held still. He had
quit his shaking, and he looked me square in the face.

"What's it _to_ you?" he demanded. "Huh? Ain't you never seen a guy hit
the hop before?"

He stared at me so truculently that I was moved to righteous wrath; and
I answered him back. I told him what I thought of him and his clothes
and his conduct at quite some length. When I had finished he seemed to
have gained a new attitude of aggravating wise superiority.

"That's all right, kid; that's all right," he assured me; "keep your
hair on. I ain't such a bad scout; but you gotta get used to me. Give me
my hop and I'm all right. Now about this Hooper; you say you know him?"

"None better," I rejoined. "But what's that to you? That's a fair
question."

He bored me with his beady rat eyes for several seconds.

"Friend of yours?" he asked, briefly.

Something in the intonations of his voice induced me to frankness.

"I have good cause to think he's trying to kill me," I replied.

He produced a pocketbook, fumbled in it for a moment, and laid before me
a clipping. It was from the Want column of a newspaper, and read as
follows:

     A.A.B.--Will deal with you on your terms. H.H.

"A.A.B. that's me--Artie Brower. And H.H.--that's him--Henry Hooper," he
explained. "And that lil' piece of paper means that's he's caved, come
off, war's over. Means I'm rich, that I can have my own ponies if I want
to, 'stead of touting somebody else's old dogs. It means that I got old
H.H.--Henry Hooper--where the hair is short, and he's got to come my
way!"

His eyes were glittering restlessly, and the pupils seemed to be unduly
dilated. The whiskey and opium together--probably an unaccustomed
combination--were too much for his ill-balanced control. Every
indication of his face and his narrow eyes was for secrecy and craft;
yet for the moment he was opening up to me, a stranger, like an oyster.
Even my inexperience could see that much, and I eagerly took advantage
of my chance.

"You are a horseman, then?" I suggested.

"Me a horseman? Say, kid, you didn't get my name. Brower--Artie Brower.
Why, I've ridden more winning races than any other man on the Pacific
Coast. That's how I got onto old H.H. I rode for him. He knows a good
horse all right--the old skunk. Used to have a pretty string."

"He's got at least one good Morgan stallion now," said I. "I've seen him
at Hooper's ranch."

"I know the old crock--trotter," scorned the true riding jockey.
"Probably old Tim Westmore is hanging around, too. He's in love with
that horse."

"Is he in love with Hooper, too?" I asked.

"Just like I am," said the jockey with a leer.

"So you're going to be rich," said I. "How's that?"

He leered at me again, going foxy.

"Don't you wish you knew! But I'll tell you this: old H.H. is going to
give me all I want--just because I ask him to."

I took another tack, affecting incredulity.

"The hell he is! He'll hand you over to Ramon and that will be the last
of a certain jockey."

"No, he won't do no such trick. I've fixed that; and he knows it. If he
kills me, he'll lose _all_ he's got 'stead of only part."

"You're drunk or dreaming," said I. "If you bother him, he'll just plain
have you killed. That's a little way of his."

"And if he does a friend of mine will just go to a certain place and get
certain papers and give 'em to a certain lawyer--and then where's old
H.H.? And he knows it, damn well. And he's going to be good to Artie and
give him what he wants. We'll get along fine. Took him a long time to
come to it; but I didn't take no chances while he was making up his
mind; you can bet on that."

"Blackmail, eh?" I said, with just enough of a sneer to fire him.

"Blackmail nothing!" he shouted. "It ain't blackmail to take away what
don't belong to a man at all!"

"What don't belong to him?"

"Nothing. Not a damn thing except his money. This ranch. The oil wells
in California. The cattle. Not a damn thing. That was the agreement with
his pardner when they split. And I've got the agreement! Now what you
got to say?"

"Say? Why its _loco_! Why doesn't the pardner raise a row?"

"He's dead."

"His heirs then?"

"He hasn't got but one heir--his daughter." My heart skipped a beat in
the amazement of a half idea. "And she knew nothing about the agreement.
Nobody knows but old H.H.--and me." He sat back, visibly gloating over
me. But his mood was passing. His earlier exhilaration had died, and
with it was dying the expansiveness of his confidence. The triumph of
his last speech savoured he slipped again into his normal self. He
looked at me suspiciously, and raised his whiskey to cover his
confusion.

"What's it to yuh, anyway?" he muttered into his glass darkly. His eyes
were again shifting here and there; and his lips were snarled back
malevolently to show his teeth.

At this precise moment the lords of chance willed Windy Bill and others
to intrude on our privacy by opening the door and hurling several
whiskey-flavoured sarcasms at the pair of us. The jockey seemed to
explode after the fashion of an over-inflated ball. He squeaked like a
rat, leaped to his feet, hurled the chair on which he had been sitting
crash against the door from which Windy Bill _et al_ had withdrawn
hastily, and ended by producing a small wicked-looking automatic--then a
new and strange weapon--and rushing out into the main saloon. There he
announced that he was known to the cognoscenti as Art the Blood and was
a city gunman in comparison with which these plain, so-called bad men
were as sucking doves to the untamed eagle. Thence he glanced briefly at
their ancestry as far as known; and ended by rushing forth in the
general direction of McCloud's hotel.

"Suffering giraffes!" gasped Windy Bill after the whirlwind had passed.
"Was that the scared little rabbit that wept all them salt tears over at
the depot? What brand of licker did you feed him, Sandy?"

I silently handed him the bottle.

"Soothing syrup--my God!" said Windy in hushed tones.




CHAPTER VIII


At that epoch I prided myself on being a man of resource; and I
proceeded to prove it in a fashion that even now fills me with
satisfaction. I annexed the remainder of that bottle of soothing syrup;
I went to Sol Levi and easily procured delivery of the other five. Then
I strolled peacefully to supper over at McCloud's hotel. Pathological
knowledge of dope fiends was outside my ken--I could not guess how soon
my man would need another dose of his "hop," but I was positively sure
that another would be needed. Inquiry of McCloud elicited the fact that
the ex-jockey had swallowed a hasty meal and had immediately retired to
Room 4. I found Room 4 unlocked, and Brower lying fully clothed sound
asleep across the bed. I did not disturb him, except that I robbed him
of his pistol. All looked safe for awhile; but just to be certain I took
Room 6, across the narrow hall, and left both doors open. McCloud's
hotel never did much of a room business. By midnight the cowboys would
be on their way for the ranches. Brower and myself were the only
occupants of the second floor.

For two hours I smoked and read. The ex-jockey did not move a muscle.
Then I went to bed and to a sound sleep; but I set my mind like an alarm
clock, so that the slightest move from the other room would have fetched
me broad awake. City-bred people may not know that this can be done by
most outdoor men. I have listened subconsciously to horsebells for so
many nights, for example, that even on stormy nights the cessation of
that faint twinkle will awaken me, while the crash of the elements or
even the fall of a tree would not in the slightest disturb my tired
slumbers. So now, although the songs and stamping and racket of the
revellers below stairs in McCloud's bar did not for one second prevent
my falling into deep and dreamless sleep, Brower's softest tread would
have reached my consciousness.

However, he slept right through the night, and was still dead to the
world when I slipped out at six o'clock to meet the east-bound train.
The bag--a small black Gladstone--was aboard in charge of the
baggageman. I had no great difficulty in getting it from my friend, the
station agent. Had he not seen me herding the locoed stranger? I
secreted the black bag with the five full bottles of soothing syrup,
slipped the half-emptied bottle in my pocket, and returned to the hotel.
There I ate breakfast, and sat down for a comfortable chat with McCloud
while awaiting results.

Got them very promptly. About eight o'clock Brower came downstairs. He
passed through the office, nodding curtly to McCloud and me, and into
the dining room where he drank several cups of coffee. Thence he passed
down the street toward Sol Levi's. He emerged rather hurriedly and
slanted across to the station.

"In about two minutes," I observed to McCloud, "you're going to observe
yon butterfly turn into a stinging lizard. He's going to head in this
direction; and he'll probably aim to climb my hump. Such being the case,
and the affair being private, you'll do me a favour by supervising
something in some remote corner of the premises."

"Sure," said McCloud, "I'll go twist that Chink washee-man. Been
intending to for a week." And he stumped out on his wooden foot.

The comet hit at precisely 7:42 by McCloud's big clock. Its head was
Brower at high speed and tension; and its tail was the light alkali dust
of Arizona mingled with the station agent. No irresistible force and
immovable body proposition in mine; I gave to the impact.

"Why, sure, I got 'em for you," I answered. "You left your dope lying
around loose so I took care of it for you. As for your bag; you seemed
to set such store by it that I got that for you, too."

Which deflated that particular enterprise for the moment, anyway. The
station agent, too mad to spit, departed before he should be tempted
beyond his strength to resist homicide.

"I suppose you're taking care of my gun for me, too," said Brower; but
his irony was weak. He was evidently off the boil.

"Your gun?" I echoed. "Have you lost your gun?"

He passed his hand across his eyes. His super-excitement had passed,
leaving him weak and nervous. Now was the time for my counter-attack.

"Here's your gun," said I, "didn't want to collect any lead while you
were excited, and I've got your dope," I repeated, "in a safe place." I
added, "and you'll not see any of it again until you answer me a few
questions, and answer them straight."

"If you think you can roll me for blackmail," he came back with some
decision, "you're left a mile."

"I don't want a cent; but I do want a talk."

"Shoot," said he.

"How often do you have to have this dope--for the best results; and how
much of it at a shot?"

He stared at me for a moment, then laughed.

"What's it to yuh?" he repeated his formula.

"I want to know."

"I get to needing it about once a day. Three grains will carry me by."

"All right; that's what I want to know. Now listen to me. I'm custodian
of this dope, and you'll get your regular ration as long as you stick
with me."

"I can always hop a train. This ain't the only hamlet on the map," he
reminded me.

"That's always what you can do if you find we can't work together.
That's where you've got me if my proposition doesn't sound good."

"What is your proposition?" he asked after a moment.

"Before I tell you, I'm going to give you a few pointers on what you're
up against. I don't know how much you know about Old Man Hooper, but
I'll bet there's plenty you _don't_ know about."

I proceeded to tell him something of the old man's methods, from the
"boomerang" to vicarious murder.

"And he gets away with it?" asked Brower when I had finished.

"He certainly does," said I. "Now," I continued, "you may be solid as a
brick church, and your plans may be water-tight, and old Hooper may
kill the fatted four-year-old, for all I know. But if I were you, I
wouldn't go sasshaying all alone out to Hooper's ranch. It's altogether
_too_ blame confiding and innocent."

"If anything happens to me, I've left directions for those contracts to
be recorded," he pointed out. "Old Hooper knows that."

"Oh, sure!" I replied, "just like that! But one day your trustworthy
friend back yonder will get a letter in your well-known hand-write that
will say that all is well and the goose hangs high, that the old man is
a prince and has come through, and that in accordance with the nice,
friendly agreement you have reached he--your friend--will hand over the
contract to a very respectable lawyer herein named, and so forth and so
on, ending with your equally well-known John Hancock."

"Well, that's all right."

"I hadn't finished the picture. In the meantime, you will be getting out
of it just one good swift kick, and that is all."

"I shouldn't write any such letter. Not 'till I felt the feel of the
dough."

"Not at first you wouldn't," I said, softly. "Certainly not at first.
But after a while you would. These renegade Mexicans--like Hooper's
Ramon, for example--know a lot of rotten little tricks. They drive
pitch-pine splinters into your legs and set fire to them, for one thing.
Or make small cuts in you with a knife, and load them up with powder
squibs in oiled paper--so the blood won't wet them--and touch them off.
And so on. When you've been shown about ten per cent, of what old Ramon
knows about such things, you'll write most any kind of a letter."

"My God!" he muttered, thrusting the ridiculous derby to the back of his
head.

"So you see you'd look sweet walking trustfully into Hooper's claws.
That's what that newspaper ad was meant for. And when the respectable
lawyer wrote that the contract had been delivered, do you know what
would happen to you?"

The ex-jockey shuddered.

"But you've only told me part of what I want to know," I pursued. "You
got me side-tracked. This daughter of the dead pardner--this girl, what
about her? Where is she now?"

"Europe, I believe."

"When did she go?"

"About three months ago."

"Any other relatives?"

"Not that I know of."

"H'm," I pondered. "What does she look like?"

"She's about medium height, dark, good figure, good-looking all right.
She's got eyes wide apart and a wide forehead. That's the best I can do.
Why?"

"Anybody heard from her since she went to Europe?"

"How should I know?" rejoined Brower, impatiently. "What you driving
at?"

"I think I've seen her. I believe she's not in Europe at all. I believe
she's a prisoner at the ranch."

"My aunt!" ejaculated Brower. His nervousness was increasing--the
symptoms I was to recognize so well. "Why the hell don't you just shoot
him from behind a bush? I'll do it, if you won't."

"He's too smooth for that." And I told him what Hooper had told me. "His
hold on these Mexicans is remarkable. I don't doubt that fifty of the
best killers in the southwest have lists of the men Old Man Hooper
thinks might lay him out. And every man on that list would get his
within a year--without any doubt. I don't doubt that partner's daughter
would go first of all. You, too, of course."

"My aunt!" groaned the jockey again.

"He's a killer," I went on, "by nature, and by interest--a bad
combination. He ought to be tramped out like a rattlesnake. But this is
a new country, and it's near the border. I expect he's got me marked. If
I have to I'll kill him just like I would a rattlesnake; but that
wouldn't do me a whole lot of good and would probably get a bunch
assassinated. I'd like to figure something different. So you see you'd
better come on in while the coming is good."

"I see," said the ex-jockey, very much subdued. "What's your idea? What
do you want me to do?"

That stumped me. To tell the truth I had no idea at all what to do.

"I don't want you to go out to Hooper's ranch alone," said I.

"Trust me!" he rejoined, fervently.

"I reckon the first best thing is to get along out of town," I
suggested. "That black bag all the plunder you got?"

"That's it."

"Then we'll go out a-horseback."

We had lunch and a smoke and settled up with McCloud. About
mid-afternoon we went on down to the livery corral. I knew the keeper
pretty well, of course, so I borrowed a horse and saddle for Brower. The
latter looked with extreme disfavour on both.

"This is no race meet," I reminded him. "This is a means of
transportation."

"Sorry I ain't got nothing better," apologized Meigs, to whom I had
confided my companion's profession--I had to account for such a figure
somehow. "All my saddle hosses went off with a mine outfit yesterday."

"What's the matter with that chestnut in the shed?"

"He's all right; fine beast. Only it ain't mine. It belongs to Ramon."

"Ramon from Hooper's?"

"Yeah."

"I'd let you ride my horse and take Meigs's old skate myself," I said to
Brower, "but when you first get on him this bronc of mine is a
rip-humming tail twister. Ain't he, Meigs?"

"He's a bad _caballo_," corroborated Meigs.

"Does he buck?" queried Brower, indifferently.

"Every known fashion. Bites, scratches, gouges, and paws. Want to try
him?"

"I got a headache," replied Brower, grouchily. "Bring out your old dog."

When I came back from roping and blindfolding the twisted dynamite I was
engaged in "gentling," I found that Brower was saddling the mournful
creature with my saddle. My expostulation found him very snappy and
very arbitrary. His opium-irritated nerves were beginning to react. I
realized that he was not far short of explosive obstinacy. So I conceded
the point; although, as every rider knows, a cowboy's saddle and a
cowboy's gun are like unto a toothbrush when it comes to lending. Also
it involved changing the stirrup length on the livery saddle. I needed
things just right to ride Tiger through the first five minutes.

When I had completed this latter operation, Brower had just finished
drawing tight the cinch. His horse stood dejectedly. When Brower had
made fast the latigo, the horse--as such dispirited animals often
do--heaved a deep sigh. Something snapped beneath the slight strain of
the indrawn breath.

"Dogged if your cinch ain't busted!" cried Meigs with a loud laugh.
"Lucky for you your friend did borrow your saddle! If you'd clumb Tiger
with that outfit you could just naturally have begun pickin' out the
likely-looking she-angels."

I dropped the stirrup and went over to examine the damage. Both of the
quarter straps on the off side had given way. I found that they had been
cut nearly through with a sharp knife. My eye strayed to Ramon's
chestnut horse standing under the shed.




CHAPTER IX


We jogged out to Box Springs by way of the lower alkali flats. It is
about three miles farther that way; but one can see for miles in every
direction. I did not one bit fancy the cañons, the mesquite patches, and
the open ground of the usual route.

I beguiled the distance watching Brower. The animal he rode was a
hammer-headed, ewe-necked beast with a disconsolate eye and a half-shed
winter coat. The ex-jockey was not accustomed to a stock saddle. He had
shortened his stirrups beyond all reason so that his knees and his
pointed shoes and his elbows stuck out at all angles. He had thrust his
derby hat far down over his ears, and buttoned his inadequate coat
tightly. In addition, he was nourishing a very considerable grouch,
attributable, I suppose, to the fact that his customary dose was just
about due. Tiger could not be blamed for dancing wide. Evening was
falling, the evening of the desert when mysterious things seem to swell
and draw imminent out of unguessed distances. I could not help wondering
what these gods of the desert could be thinking of us.

However, as we drew imperceptibly nearer the tiny patch of cottonwoods
that marked Box Springs, I began to realize that it would be more to the
point to wonder what that gang of hoodlums in the bunk house was going
to think of us. The matter had been fairly well carried off up to that
moment, but I could not hope for a successful repetition. No man could
continue to lug around with him so delicious a vaudeville sketch without
some concession to curiosity. Nor could any mortal for long wear such
clothes in the face of Arizona without being required to show cause. He
had got away with it last night, by surprise; but that would be about
all.

At my fiftieth attempt to enter into conversation with him, I
unexpectedly succeeded. I believe I was indicating the points of
interest. You can see farther in Arizona than any place I know, so there
was no difficulty about that. I'd pointed out the range of the
Chiracahuas, and Cochise's Stronghold, and the peaks of the Galiuros and
other natural sceneries; I had showed him mesquite and yucca, and mescal
and soapweed, and sage, and sacatone and niggerheads and all the other
known vegetables of the region. Also I'd indicated prairie dogs and
squinch owls and Gambel's quail and road runners and a couple of coyotes
and lizards and other miscellaneous fauna. Not to speak of naming
painstakingly the ranches indicated by the clumps of trees that you
could just make out as little spots in the distance--Box Springs, the
O.T., the Double H, Fort Shafter, and Hooper's. He waked up and paid a
little attention at this; and I thought I might get a little friendly
talk out of him. A cowboy rides around alone so much he sort of likes to
josh when he has anybody with him. This "strong silent" stuff doesn't go
until you've used around with a man quite some time.

I got the talk, all right, but it didn't have a thing to do with
topography or natural history. Unless you call the skate he was riding
natural history. That was the burden of his song. He didn't like that
horse, and he didn't care who knew it. It was an uncomfortable horse to
ride on, it required exertion to keep in motion, and it hurt his
feelings. Especially the last. He was a horseman, a jockey, he'd ridden
the best blood in the equine world; and here he was condemned through no
fault of his own to straddle a cross between a llama and a woolly toy
sheep. It hurt his pride. He felt bitterly about it. Indeed, he fairly
harped on the subject.

"Is that horse of yours through bucking for the day?" he asked at last.

"Certain thing. Tiger never pitches but the once."

"Let me ride him a ways. I'd like to feel a real horse to get the taste
of this kangaroo out of my system."

I could see he was jumpy, so I thought I'd humour him.

"Swing on all at once and you're all right," I advised him. "Tiger don't
like fumbling in getting aboard."

He grunted scornfully.

"Those stirrups are longer than the ones you've been using. Want to
shorten them?"

He did not bother to answer, but mounted in a decisive manner that
proved he was indeed a horseman, and a good one. I climbed old crow bait
and let my legs hang.

The jockey gathered the reins and touched Tiger with his heels. I kicked
my animal with my stock spurs and managed to extract a lumbering sort of
gallop.

"Hey, slow up!" I called after a few moments. "I can't keep up with
you."

Brower did not turn his head, nor did Tiger slow up. After twenty
seconds I realized that he intended to do neither. I ceased urging on my
animal, there was no use tiring us both; evidently the jockey was
enjoying to the full the exhilaration of a good horse, and we would
catch up at Box Springs. I only hoped the boys wouldn't do anything
drastic to him before my arrival.

So I jogged along at the little running walk possessed by even the most
humble cattle horse, and enjoyed the evening. It was going on toward
dusk and pools of twilight were in the bottomlands. For the moment the
world had grown smaller, more intimate, as the skies expanded. The dust
from Brower's going did not so much recede as grow littler, more
toy-like. I watched idly his progress.

At a point perhaps a mile this side the Box Springs ranch the road
divides: the right-hand fork leading to the ranch house, the left on up
the valley. After a moment I noticed that the dust was on the left-hand
fork. I swore aloud.

"The damn fool has taken the wrong road!" and then after a moment, with
dismay: "He's headed straight for Hooper's ranch!"

I envisaged the full joy and rapture of this thought for perhaps half a
minute. It sure complicated matters, what with old Hooper gunning on my
trail, and this partner's daughter shut up behind bars. Me, I expected
to last about two days unless I did something mighty sudden. Brower I
expected might last approximately half that time, depending on how soon
Ramon _et al_ got busy. The girl I didn't know anything about, nor did I
want to at that moment. I was plenty worried about my own precious hide
just then. And if you think you are going to get a love story out of
this, I warn you again to quit right now; you are not.

Brower was going to walk into that gray old spider's web like a nice fat
fly. And he was going to land without even the aid and comfort of his
own particular brand of Dutch courage. For safety's sake, and because of
Tiger's playful tendencies when first mounted, we had tied the famous
black bag--which now for convenience contained also the soothing
syrup--behind the cantle of Meigs's old nag. Which said nag I now
possessed together with all appurtenances and attachments thereunto
appertaining I tried to speculate on the reactions of Old Man Hooper,
Ramon, Brower and no dope, but it was too much for me. My head was
getting tired thinking about all these complicated things, anyhow. I was
accustomed to nice, simple jobs with my head, like figuring on the
shrinkage of beef cattle, or the inner running of a two-card draw. All
this annoyed me. I began to get mad. When I got mad enough I cussed and
came to a decision: which was to go after Old Man Hooper and all his
works that very night. Next day wouldn't do; I wanted action right off
quick. Naturally I had no plans, nor even a glimmering of what I was
going to do about it; but you bet you I was going to do something! As
soon as it was dark I was going right on up there. Frontal attack, you
understand. As to details, those would take care of themselves as the
affair developed. Having come to which sapient decision I shoved the
whole irritating mess over the edge of my mind and rode on quite happy.
I told you at the start of this yarn that I was a kid.

My mind being now quite easy as to my future actions, I gave thought to
the first step. That was supper. There seemed to me no adequate reason,
with a fine, long night before me, why I shouldn't use a little of the
shank end of it to stoke up for the rest. So I turned at the right-hand
fork and jogged slowly toward our own ranch.

Of course I had the rotten luck to find most of the boys still at the
water corral. When they saw who was the lone horseman approaching
through the dusk of the spring twilight, and got a good fair look at the
ensemble, they dropped everything and came over to see about it, headed
naturally by those mournful blights, Windy Bill and Wooden. In solemn
silence they examined my outfit, paying not the slightest attention to
me. At the end of a full minute they looked at each other.

"What do you think, Sam?" asked Windy.

"My opinion is not quite formed, suh," replied Wooden, who was a
Texican. "But my first examination inclines me to the belief that it is
a hoss."

"Yo're wrong, Sam," denied Windy, sadly; "yo're judgment is confused by
the fact that the critter carries a saddle. Look at the animile itself."

"I have done it," continued Sam Wooden; "at first glance I should agree
with you. Look carefully, Windy. Examine the details; never mind the
_toot enscramble_. It's got hoofs."

"So's a cow, a goat, a burro, a camel, a hippypottamus, and the devil,"
pointed out Windy.

"Of course I may be wrong," acknowledged Wooden. "On second examination
I probably am wrong. But if it ain't a hoss, then what is it? Do you
know?"

"It's a genuine royal gyasticutus," esserted Windy Bill, positively. "I
seen one once. It has one peculiarity that you can't never fail to
identify it by."

"What's that?"

"It invariably travels around with a congenital idiot."

Wooden promptly conceded that, but claimed the identification not
complete as he doubted whether, strictly speaking, I could be classified
as a congenital idiot. Windy pointed out that evidently I had traded
Tiger for the gyasticutus. Wooden admitted that this proved me an idiot,
but not necessarily a congenital idiot.

This colloquy--and more like it--went on with entire gravity. The other
men were hanging about relishing the situation, but without a symptom of
mirth. I was unsaddling methodically, paying no attention to anybody,
and apparently deaf to all that was being said. If the two old fools had
succeeded in eliciting a word from me they would have been entirely
happy; but I knew that fact, and shut my lips.

I hung my saddle on the rack and was just about to lead the old skate to
water when we all heard the sound of a horse galloping on the road.

"It's a light boss," said somebody after a moment, meaning a horse
without a burden.

We nodded and resumed our occupation. A stray horse coming in to water
was nothing strange or unusual. But an instant later, stirrups swinging,
reins flapping, up dashed my own horse, Tiger.




CHAPTER X


All this being beyond me, and then some, I proceeded methodically to
carry out my complicated plan; which was, it will be remembered, to eat
supper and then to go and see about it in person. I performed the first
part of this to my entire satisfaction but not to that of the rest. They
accused me of unbecoming secrecy; only they expressed it differently.
That did not worry me, and in due time I made my escape. At the corral I
picked out a good horse, one that I had brought from the Gila, that
would stay tied indefinitely without impatience. Then I lighted me a
cigarette and jogged up the road. I carried with me a little grub, my
six-gun, the famous black bag, and an entirely empty head.

The night was only moderately dark, for while there was no moon there
were plenty of those candle-like desert stars. The little twinkling
lights of the Box Springs dropped astern like lamps on a shore. By and
by I turned off the road and made a wide détour down the sacatone
bottoms, for I had still some sense; and roads were a little too
obvious. The reception committee that had taken charge of my little
friend might be expecting another visitor--me. This brought my approach
to the blank side of the ranch where were the willow trees and the
irrigating ditch. I rode up as close as I thought I ought to. Then I
tied my horse to a prominent lone Joshua-tree that would be easy to
find, unstrapped the black bag, and started off. The black bag, however,
bothered me; so after some thought I broke the lock with a stone and
investigated the contents, mainly by feel. There were a lot of clothes
and toilet articles and such junk, and a number of undetermined hard
things like round wooden boxes. Finally I withdrew to the shelter of a
_barranca_ where I could light matches. Then I had no difficulty in
identifying a nice compact little hypodermic outfit, which I slipped
into a pocket. I then deposited the bag in a safe place where I could
find it easily.

Leaving my horse I approached the ranch under cover of the willows. Yes,
I remembered this time that I left tracks, but I did not care. My idea
was to get some sort of decisive action before morning. Once through the
willows I crept up close to the walls. They were twelve or fifteen feet
high, absolutely smooth; and with one exception broken only by the long,
narrow loopholes or transoms I have mentioned before. The one exception
was a small wicket gate or door. I remembered the various sorties with
torches after the chirping frogs, and knew that by this opening the
hunting party had emerged. This and the big main gate were the only
entrances to the enclosure.

I retired to the vicinity of the willows and uttered the cry of the
barred owl. After ten seconds I repeated it, and so continued. My only
regret was that I could not chirp convincingly like a frog. I saw a
shadow shift suddenly through one of the transoms, and at once glided to
the wall near the little door. After a moment or so it opened to emit
Old Man Hooper and another bulkier figure which I imagined to be that
of Ramon. Both were armed with shotguns. Suddenly it came to me that I
was lucky not to have been able to chirp convincingly like a frog. They
hunted frogs with torches and in a crowd. Those two carried no light and
they were so intent on making a sneak on the willows and the
supposititious owl that I, flattened in the shadow of the wall, easily
escaped their notice. I slipped inside the doorway.

This brought me into a narrow passage between two buildings. The other
end looked into the interior court. A careful reconnaissance showed no
one in sight, so I walked boldly along the verandah in the direction of
the girl's room. Her note had said she was constantly guarded; but I
could see no one in sight, and I had to take a chance somewhere. Two
seconds' talk would do me: I wanted to know in which of the numerous
rooms the old man slept. I had a hunch it would be a good idea to share
that room with him. What to do then I left to the hunch.

But when I was half way down the verandah I heard the wicket door
slammed shut. The owl hunters had returned more quickly than I had
anticipated. Running as lightly as possible I darted down the verandah
and around the corner of the left wing. This brought me into a narrow
little garden strip between the main house and the wall dividing the
court from the corrals and stable yards. Footsteps followed me but
stopped. A hand tried the door knob to the corner room.

"Nothing," I heard Hooper's voice replying to a question. "Nothing at
all. Go to sleep."

The fragrant smell of Mexican tobacco reached my nostrils. After a
moment Ramon--it was he--resumed a conversation in Spanish:

"I do not know, señor, who the man was. I could but listen; it was not
well to inquire nor to show too much interest. His name, yes; Jim Starr,
but who he is----" I could imagine the shrug. "It is of no importance."

"It is of importance that the other man still lives," broke in Hooper's
harsher voice. "I will not have it, I say! Are you sure of it?"

"I saw him. And I saw his horse at the Señor Meigs. It was the brown
that bucks badly, so I cut the quarter straps of his saddle. It might be
that we have luck; I do not count on it. But rest your mind easy, señor,
it shall be arranged."

"It better be."

"But there is more, señor. The señor will remember a man who rode in
races for him many years ago, one named Artie----"

"Brower!" broke in Hooper. "What about him?"

"He is in town. He arrived yesterday afternoon."

Hooper ejaculated something.

"And more, he is all day and all night with this Sanborn."

Hooper swore fluently in English.

"Look, Ramon!" he ordered, vehemently. "It is necessary to finish this
Sanborn at once, without delay."

"_Bueno_, señor."

"It must not go over a single day."

"Haste makes risk, señor."

"The risk must be run."

"_Bueno_, señor. And also this Artie?"

"No! no! no!" hastened Hooper. "Guard him as your life! But send a
trusty man for him to-morrow with the buckboard. He comes to see me, in
answer to my invitation."

"And if he will not come, señor?" inquired Ramon's quiet voice.

"Why should he not come?"

"He has been much with Sanborn."

"It's necessary that he come," replied Hooper, emphasizing each word.

"_Bueno_, señor."

"Who is to be on guard?"

"Cortinez, señor."

"I will send him at once. Do me the kindness to watch for a moment until
I send him. Here is the key; give it to him. It shall be but a moment."

"_Bueno_, señor," replied Ramon.

He leaned against the corner of the house. I could see the half of his
figure against the sky and the dim white of the walls.

The night was very still, as always at this ranch. There was not even a
breeze to create a rustle in the leaves. I was obliged to hold rigidly
motionless, almost to hush my breathing, while the figure bulked large
against the whitewashed wall. But my eyes, wide to the dimness, took in
every detail of my surroundings. Near me stood a water barrel. If I
could get a spring from that water barrel I could catch one of the heavy
projecting beams of the roof.

After an apparently interminable interval the sound of footsteps became
audible, and a moment later Ramon moved to meet his relief. I seized the
opportunity of their conversation and ascended to the roof. It proved
to be easy, although the dried-out old beam to which for a moment I
swung creaked outrageously. Probably it sounded louder to me than the
actual fact. I took off my boots and moved cautiously to where I could
look down into the court. Ramon and his companion were still talking
under the verandah, so I could not see them; but I waited until I heard
one of them move away. Then I went to seat myself on the low parapet and
think things over.

The man below me had the key to the girl's room. If I could get the key
I could accomplish the first step of my plan--indeed the only step I had
determined upon. The exact method of getting the key would have to
develop. In the meantime, I gave passing wonder to the fact, as
developed by the conversation between Hooper and Ramon, that Brower was
not at the ranch and had not been heard of at the ranch. Where had Tiger
dumped him, and where now was he lying? I keenly regretted the loss of a
possible ally; and, much to my astonishment, I found within myself a
little regret for the man himself.

The thought of the transom occurred to me. I tiptoed over to that side
and looked down. The opening was about five feet below the parapet.
After a moment's thought I tied a bit of stone from the coping in the
end of my silk bandana and lowered it at arm's length. By swinging it
gently back and forth I determined that the transom was open. With the
stub of the pencil every cowboy carried to tally with I scribbled a few
words on an envelope which I wrapped about the bit of coping. Something
to the effect that I was there, and expected to gain entrance to her
room later, and to be prepared. Then I lowered my contraption, caused
it to tap gently a dozen times on the edge of the transom, and finally
swung it with a rather nice accuracy to fly, bandana and all, through
the opening. After a short interval of suspense I saw the reflection of
a light and so knew my message had been received.

There was nothing to do now but return to a point of observation. On my
way I stubbed my stockinged foot against a stone _metate_ or mortar in
which Indians and Mexicans make their flour. The heavy pestle was there.
I annexed it. Dropped accurately from the height of the roof it would
make a very pretty weapon. The trouble, of course, lay in that word
"accurately."

But I soon found the fates playing into my hands. At the end of a
quarter hour the sentry emerged from under the verandah, looked up at
the sky, yawned, stretched, and finally sat down with his back against
the wall of the building opposite. Inside of ten minutes he was sound
asleep and snoring gently.

I wanted nothing better than that. The descent was a little difficult to
accomplish noiselessly, as I had to drop some feet, but I managed it.
After crouching for a moment to see if the slight sounds had aroused
him, I crept along the wall to where he sat. The stone pestle of the
_metate_ I had been forced to leave behind me, but I had the heavy
barrel of my gun, and I was going to take no chances. I had no
compunctions as to what I did to any one of this pack of mad dogs.
Cautiously I drew it from its holster and poised it to strike. At that
instant I was seized and pinioned from behind.




CHAPTER XI


I did not struggle. I would have done so if I had been able, but I was
caught in a grip so skillful that the smallest move gave me the most
exquisite pain. At that time I had not even heard the words _jiu jitsu_,
but I have looked them up since. Cortinez, the sleepy sentry, without
changing his position, had opened his eyes and was grinning at me.

I was forced to my feet and marched to the open door of the corner room.
There I was released, and turned around to face Hooper himself. The old
man's face was twisted in a sardonic half-snarl that might pass for a
grin; but there was no smile in his unblinking wildcat eyes. There
seemed to be trace neither of the girl nor the girl's occupation.

"Thank you for your warning of your intended visit," said Hooper in
silky tones, indicating my bandana which lay on the table. "And now may
I inquire to what I owe the honour of this call? Or it may be that the
visit was not intended for me at all. Mistake in the rooms, perhaps. I
often shift and change my quarters, and those of my household;
especially if I suspect I have some reason for doing so. It adds
interest to an otherwise uneventful life."

He was eying me sardonically, evidently gloating over the situation as
he found it.

"How did you get on that roof? Who let you inside the walls?" he
demanded, abruptly.

I merely smiled at him.

"That we can determine later," he observed, resuming command of himself.

I measured my chances, and found them at present a minus quantity. The
old man was separated from me by a table, and he held my own revolver
ready for instant use. So I stood tight and waited.

The room was an almost exact replica of the one in which I had spent the
night so short a time before; the same long narrow transom near the
ceiling, the same barred windows opening on the court, the same closet
against the blank wall. Hooper had evidently inhabited it for some days,
for it was filled with his personal belongings. Indeed he must have
moved in _en bloc_ when his ward had been moved out, for none of the
furnishings showed the feminine touch, and several articles could have
belonged only to the old man personally. Of such was a small iron safe
in one corner and a tall old-fashioned desk crammed with papers.

But if I decided overt action unwise at this moment, I decidedly went
into action the next. Hooper whistled and four Mexicans appeared with
ropes. Somehow I knew if they once hog-tied me I would never get another
chance. Better dead now than helpless in the morning, for what that old
buzzard might want of me.

One of them tossed a loop at me. I struck it aside and sailed in.

It had always been my profound and contemptuous belief that I could lick
any four Mexicans. Now I had to take that back. I could not. But I gave
the man argument, and by the time they had my elbows lashed behind me
and my legs tied to the legs of one of those big solid chairs they like
to name as "Mission style," I had marked them up and torn their pretty
clothes and smashed a lot of junk around the place and generally got
them so mad they would have knifed me in a holy second if it had not
been for Old Man Hooper. The latter held up the lamp where it wouldn't
get smashed and admonished them in no uncertain terms that he wanted me
alive and comparatively undamaged. Oh, sure! they mussed me up, too. I
wasn't very pretty, either.

The bravos withdrew muttering curses, as the story books say; and after
Hooper had righted the table and stuck the lamp on it, and taken a good
look at my bonds, he withdrew also.

Most of my time until the next thing occurred was occupied in figuring
on all the things that might happen to me. One thing I acknowledged to
myself right off the reel: the Mexicans had sure trussed me up for
further orders! I could move my hands, but I knew enough of ropes and
ties to realize that my chances of getting free were exactly nothing. My
plans had gone perfectly up to this moment. I had schemed to get inside
the ranch and into Old Man Hooper's room; and here I was! What more
could a man ask?

The next thing occurred so soon, however, that I hadn't had time to
think of more than ten per cent. of the things that might happen to me.
The outside door opened to admit Hooper, followed by the girl. He stood
aside in the most courtly fashion.

"My dear," he said, "here is Mr. Sanborn, who has come to call on you.
You remember Mr. Sanborn, I am sure. You met him at dinner; and besides,
I believe you had some correspondence with him, did you not? He has
taken so much trouble, so very much trouble to see you that I think it a
great pity his wish should not be fulfilled. Won't you sit down here, my
dear?"

She was staring at me, her eyes gone wide with wonder and horror. Half
thinking she took her seat as indicated. Instantly the old man had bound
her elbows at the back and had lashed her to the chair. After the first
start of surprise she made no resistance.

"There," said Hooper, straightening up after the accomplishment of this
task; "now I'm going to leave you to your visit. You can talk it all
over. Tell him all you please, my dear. And you, sir, tell her all you
know. I think I can arrange so your confidences will go no further."

For the first time I heard him laugh, a high, uncertain cackle. The girl
said nothing, but she stared at him with level, blazing eyes. Also for
the first time I began to take an interest in her.

"Do you object to smoking?" I asked her, suddenly.

She blinked and recovered.

"Not at all," she answered.

"Well then, old man, be a sport. Give me the makings. I can get my hands
to my mouth."

The old man transferred his baleful eyes on me. Then without saying a
word he placed in my hands a box of tailor-made cigarettes and a dozen
matches.

"Until morning," he observed, his hand on the door knob. He inclined in
a most courteous fashion, first to the one of us, then to the other,
and went out. He did not lock the door after him, and I could hear him
addressing Cortinez outside. The girl started to speak, but I waved my
shackled hand at her for silence. By straining my ears I could just make
out what was said.

"I am going to bed," Hooper said. "It is not necessary to stand guard.
You may get your blankets and sleep on the verandah."

After the old man's footsteps had died, I turned back to the girl
opposite me and looked her over carefully. My first impression of
meekness I revised. She did not look to be one bit meek. Her lips were
compressed, her nostrils wide, her level eyes unsubdued. A person of
sense, I said to myself, well balanced, who has learned when it is
useless to kick against the pricks, but who has not necessarily on that
account forever renounced all kicking. It occurred to me that she must
have had to be pretty thoroughly convinced before she had come to this
frame of mind. When she saw that I had heard all I wanted of the
movements outside, she spoke hurriedly in her low, sweet voice:

"Oh, I am so distressed! This is all my doing! I should have known
better----"

"Now," I interrupted her, decisively, "let's get down to cases. You had
nothing to do with this; nothing whatever. I visited this ranch the
first time out of curiosity, and to-night because I knew that I'd have
to hit first to save my own life. You had no influence on me in either
case."

"You thought this was my room--I wrote you it was," she countered,
swiftly.

"I wanted to see you solely and simply that I might find out how to get
at Hooper. This is all my fault; and we're going to cut out the
self-accusations and get down to cases."

I afterward realized that all this was somewhat inconsiderate and
ungallant and slightly humiliating; I should have taken the part of the
knight-errant rescuing the damsel in distress, but at that moment only
the direct essentials entered my mind.

"Very well," she assented in her repressed tones.

"Do you think he is listening to what we say; or has somebody
listening?"

"I am positive not."

"Why?"

"I lived in this room for two months, and I know every inch of it."

"He might have some sort of a concealed listening hole somewhere, just
the same."

"I am certain he has not. The walls are two feet thick."

"All right; let it go at that. Now let's see where we stand. In the
first place, how do you dope this out?"

"What do you mean?"

"What does he intend to do with us?"

She looked at me straight, eye to eye.

"In the morning he will kill you--unless you can contrive something."

"Cheering thought."

"There is no sense in not facing situations squarely. If there is a way
out, that is the only method by which it may be found."

"True," I agreed, my admiration growing. "And yourself; will he kill
you, too?"

"He will not. He does not dare!" she cried, proudly, with a flash of
the eyes.

I was not so sure of that, but there was no object in saying so.

"Why has he tied you in that chair, then, along with the condemned?" I
asked.

"You will understand better if I tell you who I am."

"You are his deceased partner's daughter; and everybody thinks you are
in Europe," I stated.

"How in the world did you know that? But no matter; it is true. I
embarked three months ago on the Limited for New York intending, as you
say, to go on a long trip to Europe. My father and I had been alone in
the world. We were very fond of each other. I took no companion, nor did
I intend to. I felt quite independent and able to take care of myself.
At the last moment Mr. Hooper boarded the train. That was quite
unexpected. He was on his way to the ranch. He persuaded me to stop over
for a few days to decide some matters. You know, since my father's death
I am half owner."

"Whole owner," I murmured.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. Go ahead. Sure you don't mind my smoking?" I lit one of the
tailor-mades and settled back. Even my inexperienced youth recognized
the necessity of relief this long-continued stubborn repression must
feel. My companion had as yet told me nothing I did not already know or
guess; but I knew it would do her good to talk, and I might learn
something valuable.

"We came out to the ranch, and talked matters over quite normally; but
when it came time for my departure, I was not permitted to leave. For
some unexplained reason I was a prisoner, confined absolutely to the
four walls of this enclosure. I was guarded night and day; and I soon
found I was to be permitted conversation with two men only, Mexicans
named Ramon and Andreas."

"They are his right and left hand," I commented.

"So I found. You may imagine I did not submit to this until I found I
had to. Then I made up my mind that the only possible thing to do was to
acquiesce, to observe, and to wait my chance."

"You were right enough there. Why do you figure he did this?"

"I don't know!" she cried with a flash of thwarted despair. "I have
racked my brains, but I can find no motive. He has not asked me for a
thing; he has not even asked me a question. Unless he's stark crazy, I
cannot make it out!"

"He may be that," I suggested.

"He may be; and yet I doubt it somehow. I don't know why; but I _feel_
that he is sane enough. He is inconceivably cruel and domineering. He
will not tolerate a living thing about the place that will not or cannot
take orders from him. He kills the flies, the bees, the birds, the
frogs, because they are not his. I believe he would kill a man as
quickly who stood out even for a second against him here. To that extent
I believe he is crazy: a sort of monomania. But not otherwise. That is
why I say he will kill you; I really believe he would do it."

"So do I," I agreed, grimly. "However, let's drop that for right now.
Do you know a man named Brower, Artie Brower?"

"I don't think I ever heard of him. Why?"

"Never mind for a minute. I've just had a great thought strike me. Just
let me alone a few moments while I work it out."

I lighted a second cigarette from the butt of the first and fell into a
study. Cortinez breathed heavily outside. Otherwise the silence was as
dead as the blackness of the night. The smoke from my cigarettes floated
lazily until it reached the influence of the hot air from the lamp; then
it shot upward toward the ceiling. The girl watched me from under her
level brows, always with that air of controlled restraint I found so
admirable.

"I've got it," I said at last, "--or at least I think I have. Now listen
to me, and believe what I've got to say. Here are the facts: first, your
father and Hooper split partnership a while back. Hooper took his share
entirely in cash; your father took his probably part in cash, but
certainly all of the ranch and cattle. Get that clear? Hooper owns no
part of the ranch and cattle. All right. Your father dies before the
papers relating to this agreement are recorded. Nobody knew of those
papers except your father and Hooper. So if Hooper were to destroy those
papers, he'd still have the cash that had been paid him, and an equal
share in the property. That plain?"

"Perfectly," she replied, composedly. "Why didn't he destroy them?"

"Because they had been stolen by this man Brower I asked you about--an
ex-jockey of Hooper's. Brower held them for blackmail. Unless Hooper
came through Brower would record the papers."

"Where do I come in?"

"Easy. I'm coming to that. But answer me this: who would be your heir in
case you died?"

"Why--I don't know!"

"Have you any kin?"

"Not a soul!"

"Did you ever make a will?"

"I never thought of such a thing!"

"Well, I'll tell you. If you were to die your interest in this property
would go to Hooper."

"What makes you think so? I thought it would go to the state."

"I'm guessing," I acknowledged, "but I believe I'm guessing straight. A
lot of these old Arizona partnerships were made just that way. Life was
uncertain out here. I'll bet the old original partnership between your
father and Hooper provides that in case of the extinction of one line,
the other will inherit. It's a very common form of partnership in a new
country like this. You can see for yourself it's a sensible thing to
provide."

"You may be right," she commented. "Go on."

"You told me a while ago it was best to face any situation squarely. Now
brace up and face this. You said a while ago that Hooper would not dare
kill you. That is true for the moment. But there is no doubt in my mind
that he has intended from the first to kill you, because by that he
would get possession of the whole property."

"I cannot believe it!" she cried.

"Isn't the incentive enough? Think carefully, and answer honestly:
don't you think him capable of it?"

"Yes--I suppose so," she admitted, reluctantly, after a moment. She
gathered herself as after a shock. "Why hasn't he done so? Why has he
waited?"

I told her of the situation as it concerned Brower. While the
dissolution of partnership papers still existed and might still be
recorded, such a murder would be useless. For naturally the dissolution
abrogated the old partnership agreement. The girl's share of the
property would, at her demise intestate, go to the state. That is,
provided the new papers were ever recorded.

"Then I am safe until----?" she began.

"Until he negotiates or otherwise settles with Brower. Until he has
destroyed all evidence."

"Then everything seems to depend on this Brower," she said, knitting her
brows anxiously. "Where is he?"

I did not answer this last question. My eyes were riveted on the door
knob which was slowly, almost imperceptibly, turning. Cortinez continued
to breathe heavily in sleep outside. The intruder was evidently at great
pains not to awaken the guard. A fraction of an inch at a time the door
opened. A wild-haired, wild-eyed head inserted itself cautiously through
the crack. The girl's eyes widened in surprise and, I imagine, a little
in fear. I began to laugh, silently, so as not to disturb Cortinez.
Mirth overcame me; the tears ran down my cheeks.

"It's so darn complete!" I gasped, answering the girl's horrified look
of inquiry. "Miss Emory, allow me to present Mr. Artie Brower!"




CHAPTER XII


Brower entered the room quickly but very quietly, and at once came to
me. His eyes were staring, his eyelids twitched, his hands shook. I
recognized the symptoms.

"Have you got it? Have you got it with you?" he whispered, feverishly.

"It's all right. I can fix you up. Untie me first," I replied.

He began to fumble with the knots of my bonds too hastily and
impatiently for effectiveness. I was trying to stoop over far enough to
see what he was doing when my eye caught the shadow of a moving figure
outside. An instant later Tim Westmore, the English groom attached to
the Morgan stallion, came cautiously through the door, which he closed
behind him. I attempted unobtrusively to warn Brower, but he only looked
up, nodded vaguely, and continued his fumbling efforts to free me.
Westmore glanced at us all curiously, but went at once to the big
windows, which he proceeded to swing shut. Then he came over to us,
pushed Brower one side, and most expeditiously untied the knots. I stood
up stretching in the luxury of freedom, then turned to perform a like
office for Miss Emory. But Brower was by now frantic. He seized my arm
and fairly shook me, big as I was, in the urgence of his desire. He was
rapidly losing all control and caution.

"Let him have it, sir," urged Westmore in a whisper. "I'll free the
young lady."

I gave Brower the hypodermic case. He ran to the wash bowl for water.
During the process of preparation he uttered little animal sounds under
his breath. When the needle had sunk home he lay back in a chair and
closed his eyes.

In the meantime, I had been holding a whispered colloquy with Westmore.

"He sneaked in on me at dark, sir," he told me, "on foot. I don't know
how he got in without being seen. They'd have found his tracks anyway in
the morning. I don't think he knew quite what he wanted to do. Him and
me were old pals, and he wanted to ask me about things. He didn't expect
to stay, I fancy. He told me he had left his horse tied a mile or so
down the road. Then a while back orders came to close down, air tight.
We're used to such orders. Nobody can go out or come in, you understand.
And there are guards placed. That made him uneasy. He told me then he
was a hop fiend. I've seen them before, and I got uneasy, too. If he
came to the worst I might have to tie and gag him. I know how they are."

"Go ahead," I urged. He had stopped to listen.

"I don't like that Cortinez being so handy like out there," he
confessed.

"Hooper told him he could sleep. He's not likely to pay attention to us.
Miss Emory and I have been talking aloud."

"I hope not. Well, then, Ramon came by and stopped to talk to me for a
minute. I had to hide Artie in a box-stall and hope to God he kept
quiet. He wasn't as bad as he is now. Ramon told me about you being
caught, and went on. After that nothing must do but find you. He thought
you might have his dope. He'd have gone into the jaws of hell after it.
So I came along to keep him out of mischief."

"What are you going to do now?" asked the girl, who had kicked off her
slippers and had been walking a few paces to and fro.

"I don't know, ma'am. We've got to get away."

"We?"

"You mean me, too? Yes, ma'am! I have stood with the doings of this
place as long as I can stand them. Artie has told me some other things.
Are you here of your free will, ma'am?" he asked, abruptly.

"No," she replied.

"I suspected as much. I'm through with the whole lot of them."

Brower opened his eyes. He was now quite calm.

"Hooper sold the Morgan stallion," he whispered, smiled sardonically,
and closed his eyes again.

"Without telling me a word of it!" added Tim with heat. "He ain't
delivered him yet."

"Well, I don't blame you. Now you'd better quietly sneak back to your
quarters. There is likely to be trouble before we get through. You, too,
Brower. Nobody knows you are here."

Brower opened his eyes again.

"I can get out of this place now I've had me hop," said he, decidedly.
"Come on, let's go."

"We'll all go," I agreed; "but let's see what we can find here first.
There may be some paper--or something----"

"What do you mean? What sort of papers? Hadn't we better go at once?"

"It is supposed to be well known that the reason Hooper isn't
assassinated from behind a bush is because in that case his killers are
in turn to assassinate a long list of his enemies. Only nobody is sure:
just as nobody is really sure that he has killers at all. You can't get
action on an uncertainty."

She nodded. "I can understand that."

"If we could get proof positive it would be no trick at all to raise the
country."

"What sort of proof?"

"Well, I mentioned a list. I don't doubt his head man--Ramon, I suppose,
the one he'd trust with carrying out such a job--must have a list of
some sort. He wouldn't trust to memory."

"And he wouldn't trust it to Ramon until after he was dead!" said the
girl with sudden intuition. "If it exists we'll find it here."

She started toward the paper-stuffed desk, but I stopped her.

"More likely the safe," said I.

Tim, who was standing near it, tried the handle.

"It's locked," he whispered.

I fell on my knees and began to fiddle with the dial, of course in vain.
Miss Emory, with more practical decision of character, began to run
through the innumerable bundles and loose papers in the desk, tossing
them aside as they proved unimportant or not germane to the issue. I had
not the slightest knowledge of the constructions of safes but whirled
the knob hopelessly in one direction or another trying to listen for
clicks, as somewhere I had read was the thing to do. As may be imagined,
I arrived nowhere. Nor did the girl. We looked at each other in chagrin
at last.

"There is nothing here but ranch bills and accounts and business
letters," she confessed.

I merely shook my head.

At this moment Brower, whom I had supposed to be sound asleep, opened
his eyes.

"Want that safe open?" he asked, drowsily.

He arose, stretched, and took his place beside me on the floor. His head
cocked one side, he slowly turned the dials with the tips of fingers I
for the first time noticed were long and slim and sensitive. Twice after
extended, delicate manipulations he whirled the knob impatiently and
took a fresh start. On the proverbial third trial he turned the handle
and the door swung open. He arose rather stiffly from his knees, resumed
his place in the armchair, and again closed his eyes.

It was a small safe, with few pigeon holes. A number of blue-covered
contracts took small time for examination. There were the usual number
of mine certificates not valuable enough for a safe deposit, some
confidential memoranda and accounts having to do with the ranch.

"Ah, here is something!" I breathed to the eager audience over my
shoulder. I held in my hands a heavy manila envelope, sealed, inscribed
"Ramon. (To be destroyed unopened.)"

"Evidently we were right: Ramon has the combination and is to be
executor," I commented.

I tore open the envelope and extracted from it another of the
blue-covered documents.

"It's a copy, unsigned, of that last agreement with your father," I
said, after a disappointed glance. "It's worth keeping," and I thrust it
inside my shirt.

But this particular pigeon hole proved to be a mine. In it were several
more of the same sort of envelope, all sealed, all addressed to Ramon.
One was labelled as the Last Will, one as Inventory, and one simply as
Directions. This last had a further warning that it was to be opened
only by the one addressed. I determined by hasty examination that the
first two were only what they purported to be, and turned hopefully to a
perusal of the last. It was in Spanish, and dealt at great length with
the disposition and management of Hooper's extensive interests. I append
a translation of the portion of this remarkable document, having to do
with our case.

"These are my directions," it began, "as to the matter of which we have
many times spoken together. I have many enemies, and many who think they
have cause to wish my death. They are cowards and soft and I do not
think they will ever be sure enough to do me harm. I do not fear them.
But it may be that one or some of them will find it in their souls to do
a deed against me. In that case I shall be content, for neither do I
fear the devil. But I shall be content only if you follow my orders. I
add here a list of my enemies and of those who have cause to wish me
ill. If I am killed, it is probable that some one of these will have
done the deed. Therefore they must all die. You must see to it,
following them if necessary to the ends of the earth. You will know
how; and what means to employ. When all these are gone, then go you to
the highest rock on the southerly pinnacle of Cochise's Stronghold. Ten
paces northwest is a gray, flat slab. If you lift this slab there will
be found a copper box. In the box is the name of a man. You will go to
this man and give him the copper box and in return he will give to you
one hundred thousand dollars. I know well, my Ramon, that your honesty
would not permit you to seek the copper box before the last of my
enemies is dead. Nevertheless, that you may admire my recourse, I have
made an arrangement. If the gray slab on Cochise's Stronghold is ever
disturbed before the whole toll is paid, you will die very suddenly and
unpleasantly. I know well that you, my Ramon, would not disturb it; and
I hope for your sake that nobody else will do so. It is not likely. No
one is fool enough to climb Cochise's Stronghold for pleasure; and this
gray slab is one among many."

At this time I did not read carefully the above cheerful document. My
Spanish was good enough, but took time in the translating. I dipped into
it enough to determine that it was what we wanted, and flipped the pages
to come to the list of prospective victims. It covered two sheets, and a
glance down the columns showed me that about every permanent inhabitant
of the Soda Springs Valley was included. I found my own name in quite
fresh ink toward the last.

"This is what we want," I said in satisfaction, rising to my feet. I
sketched in a few words the purport of the document.

"Let me see it," said the girl.

I handed it to her. She began to examine carefully the list of names,
her face turning paler as she read. Tim Westmore looked anxiously over
her shoulder. Suddenly I saw his face congest and his eyes bulge.

"Why! why!" he gasped, "I'm there! What've I ever done, I ask you that?
The old----" he choked, at a loss and groping. Then his anger flared up.
"I've always served him faithful and done what I was told," he muttered,
fiercely. "I'll do him in for this!"

"I am here," observed Miss Emory.

"Yes, and that sot in the chair!" whispered Tim, fiercely.

Again Brower proved he was not asleep by opening one eye.

"Thanks for them kind words," said he.

"We've got to get out of here," stated Tim with conviction.

"That idea just got through your thick British skull?" queried Artie,
rousing again.

"I wish we had some way to carry the young lady--she can't walk," said
Westmore, paying no attention.

"I have my horse tied out by the lone Joshua-tree," I answered him.

"I'm going to take a look at that Cortinez," said the little Englishman,
nodding his satisfaction at my news as to the horse. "I'm not easy about
him."

"He'll sleep like a log until morning," Miss Emory reassured me. "I've
often stepped right over him where he has been on guard and walked all
around the garden."

"Just the same I'm going to take a look," persisted Westmore.

He tiptoed to the door, softly turned the knob and opened it. He found
himself face to face with Cortinez.




CHAPTER XIII


I had not thought of the English groom as a man of resource, but his
action in this emergency proved him. He cast a fleeting glance over his
shoulder. Artie Brower was huddled down in his armchair practically out
of sight; Miss Emory and I had reseated ourselves in the only other two
chairs in the room, so that we were in the same relative positions as
when we had been bound and left. Only the confusion of the papers on the
floor and the open safe would have struck an observant eye.

"It is well that you come," said Tim to Cortinez in Spanish. "The señor
sent me to conduct these two to the East Room and I like not the job
alone. Enter."

He held the door with one hand and fairly dragged Cortinez through with
the other. Instantly he closed the door and cast himself on Cortinez's
back. I had already launched myself at the Mexican's throat.

The struggle was violent but brief. Fortunately I had not missed my
spring at our enemy's windpipe, so he had been unable to shout. The
noise of our scuffle sounded loud enough within the walls of the room;
but those walls were two feet thick, and the door and windows closed.

"Get something to gag him with, and the cords," panted Tim to the girl.

Brower opened his eyes again.

"I can beat that," he announced.

He produced his hypodermic and proceeded to mix a gunful of the dope.

"This'll fix him," he observed, turning back the Mexican's sleeve. "You
can lay him outside and if anybody comes along they'll think he's
asleep--as usual."

This we did when the dope had worked.

It was now high time to think of our next move. For weapons we had the
gun and knife taken from Cortinez and the miserable little automatic
belonging to Brower. That was all. It was perfectly evident that we
could not get out through the regular doorways, as, by Tim's statement,
they were all closed and guarded. On my representation it was decided to
try the roof.

We therefore knotted together the cord that had bound me and two sheets
from the bed, and sneaked cautiously out on the verandah, around the
corner to the water barrel, and so to the vantage point of the roof.

The chill of the night was come, and the stars hung cold in the sky. It
seemed that the air would snap and crackle were some little resolving
element to be dropped into its suspended hush. Not a sound was to be
heard except a slow drip of water from somewhere in the courtyard.

It was agreed that I, as the heaviest, should descend first. I landed
easily enough and steadied the rope for Miss Emory who came next. While
I was waiting I distinctly heard, from the direction of the willows, the
hooting of an owl. Furthermore, it was a great horned owl, and he seemed
to have a lot to say. You remember what I told you about setting your
mind so that only one sort of noise will arouse it, but that one
instantly? I knew perfectly well that Old Man Hooper's mind was set to
all these smaller harmless noises that most people never notice at all,
waking or sleeping--frogs, crickets, owls. And therefore I was convinced
that sooner or later that old man and his foolish ideas and his shotgun
would come projecting right across our well-planned getaway. Which was
just what happened, and almost at once. Probably that great horned owl
had been hooting for some time, but we had been too busy to notice. I
heard the wicket door turning on its hinges, and ventured a warning hiss
to Brower and Tim Westmore, who had not yet descended. An instant later
I could make out shadowy forms stealing toward the willows. Evidently
those who served Old Man Hooper were accustomed to broken rest.

We kept very quiet, straining our eyes at the willows. After an interval
a long stab of light pierced the dusk and the round detonation of
old-fashioned black powder shook the silence. There came to us the
babbling of voices released. At the same instant the newly risen moon
plastered us against that whitewashed wall like insects pinned in a
cork-lined case. The moonlight must have been visibly creeping down to
us for some few minutes, but so absorbed had I been in the doings of the
party in the willows, and so chuckleheaded were the two on the roof,
that actually none of us had noticed!

I dropped flat and dragged the girl down with me. But there remained
that ridiculous, plainly visible rope; and anyway a shout relieved me of
any doubt as to whether we had been seen. Brower came tumbling down on
us, and with one accord we three doubled to the right around the walls
of the ranch. A revolver shot sang by us, but we were not immediately
pursued. Our antagonists were too few and too uncertain of our numbers
and arms.

It was up to us to utilize the few minutes before the ranch should be
aroused. We doubled back through the willows and across the mesquite
flat toward the lone Joshua-tree where I had left my horse. I held the
girl's hand to help her when she stumbled, while Brower scuttled along
with surprising endurance for a dope wreck. Nobody said anything, but
saved their wind.

"Where's Tim?" I asked at a check when we had to scramble across a
_barranca_.

"He went back into the ranch the way we came," replied Artie with some
bitterness.

It was, nevertheless, the wisest thing he could have done. He had not
been identified with this outfit except by Cortinez, and Cortinez was
safe for twelve hours.

We found the Joshua-tree without difficulty.

"Now," said I, "here is the plan. You are to take these papers to Señor
Buck Johnson, at the Box Springs ranch. That's the next ranch on the
fork of the road. Do you remember it?"

"Yes," said Brower, who had waked up and seemed quite sober and
responsible. "I can get to it."

"Wake him up. Show him these papers. Make him read them. Tell him that
Miss Emory and I are in the Bat-eye Tunnel. Remember that?"

"The Bat-eye Tunnel," repeated Artie.

"Why don't _you_ go?" inquired the girl, anxiously.

"I ride too heavy; and I know where the tunnel is," I replied. "If
anybody else was to go, it would be you. But Artie rides light and sure,
and he'll have to ride like hell. Here, put these papers inside your
shirt. Be off!"

Lights were flickering at the ranch as men ran to and fro with lanterns.
It would not take these skilled _vaqueros_ long to catch their horses
and saddle up. At any moment I expected to see the massive doors swing
open to let loose the wolf pack.

Brower ran to my horse--a fool proceeding, especially for an experienced
horseman--and jerked loose the tie rope. Badger is a good reliable cow
horse, but he's not a million years old, and he's got some natural
equine suspicions. I kind of lay a good deal of it to that fool
hard-boiled hat. At any rate, he snorted and sagged back on the rope,
hit a yucca point, whirled and made off. Artie was game. He hung on
until he was drug into a bunch of _chollas_, and then he had to let go.
Badger departed into the distance, tail up and snorting.

"Well, you've done it now!" I observed to Brower, who, crying with
nervous rage and chagrin, and undoubtedly considerably stuck up with
_cholla_ spines, was crawling to his feet.

"Can't we catch him? Won't he stop?" asked Miss Emory. "If he gets to
the ranch, won't they look for you?"

"He's one of my range ponies: he won't stop short of the Gila."

I cast over the chances in my mind, weighing my knowledge of the country
against the probabilities of search. The proportion was small. Most of
my riding experience had been farther north and to the west. Such
obvious hole-ups as the one I had suggested--the Bat-eye Tunnel--were of
course familiar to our pursuers. My indecision must have seemed long,
for the girl broke in anxiously on my meditations.

"Oughtn't we to be moving?"

"As well here as anywhere," I replied. "We are under good cover; and
afoot we could not much better ourselves as against mounted men. We must
hide."

"But they may find the trampled ground where your horse has been tied."

"I hope they do."

"You hope they do!"

"Sure. They'll figure that we must sure have moved away. They'll never
guess we'd hide near at hand. At least that's what I hope."

"How about tracks?"

"Not at night. By daylight maybe."

"But then to-morrow morning they can----"

"To-morrow morning is a long way off."

"Look!" cried Brower.

The big gates of the ranch had been thrown open. The glare of a
light--probably a locomotive headlight--poured out. Mounted figures
galloped forth and swerved to right or left, spreading in a circle about
the enclosure. The horsemen reined to a trot and began methodically to
quarter the ground, weaving back and forth. Four detached themselves and
rode off at a swift gallop to the points of the compass. The mounted men
were working fast for fear, I suppose, that we may have possessed
horses. Another contingent, afoot and with lanterns, followed more
slowly, going over the ground for indications. I could not but admire
the skill and thoroughness of the plan.

"Our only chance is in the shadow from the moon," I told my companions.
"If we can slip through the riders, and get in their rear, we may be
able to follow the _barranca_ down. Any of those big rocks will do. Lay
low, and after a rider has gone over a spot, try to get to that spot
without being seen."

We were not to be kept long in suspense. Out of all the three hundred
and sixty degrees of the circle one of the swift outriders selected
precisely our direction! Straight as an arrow he came for us, at full
gallop. I could see the toss of his horse's mane against the light from
the opened door. There was no time to move. All we could do was to cower
beneath our rock, muscles tense, and hope to be able to glide around the
shadow as he passed.

But he did not pass. Down into the shallow _barranca_ he slid with a
tinkle of shale, and drew rein within ten feet of our lurking place.

We could hear the soft snorting of his mount above the thumping of our
hearts. I managed to get into a position to steal a glimpse. It was
difficult, but at length I made out the statuesque lines of the horse,
and the rider himself, standing in his stirrups and leaning slightly
forward, peering intently about him. The figures were in silhouette
against the sky, but nobody ever fooled me as to a horse. It was the
Morgan stallion, and the rider was Tim Westmore. Just as the realization
came to me, Tim uttered a low, impatient whistle.

It's always a good idea to take a chance. I arose into view--but I kept
my gun handy.

"Thank God!" cried Tim, fervently, under his breath. "I remembered you'd
left your horse by this Joshua: it's the only landmark in the dark.
Saints!" he ejaculated in dismay as he saw us all. "Where's your horse?"

"Gone."

"We can't all ride this stallion----"

"Listen," I cut in, and I gave him the same directions I had previously
given Brower. He heard me attentively.

"I can beat that," he cut me off. He dismounted. "Get on here, Artie.
Ride down the _barranca_ two hundred yards and you'll come to an alkali
flat. Get out on that flat and ride like hell for Box Springs."

"Why don't you do it?"

"I'm going back and tell 'em how I was slugged and robbed of my horse."

"They'll kill you if they suspect; dare you go back?"

"I've been back once," he pointed out. He was helping Brower aboard.

"Where did you get that bag?" he asked.

"Found it by the rock where we were hiding: it's mine," replied Brower.

Westmore tried to get him to leave it, but the little jockey was
obstinate. He kicked his horse and, bending low, rode away.

"You're right: I beg your pardon," I answered Westmore's remark to me.
"You don't look slugged."

"That's easy fixed," said Tim, calmly. He removed his hat and hit his
forehead a very solid blow against a projection of the conglomerate
boulder. The girl screamed slightly.

"Hush!" warned Tim in a fierce whisper. He raised his hand toward the
approaching horsemen, who were now very near. Without attention to the
blood streaming from his brow he bent his head to listen to the faint
clinking of steel against rock that marked the stallion's progress
toward the alkali flat. The searchers were by now dangerously close, and
Tim uttered a smothered oath of impatience. But at last we distinctly
heard the faint, soft thud of galloping hoofs.

The searchers heard it, too, and reined up to listen. Tim thrust into my
hand the 30-30 Winchester he was carrying together with a box of
cartridges. Then with a leap like a tiger he gained the rim of the
_barranca_. Once there, however, his forces seemed to desert him. He
staggered forward calling in a weak voice. I could hear the volley of
rapid questions shot at him by the men who immediately surrounded him;
and his replies. Then somebody fired a revolver thrice in rapid
succession and the whole cavalcade swept away with a mighty crackling of
brush. Immediately after Tim rejoined us. I had not expected this.

Relieved for the moment we hurried Miss Emory rapidly up the bed of the
shallow wash. The tunnel mentioned was part of an old mine operation,
undertaken at some remote period before the cattle days. It entered the
base of one of those isolated conical hills, lying like islands in the
plain, so common in Arizona. From where we had hidden it lay about three
miles to the northeast. It was a natural and obvious hide out, and I
had no expectation of remaining unmolested. My hope lay in rescue.

We picked our way under cover of the ravine as long as we could, then
struck boldly across the plain. Nobody seemed to be following us. A wild
hope entered my heart that perhaps they might believe we had all made
our escape to Box Springs.

As we proceeded the conviction was borne in on me that the stratagem had
at least saved us from immediate capture. Like most men who ride I had
very sketchy ideas of what three miles afoot is like--at night--in high
heels. The latter affliction was common to both Miss Emory and myself.
She had on a sort of bedroom slipper, and I wore the usual cowboy boots.
We began to go footsore about the same time, and the little rolling
volcanic rocks among the bunches of _sacatone_ did not help us a bit.
Tim made good time, curse him. Or rather, bless him; for as I just said,
if he had not tolled away our mounted pursuit we would have been caught
as sure as God made little green apples. He seemed as lively as a
cricket, in spite of the dried blood across his face.

The moon was now sailing well above the horizon, throwing the world into
silver and black velvet. When we moved in the open we showed up like a
train of cars; but, on the other hand, the shadow was a cloak. It was by
now nearly one o'clock in the morning.

Miss Emory's nerve did not belie the clear, steadfast look of her eye;
but she was about all in when we reached the foot of Bat-eye Butte. Tim
and I had discussed the procedure as we walked. I was for lying in wait
outside; but Tim pointed out that the tunnel entrance was well down in
the boulders, that even the sharpest outlook could not be sure of
detecting an approach through the shadows, and that from the shelter of
the roof props and against the light we should be able to hold off a
large force almost indefinitely. In any case, we would have to gamble on
Brewer's winning through, and having sense enough in his opium-saturated
mind to make a convincing yarn of it. So after a drink at the _tenaja_
below the mine we entered the black square of the tunnel.

The work was old, but it had been well done. They must have dragged the
timbers down from the White Mountains. Indeed a number of unused beams,
both trunks of trees and squared, still lay around outside. From time to
time, since the original operations, some locoed prospector comes
projecting along and does a little work in hopes he may find something
the other fellow had missed. So the passage was crazy with props and
supports, new and old, placed to brace the ageing overhead timbers.
Going in they were a confounded nuisance against the bumped head; but
looking back toward the square of light they made fine protections
behind which to crouch. In this part of the country any tunnel would be
dry. It ran straight for about a hundred and fifty feet.

We groped our way about seventy-five feet, which was as far as we could
make out the opening distinctly, and sat down to wait. I still had the
rest of the tailor-made cigarettes, which I shared with Tim. We did not
talk, for we wished to listen for sounds outside. To judge by her
breathing, I think Miss Emory dozed, or even went to sleep.

About an hour later I thought to hear a single tinkle of shale. Tim
heard it, too, for he nudged me. Our straining ears caught nothing
further, however; and I, for one, had relaxed from my tension when the
square of light was darkened by a figure. I was nearest, so I raised
Cortinez's gun and fired. The girl uttered a scream, and the figure
disappeared. I don't know yet whether I hit him or not; we never found
any blood.

We made Miss Emory lie down behind a little slide of rock, and disposed
ourselves under shelter.

"We can take them as fast as they come," exulted Tim.

"I don't believe there are more than two or three of them," I observed.
"It would be only a scouting party. They will go for help."

As there was no longer reason for concealment, we talked aloud and
freely.

Now ensued a long waiting interim. We could hear various sounds outside
as of moving to and fro. The enemy had likewise no reason for further
concealment.


"Look!" suddenly cried Tim. "Something crawling."

He raised the 30-30 and fired. Before the flash and the fumes had
blinded me I, too, had seen indistinctly something low and prone gliding
around the corner of the entrance. That was all we could make out of it,
for as you can imagine the light was almost non-existent. The thing
glided steadily, untouched or unmindful of the shots we threw at it.
When it came to the first of the crazy uprights supporting the roof
timbers it seemed to hesitate gropingly. Then it drew slowly back a foot
or so, and darted forward. The ensuing thud enlightened us. The thing
was one of the long, squared timbers we had noted outside; and it was
being used as a battering ram.

"They'll bring the whole mountain down on us!" cried Tim, springing
forward.

But even as he spoke, and before he had moved two feet, that catastrophe
seemed at least to have begun. The prop gave way: the light at the
entrance was at once blotted out; the air was filled with terrifying
roaring echoes. There followed a succession of crashes, the rolling of
rocks over each other, the grinding slide of avalanches great and small.
We could scarcely breathe for the dust. Our danger was that now the
thing was started it would not stop: that the antique and inadequate
supports would all give way, one bringing down the other in succession
until we were buried. Would the forces of equilibrium establish
themselves through the successive slight resistances of these rotted,
worm-eaten old timbers before the constricted space in which we crouched
should be entirely eaten away?

After the first great crash there ensued a moment's hesitation. Then a
second span succumbed. There followed a series of minor chutes with
short intervening silences. At last so long an interval of calm ensued
that we plucked up courage to believe it all over. A single stone rolled
a few feet and hit the rock floor with a bang. Then, immediately after,
the first-deafening thunder was repeated as evidently another span gave
way. It sounded as though the whole mountain had moved. I was almost
afraid to stretch out my hand for fear it would encounter the wall of
débris. The roar ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Followed then a
long silence. Then a little cascading tinkle of shale. And another dead
silence.

"I believe it's over," ventured Miss Emory, after a long time.

"I'm going to find out how bad it is," I asserted.

I moved forward cautiously, my arms extended before me, feeling my way
with my feet. Foot after foot I went, encountering nothing but the
props. Expecting as I did to meet an obstruction within a few paces at
most, I soon lost my sense of distance; after a few moments it seemed to
me that I must have gone much farther than the original length of the
tunnel. At last I stumbled over a fragment, and so found my fingers
against a rough mass of débris.

"Why, this is fine!" I cried to the others, "I don't believe more than a
span or so has gone!"

I struck one of my few remaining matches to make sure. While of course I
had no very accurate mental image of the original state of things, still
it seemed to me there was an awful lot of tunnel left. As the whole
significance of our situation came to me, I laughed aloud.

"Well," said I, cheerfully, "they couldn't have done us a better favour!
It's a half hour's job to dig us out, and in the meantime we are safe as
a covered bridge. We don't even have to keep watch."

"Provided Brower gets through," the girl reminded us.

"He'll get through," assented Tim, positively. "There's nothing on four
legs can catch that Morgan stallion."

I opened my watch crystal and felt of the hands. Half-past two.

"Four or five hours before they can get here," I announced.

"We'd better go to sleep, I think," said Miss Emory.

"Good idea," I approved. "Just pick your rocks and go to it."

I sat down and leaned against one of the uprights, expecting fully to
wait with what patience I might the march of events. Sleep was the
farthest thing from my thoughts. When I came to I found myself doubled
on my side with a short piece of ore sticking in my ribs and eighteen or
twenty assorted cramp-pains in various parts of me. This was all my
consciousness had room to attend to for a few moments. Then I became
dully aware of faint tinkling sounds and muffled shoutings from the
outer end of the tunnel. I shouted in return and made my way as rapidly
as possible toward the late entrance.

A half hour later we crawled cautiously through a precarious opening and
stood blinking at the sunlight.




CHAPTER XIV


A group of about twenty men greeted our appearance with a wild cowboy
yell. Some of the men of our outfit were there, but not all; and I
recognized others from as far south as the Chiracahuas. Windy Bill was
there with Jed Parker; but Señor Johnson's bulky figure was nowhere to
be seen. The other men were all riders--nobody of any particular
standing or authority. The sun made it about three o'clock of the
afternoon. Our adventures had certainly brought us a good sleep!

After we had satisfied our thirst from a canteen we began to ask and
answer questions. Artie Brower had made the ranch without mishap, had
told his story, and had promptly fallen asleep. Buck Johnson, in his
usual deliberate manner, read all the papers through twice; pondered for
some time while the more excited Jed and Windy fidgeted impatiently; and
then, his mind made up, acted with his customary decision. Three men he
sent to reconnoitre in the direction of the Bat-eye Tunnel with
instructions to keep out of trouble and to report promptly. His other
riders he dispatched with an insistent summons to all the leading
cattlemen as far south as the Chiracahua Range, as far east as Grant's
Pass, as far west as Madrona. Such was Buck Johnson's reputation for
level-headedness that without hesitation these men saddled and rode at
their best speed. By noon the weightiest of the Soda Spring Valley had
gathered in conclave.

"That's where we faded out," said Jed Parker. "They sent us up to see
about you-all. The scouts from up here come back with their little Wild
West story about knocking down this yere mountain on top of you. We had
to believe them because they brought back a little proof with them. Mex
guns and spurs and such plunder looted off'n the deceased on the field
of battle. Bill here can tell you."

"They was only two of them," said Windy Bill, diffident for the first
time in his life, "and we managed to catch one of 'em foul. We been
digging here for too long. We ain't no prairie dogs to go delving into
the bosom of the earth. We thought you must be plumb deceased anyhow: we
couldn't get a peep out of you. I was in favour of leavin' you lay
myself. This yere butte seemed like a first-rate imposing tomb; and I
was willing myself to carve a few choice sentiments on some selected
rock. Sure I can carve! But Jed here allowed that you owed him ten
dollars and maybe had some money in your pocket----"

"Shut up, Windy," I broke in. "Can't you see the young lady----"

Windy whirled all contrition and apologies.

"Don't you mind me, ma'am," he begged. "They call me Windy Bill, and I
reckon that's about right. I don't mean nothing. And we'd have dug all
through this butte before----"

"I know that. It isn't your talk," interrupted Miss Emory, "but the sun
is hot--and--haven't you anything at all to eat?"

"Suffering giraffes!" cried Windy above the chorus of dismay.
"Lunkheads! chumps! Of all the idiot plays ever made in this territory!"
He turned to the dismayed group. "Ain't any one of you boys had sense
enough to bring any grub?"

But nobody had. The old-fashioned Arizona cowboy ate only twice a day.
It would never occur to him to carry a lunch for noon. Still, they might
have considered a rescue party's probable needs.

We mounted and started for the Box Springs ranch. They had at least
known enough to bring extra horses.

"Old Hooper knows the cat is out of the bag now," I suggested as we rode
along.

"He sure does."

"Do you think he'll stick: or will he get out?"

"He'll stick."

"I don't know----" I argued, doubtfully.

"I do," with great positiveness.

"Why are you so sure?"

"There are men in the brush all around his ranch to see that he does."

"For heaven's sake how many have you got together?" I cried, astonished.

"About three hundred," said Jed.

"What's the plan?"

"I don't know. They were chewing over it when I left. But I'll bet
something's going to pop. There's a bunch of 'em on that sweet little
list you-all dug up."

We rode slowly. It was near five o'clock when we pulled down the lane
toward the big corrals. The latter were full of riding horses, and the
fences were topped with neatly arranged saddles. Men were everywhere,
seated in rows on top rails, gathered in groups, leaning idly against
the ranch buildings. There was a feeling of waiting.

We were discovered and acclaimed with a wild yell that brought everybody
running. Immediately we were surrounded. Escorted by a clamouring
multitude we moved slowly down the lane and into the enclosure.

There awaited us a dozen men headed by Buck Johnson. They emerged from
the office as we drew up. At sight of them the cowboys stopped, and we
moved forward alone. For here were the substantial men of this part of
the territory, the old timers, who had come in the early days and who
had persisted through the Indian wars, the border forays, the cattle
rustlings, through drought and enmity and bad years. A grim, elderly,
four-square, unsmiling little band of granite-faced pioneers, their very
appearance carried a conviction of direct and, if necessary, ruthless
action. At sight of them my heart leaped. Twenty-four hours previous my
case had seemed none too joyful. Now, mainly by my own efforts, after
all, I was no longer alone.

They did not waste time in vain congratulations or query. The occasion
was too grave for such side issues. Buck Johnson said something very
brief to the effect that he was glad to see us safe.

"If this young lady will come in first," he suggested.

But I was emboldened to speak up.

"This young lady has not had a bite to eat since last night," I
interposed.

The señor bent on me his grave look.

"Thank you," said he. "Sing!" he roared, and then to the Chinaman who
showed up in a nervous hover: "Give this lady grub, savvy? If you'll go
with him, ma'am, he'll get you up something. Then we'd like to see you."

"I can perfectly well wait----" she began.

"I'd rather not, ma'am," said Buck with such grave finality that she
merely bowed and followed the cook.




CHAPTER XV


They had no tender feelings about me, however. Nobody cared whether I
ever ate or not. I was led into the little ranch office and catechized
to a fare-ye-well. They sat and roosted and squatted about, emitting
solemn puffs of smoke and speaking never a word; and the sun went down
in shafts of light through the murk, and the old shadows of former days
crept from the corners. When I had finished my story it was dusk.

And on the heels of my recital came the sound of hoofs in a hurry; and
presently loomed in the doorway the gigantic figure of Tom Thorne, the
sheriff. He peered, seeing nothing through the smoke and the twilight;
and the old timers sat tight and smoked.

"Buck Johnson here?" asked Thorne in his big voice.

"Here," replied the señor.

"I am told," said Thorne, directly, "that there is here an assembly for
unlawful purposes. If so, I call on you in the name of the law to keep
the peace."

"Tom," rejoined Buck Johnson, "I want you to make me your deputy."

"For what purpose?"

"There is a dispossession notice to be served hereabouts; a trespasser
who must be put off from property that is not his."

"You men are after Hooper, and I know it. Now you can't run your
neighbours' quarrels with a gun, not anymore. This is a country of law
now."

"Tom," repeated Buck in a reasoning tone, "come in. Strike a light if
you want to: and take a look around. There's a lot of your friends here.
There's Jim Carson over in the corner, and Donald Macomber, and Marcus
Malley, and Dan Watkins."

At this slow telling of the most prominent names in the southwest cattle
industry Tom Thorne took a step into the room and lighted a match. The
little flame, held high above his head, burned down to his fingers while
he stared at the impassive faces surrounding him. Probably he had
thought to interfere dutifully in a local affair of considerable
seriousness; and there is no doubt that Tom Thorne was never afraid of
his duty. But here was Arizona itself gathered for purposes of its own.
He hardly noticed when the flame scorched his fingers.

"Tom," said Buck Johnson after a moment, "I heerd tell of a desperate
criminal headed for Grant's Pass, and I figure you can just about catch
up with him if you start right now and keep on riding. Only you'd better
make me your deputy first. It'll sort of leave things in good legal
responsible hands, as you can always easy point out if asked."

Tom gulped.

"Raise your right hand," he commanded, curtly, and administered the
oath. "Now I leave it in your hands to preserve the peace," he
concluded. "I call you all to witness."

"That's all right, Tom," said Buck, still in his crooning tones, taking
the big sheriff by the elbow and gently propelling him toward the door,
"now as to this yere criminal over toward Grant's Pass, he was a little
bit of a runt about six foot three tall; heavy set, weight about a
hundred and ten; light complected with black hair and eyes. You can't
help but find him. Tom's a good sort," he observed, coming back, "but
he's young. He don't realize yet that when things get real serious this
sheriff foolishness just nat'rally bogs down. Now I reckon we'd better
talk to the girl."

I made a beeline for the cook house while they did that and filled up
for three. By the time I had finished, the conference was raised, and
men were catching and saddling their mounts. I did not intend to get
left out, you may be sure, so I rustled around and borrowed me a saddle
and a horse, and was ready to start with the rest.

We jogged up the road in a rough sort of column, the old timers riding
ahead in a group of their own. No injunction had been laid as to keeping
quiet; nevertheless, conversation was sparse and low voiced. The men
mostly rode in silence smoking their cigarettes. About half way the
leaders summoned me, and I trotted up to join them.

They wanted to know about the situation of the ranch as I had observed
it. I could not encourage them much. My recollection made of the place a
thoroughly protected walled fortress, capable of resisting a
considerable assault.

"Of course with this gang we could sail right over them," observed Buck,
thoughtfully, "but we'd lose a considerable of men doing it."

"Ain't no chance of sneaking somebody inside?" suggested Watkins.

"Got to give Old Man Hooper credit for some sense," replied the señor,
shortly.

"We can starve 'em out," suggested somebody.

"Unless I miss the old man a mile he's already got a messenger headed
for the troops at Fort Huachuca," interposed Macomber. "He ain't fool
enough to take chances on a local sheriff."

"You're tooting he ain't," approved Buck Johnson. "It's got to be quick
work."

"Burn him out," said Watkins.

"It's the young lady's property," hesitated my boss. "I kind of hate to
destroy it unless we have to."

At this moment the Morgan stallion, which I had not noticed before, was
reined back to join our little group. Atop him rode the diminutive form
of Artie Brower whom I had thought down and out. He had evidently had
his evening's dose of hop and under the excitation of the first effect
had joined the party. His derby hat was flattened down to his ears.
Somehow it exasperated me.

"For heaven's sake why don't you get you a decent hat!" I muttered, but
to myself. He was carrying that precious black bag.

"Blow a hole in his old walls!" he suggested, cheerfully. "That old fort
was built against Injins. A man could sneak up in the shadow and set her
off. It wouldn't take but a dash of soup to stick a hole you could ride
through a-horseback."

"Soup?" echoed Buck.

"Nitroglycerine," explained Watkins, who had once been a miner.

"Oh, sure!" agreed Buck, sarcastically. "And where'd we get it?"

"I always carry a little with me just for emergencies," asserted Brower,
calmly, and patted his black bag.

There was a sudden and unanimous edging away.

"For the love of Pete!" I cried. "Was there some of that stuff in there
all the time I've been carrying it around?"

"It's packed good: it can't go off," Artie reassured us. "I know my
biz."

"What in God's name do you want such stuff for!" cried Judson.

"Oh, just emergencies," answered Brower, vaguely, but I remembered his
uncanny skill in opening the combination of the safe. Possibly that
contract between Emory and Hooper had come into his hands through
professional activities. However, that did not matter.

"I can make a drop of soup go farther than other men a pint," boasted
Artie. "I'll show you: and I'll show that old----"

"You'll probably get shot," observed Buck, watching him closely.

"W'at t'hell," observed Artie with an airy gesture.

"It's the dope he takes," I told Johnson aside. "It only lasts about so
long. Get him going before it dies on him."

"I see. Trot right along," Buck commanded.

Taking this as permission Brower clapped heels to the stallion and shot
away like an arrow.

"Hold on! Stop! Oh, damn!" ejaculated the señor. "He'll gum the whole
game!" He spurred forward in pursuit, realized the hopelessness of
trying to catch the Morgan, and reined down again to a brisk travelling
canter. We surmounted the long, slow rise this side of Hooper's in time
to see a man stand out in the brush, evidently for the purpose of
challenging the horseman. Artie paid him not the slightest attention,
but swept by magnificently, the great stallion leaping high in his
restrained vitality. The outpost promptly levelled his rifle. We saw the
vivid flash in the half light. Brower reeled in his saddle, half fell,
caught himself by the stallion's mane and clung, swinging to and fro.
The horse, freed of control, tossed his head, laid back his ears, and
ran straight as an arrow for the great doors of the ranch.

We uttered a simultaneous groan of dismay. Then with one accord we
struck spurs and charged at full speed, grimly and silently. Against the
gathering hush of evening rose only the drum-roll of our horses' hoofs
and the dust cloud of their going. Except that Buck Johnson, rising in
his stirrups, let off three shots in the air; and at the signal from all
points around the beleagured ranch men arose from the brush and mounted
concealed horses, and rode out into the open with rifles poised.

The stallion thundered on; and the little jockey managed to cling to the
saddle, though how he did it none of us could tell. In the bottomland
near the ranch he ran out of the deeper dusk into a band of the strange,
luminous after-glow that follows erratically sunset in wide spaces. Then
we could see that he was not only holding his seat, but was trying to do
something, just what we could not make out. The reins were flying free,
so there was no question of regaining control.

A shot flashed at him from the ranch; then a second; after which, as
though at command, the firing ceased. Probably the condition of affairs
had been recognized.

All this we saw from a distance. The immensity of the Arizona country,
especially at dusk when the mountains withdraw behind their veils and
mystery flows into the bottomlands, has always a panoramic quality that
throws small any human-sized activities. The ranch houses and their
attendant trees look like toys; the bands of cattle and the men working
them are as though viewed through the reverse lenses of a glass; and the
very details of mesquite or _sacatone_ flats, of alkali shallow or of
oak grove are blended into broad washes of tone. But now the distant,
galloping horse with its swaying mannikin charging on the ranch seemed
to fill our world. The great forces of portent that hover aloof in the
dusk of the desert stooped as with a rush of wings. The peaceful, wide
spaces and the veiled hills and the brooding skies were swept clear.
Crisis filled our souls: crisis laid her hand on every living moving
thing in the world, stopping it in its tracks so that the very
infinities for a brief, weird period seemed poised over the running
horse and the swaying, fumbling man.

At least that is the way it affected me; and subsequent talk leads me to
believe that that it is how it affected every man jack of us. We all had
different ways of expressing it. Windy Bill subsequently remarked: "I
felt like some old Injun He-God had just told me to crawl in my hole and
give them that knew how a chanct."

But I know we all stopped short, frozen in our tracks, and stared, and I
don't believe man, _or_ horse, drew a deep breath.

Nearer and nearer the stallion drew to the ranch. Now he was within a
few yards. In another moment he would crash head on, at tremendous
speed, into the closed massive doors. The rider seemed to have regained
somewhat of his strength. He was sitting straight in the saddle, was no
longer clinging. But apparently he was making no effort to regain
control. His head was bent and he was still fumbling at something. The
distance was too great for us to make out what, but that much we could
see.

On flew the stallion at undiminished speed. He was running blind; and
seemingly nothing could save him from a crash. But at almost the last
moment the great doors swung back. Those within had indeed realized the
situation and were meeting it. At the same instant Brower rose in his
stirrups and brought his arm forward in a wide, free swing. A blinding
glare flashed across the world. We felt the thud and heave of a
tremendous explosion. Dust obliterated everything.

"Charge, you coyotes! Charge!" shrieked Buck Johnson.

And at full speed, shrieking like fiends, we swept across flats.




CHAPTER XVI


There was no general resistance. We tumbled pell mell through the breach
into the courtyard, encountering only terror-stricken wretches who
cowered still dazed by the unexpectedness and force of the explosion. In
the excitement order and command were temporarily lost. The men swarmed
through the ranch buildings like locusts. Señor Buck Johnson and the
other old timers let them go; but I noticed they themselves scattered
here and there keeping a restraining eye on activities. There was to be
no looting: and that was early made plain.

But before matters had a chance to go very far we were brought up all
standing by the sound of shots outside. A rush started in that
direction: but immediately Buck Johnson asserted his authority and took
command. He did not intend to have his men shot unnecessarily.

By now it was pitch dark. A reconnaissance disclosed a little battle
going on down toward the water corrals. Two of our men, straying in that
direction, had been fired upon. They had promptly gone down on their
bellies and were shooting back.

"I think they've got down behind the water troughs," one of these men
told me as I crawled up alongside. "Cain't say how many there is. They
shore do spit fire considerable. I'm just cuttin' loose where I see the
flash. When I shoot, you prepare to move and move lively. One of those
horned toads can sure shoot some; and it ain't healthy to linger none
behind your own flash."

The boys, when I crawled back with my report, were eager to pile in and
rush the enemy.

"Just put us a hoss-back, señor," pleaded Windy Bill, "and we'll run
right over them like a Shanghai rooster over a little green snake. They
can't hit nothing moving fast in the dark."

"You'll do just what I say," rejoined Buck Johnson, fiercely. "Cow hands
are scarce, and I don't aim to lose one except in the line of business.
If any man gets shot to-night, he's out of luck. He'd better get shot
good and dead; or he'll wish he had been. That goes! There can't be but
a few of those renegades out there, and we'll tend to them in due order.
Watkins," he addressed that old timer, "you tend to this. Feel around
cautious. Fill up the place full of lead. Work your men around through
the brush until you get them surrounded, and then just squat and shoot
and wait for morning."

Watkins sent out a dozen of the nearest men to circle the water troughs
in order to cut off further retreat, if that were projected. Then he
went about methodically selecting others to whom he assigned various
stations.

"Now you get a-plenty of catteridges," he told them, "and you lay low
and shoot 'em off. And if any of you gets shot I'll sure skin him
alive!"

In the meantime, the locomotive lantern had been lit so that the
interior of the courtyard was thrown into brilliant light. Needless to
say the opening blown in the walls did _not_ face toward the water
corrals. Of Artie Brower and the Morgan stallion we found hardly a
trace. They had been literally blown to pieces. Not one of us who had
known him but felt in his heart a kindly sorrow for the strange little
man. The sentry who had fired at him and who had thus, indirectly,
precipitated the catastrophe, was especially downcast.

"I told him to stop, and he kep' right on a-going, so I shot at him," he
explained. "What else was I to do? How was I to know he didn't belong to
that gang? He acted like it."

But when you think of it how could it have come out better? Poor, weak,
vice-ridden, likeable little beggar, what could the future have held for
him? And it is probable that his death saved many lives.

The prisoners were brought in--some forty of them, for Old Man Hooper
maintained only the home ranch and all his cow hands as well as his
personal bravos were gathered here. Buck Johnson separated apart seven
of them, and ordered the others into the stables under guard.

"Bad _hombres_, all of them," he observed to Jed Parker. "We'll just
nat'rally ship them across the line very _pronto_. But these seven are
worse than bad _hombres_. We'll have to see about them."

But neither Andreas, Ramon, nor Old Man Hooper himself were among those
present.

"Maybe they slipped out through our guards; but I doubt it," said Buck.
"I believe we've identified that peevish lot by the water troughs."

The firing went on quite briskly for a while; then slackened, and
finally died to an occasioned burst, mainly from our own side. Under our
leader's direction the men fed their horses and made themselves
comfortable. I was summoned to the living quarters to explain on the
spot the events that had gone before. Here we examined more carefully
and in detail the various documents--the extraordinary directions to
Ramon; the list of prospective victims to be offered at the tomb, so to
speak, of Old Man Hooper; and the copy of the agreement between Emory
and Hooper. The latter, as I had surmised, stated in so many words that
it superceded and nullified an old partnership agreement. This started
us on a further search which was at last rewarded by the discovery of
that original partnership. It contained, again as I had surmised, the
not-uncommon clause that in case of the death of one or the other of the
partners without direct heirs the common property should revert to the
other. I felt very stuck on myself for a good guesser. The only trouble
was that the original of the second agreement was lacking: we had only a
copy, and of course without signatures. It will be remembered that
Brower said he had deposited it with a third party, and that third party
was to us unknown. We could not even guess in what city he lived. Of
course we could advertise. But Windy Bill who--leaning his long figure
against the wall--had been listening in silence--a pretty fair young
miracle in itself--had a good idea, which was the real miracle, in my
estimation.

"Look here," he broke in, "if I've been following the plot of this yere
dime novel correctly, it's plumb easy. Just catch Jud--Jud--you know,
the editor of the _Cochise Branding Iron_, and get him to telegraph a
piece to the other papers that Artie Brower, celebrated jockey et
ceterer, has met a violent death at Hooper's ranch, details as yet
unknown. That's the catch-word, as I _savey_ it. When this yere third
party sees that, he goes and records the paper, and there you are!"

Windy leaned back dramatically and looked exceedingly pleased with
himself.

"Yes, that's it," approved Buck, briefly, which disappointed Windy, who
was looking for high encomium.

At this moment a messenger came in from the firing party to report that
apparently all opposition had ceased. At least there had been for some
time no shooting from the direction of the water troughs; a fact
concealed from us by the thickness of the ranch walls. Buck Johnson
immediately went out to confer with Watkins.

"I kind of think we've got 'em all," was the latter's opinion. "We
haven't had a sound out of 'em for a half hour. It may be a trick, of
course."

"Sure they haven't slipped by you?" suggested the señor.

"Pretty certain. We've got a close circle."

"Well, I wouldn't take chances in the dark. Just lay low 'till morning."

We returned to the ranch house where, after a little further discussion,
I bedded down and immediately fell into a deep sleep. This was more and
longer continued excitement than I was used to.

I was afoot with the first stirrings of dawn, you may be sure, and out
to join the party that moved with infinite precaution on the water
troughs as soon as it was light enough to see clearly. We found them
riddled with bullets and the water all run out. Gleaming brass
cartridges scattered, catching the first rays of the sun, attested the
vigour of the defence. Four bodies lay huddled on the ground under the
partial shelter of the troughs. I saw Ramon, his face frowning and
sinister even in death, his right hand still grasping tenaciously the
stock of his Winchester; and Andreas flat on his face; and two others
whom I did not recognize. Ramon had been hit at least four times. But of
Hooper himself was no hide nor hair! So certain had we been that he had
escaped to this spot with his familiars that we were completely taken
aback at his absence.

"We got just about as much sense as a bunch of sheepmen!" cried Buck
Johnson, exasperated. "He's probably been hiding out somewhere about the
place. God knows where he is by now!"

But just as we were about to return to the ranch house we were arrested
by a shout from one of the cowboys who had been projecting around the
neighbourhood. He came running to us. In his hand he held a blade of
_sacatone_ on which he pointed out a single dark spot about the size of
the head of a pin. Buck seized it and examined it closely.

"Blood, all right," he said at last. "Where did you get this, son?"

The man, a Chiracahua hand named Curley something-or-other, indicated a
_sacatone_ bottom a hundred yards to the west.

"You got good eyes, son," Buck complimented him. "Think you can make out
the trail?"

"Do'no," said Curley. "Used to do a considerable of tracking."

"Horses!" commanded Buck.

We followed Curley afoot while several men went to saddle up. On the
edge of the two-foot jump-off we grouped ourselves waiting while Curley,
his brows knit tensely, quartered here and there like a setter dog. He
was a good trailer, you could see that in a minute. He went at it right.
After quite a spell he picked up a rock and came back to show it. I
should never have noticed anything--merely another tiny black spot among
other spots--but Buck nodded instantly he saw it.

"It's about ten rods west of whar I found the grass," said Curley.
"Looks like he's headed for that water in Cockeye Basin. From thar he
could easy make Cochise when he got rested."

"Looks likely," agreed Buck. "Can't you find no footprints?"

"Too much tramped up by cowboys and other jackasses," said Curley.
"It'll come easier when we get outside this yere battlefield."

He stood erect, sizing up the situation through half-squinted eyes.

"You-all wait here," he decided. "Chances are he kept right on up the
broad wash."

He mounted one of the horses that had now arrived and rode at a lope to
a point nearly half a mile west. There he dismounted and tied his horse
to the ground. After rather a prolonged search he raised his hand over
his head and described several small horizontal circles in the air.

"Been in the army, have you?" muttered Buck; "well, I will say you're a
handy sort of leather-leg to have around. He gave the soldier signal for
'assemble'," he answered Jed Parker's question.

We rode over to join Curley.

"It's all right; he came this way," said the latter; but he did not
trouble to show us indications. I am a pretty fair game trailer myself,
but I could make out nothing.

We proceeded slowly, Curley afoot leading his horse. The direction
continued to be toward Cockeye. Sometimes we could all see plain
footprints; again the trail was, at least as far as I was concerned, a
total loss. Three times we found blood, once in quite a splash.
Occasionally even Curley was at fault for a few moments; but in general
he moved forward at a rapid walk.

"This Curley person is all right," observed Windy Bill after a while, "I
was brung up to find my way about, and I can puzzle out most anywhere a
critter has gone and left a sign; but this yere Curley can track a
humming bird acrost a granite boulder!"

After a little while Curley stopped for us to catch up.

"Seems to me no manner of doubt but what he's headed for Cockeye," he
said. "There ain't no other place for him to go out this way. I reckon I
can pick up enough of this trail just riding along. If we don't find no
sign at Cockeye, we can just naturally back track and pick up where he
turned off. We'll save time that-away, and he's had plenty of time to
get thar and back again."

So Curley mounted and we rode on at a walk on the horse trail that led
up the broad, shallow wash that came out of Cockeye.

Curley led, of course. Then rode Buck Johnson and Watkins and myself. I
had horned in on general principles, and nobody kicked. I suppose they
thought my general entanglement with this extraordinary series of events
entitled me to more than was coming to me as ordinary cow hand. For a
long time we proceeded in silence. Then, as we neared the hills, Buck
began to lay out his plan.

"When we come up on Cockeye," he was explaining, "I want you to take a
half dozen men or so and throw around the other side on the Cochise
trail----"

His speech was cut short by the sound of a rifle shot. The country was
still flat, unsuited for concealment or defence. We were riding
carelessly. A shivering shock ran through my frame and my horse plunged
wildly. For an instant I thought I must be hit, then I saw that the
bullet had cut off cleanly the horn of my saddle--within two inches of
my stomach!

Surprise paralyzed us for the fraction of a second. Then we charged the
rock pile from which the shot had come.

We found there Old Man Hooper seated in a pool of his own blood. He had
been shot through the body and was dead. His rifle lay across a rock,
trained carefully on the trail. How long he had sat there nursing the
vindictive spark of his vitality nobody will ever know--certainly for
some hours. And the shot delivered had taken from him the last flicker
of life.

"By God, he was sure game!" Buck Johnson pronounced his epitaph.




CHAPTER XVII


We cleaned up at the ranch and herded our prisoners together and rode
back to Box Springs. The seven men who had been segregated from the rest
by Buck Johnson were not among them. I never found out what had become
of them nor who had executed whatever decrees had been pronounced
against them. There at the home ranch we found Miss Emory very anxious,
excited, and interested. Buck and the others in authority left me to
inform her of what had taken place.

I told you some time back that this is no love story; but I may as well
let you in on the whole sequel to it, and get it off my chest. Windy's
scheme brought immediate results. The partnership agreement was
recorded, and after the usual legal red-tape Miss Emory came into the
property. She had to have a foreman for the ranch, and hanged if she
didn't pick on me! Think of that; me an ordinary, forty-dollar cow
puncher! I tried to tell her that it was all plumb foolishness, that
running a big cattle ranch was a man-sized job and took experience, but
she wouldn't listen. Women are like that. She'd seen me blunder in and
out of a series of adventures and she thought that settled it, that I
was a great man. After arguing with her quite some time about it, I had
to give in; so I spit on my hands and sailed in to do my little
darndest. I expected the men who realized fully how little I knew about
it all would call me a brash damn fool or anyway give me the horse
laugh; but I fooled myself. They were mightily decent. Jed Parker or Sam
Wooden or Windy Bill were always just happening by and roosting on the
corral rails. Then if I listened to them--and I always did--I learned a
heap about what I ought to do. Why, even Buck Johnson himself came and
stayed at the ranch with me for more than a week at the time of the fall
round-up: and he never went near the riding, but just projected around
here and there looking over my works and ways. And in the evenings he
would smoke and utter grave words of executive wisdom which I treasured
and profited by.

If a man gives his whole mind to it, he learns practical things fast.
Even a dumb-head Wop gets his English rapidly when he's where he has to
talk that or nothing. Inside of three years I had that ranch paying, and
paying big. It was due to my friends whom I had been afraid of, and I'm
not ashamed to say so. There's Herefords on our range now instead of
that lot of heady long-horns Old Man Hooper used to run; and we're
growing alfalfa and hay in quantity for fattening when they come in off
the ranges. Got considerable hogs, too, and hogs are high--nothing but
pure blood Poland. I figure I've added fully fifty per cent., if not
more, to the value of the ranch as it came to me. No, I'm not bragging;
I'm explaining how came it I married my wife and figured to keep my
self-respect. I'd have married her anyhow. We've been together now
fifteen years, and I'm here to say that she's a humdinger of a girl,
game as a badger, better looking every day, knows cattle and alfalfa
and sunsets and sonatas and Poland hogs--but I said this was no love
story, and it isn't!

The day following the taking of the ranch and the death of Old Man
Hooper we put our prisoners on horses and started along with them toward
the Mexican border. Just outside of Soda Springs whom should we meet up
with but big Tom Thorne, the sheriff.

"Evenin', Buck," said he.

"Evenin'," replied the señor.

"What you got here?"

"This is a little band of religious devotees fleein' persecution," said
Buck.

"And what are you up to with them?" asked Thorne.

"We're protecting them out of Christian charity from the dangers of the
road until they reach the Promised Land."

"I see," said Thorne, reflectively. "Whereabouts lays this Promised
Land?"

"About sixty mile due south."

"You sure to get them all there safe and sound--I suppose you'd be
willing to guarantee that nothing's going to happen to them, Buck?"

"I give my word on that, Tom."

"All right," said Thorne, evidently relieved. He threw his leg over the
horn of his saddle. "How about that little dispossession matter, deputy?
You ain't reported on that."

"It's all done and finished."

"Have any trouble?"

"Nary trouble," said Señor Buck Johnson, blandly, "all went off quiet
and serene."




THE ROAD AGENT




CHAPTER I


The Sierra Nevadas of California are very wide and very high. Kingdoms
could be lost among the defiles of their ranges. Kingdoms have been
found there. One of them was Bright's Cove.

It happened back in the seventies. Old Man Bright was prospecting. He
had come up from the foothills accompanied by a new but stolid Indian
wife. After he had grubbed around a while on old Italian bar and had
succeeded in washing out a little colour, she woke up and took a slight
interest in the proceedings.

"You like catch dat?" she grunted, contemptuously. "Heap much over
dere!"

She waved an arm. Old Man Bright girded his loins and packed his
jackass. After incredible scramblings the two succeeded in surmounting
the ranges and in dropping sheer to the mile-wide round valley through
which flowed the river--the broad, swift mountain river, with the
snow-white rapids and the swirling translucent green of very thick
grass. They were very glad to reach the grass at the bottom, but a
little doubtful on how to get out. The big mountains took root at the
very edge of the tiny round valley; the river flowed out of a gorge at
one end and into a gorge at the other.

"Guess the sun don't rise here 'til next morning," commented Old Man
Bright. The squaw was too busy even to grunt.

In six years Old Man Bright was worth six million dollars, all taken
from the ledges of Bright's Cove. Of this amount he had been forced to
let go of a small proportion for mill machinery and labour. He had also
invested twenty-five thousand dollars in a road. It was a steep road,
and a picturesque. It wound in and out and around, by loops, lacets, and
hairpins, dropping down the face of the mountain in unheard-of grades
and turns. Nothing was ever hauled up it, save yellow bars of
bullion--so that did not matter. Down it, with a shriek of brakes, a
cloud of dust, a clank of harness and a rumble of oaths, came divers
matters, such as machinery, glassware, whiskey, mirrors, ammunition, and
pianos. From any one of a dozen bold points on this road one could see
far down and far up its entire white, thread-like length. The tiny
crawling teams each with its puff of dust crawling with it; the great
tumbled peaks of the Sierras; the river so far below as to resemble a
little stream, the round Cove with its toy houses and its distant
ant-like industry--all these were plainly to be seized by a glance of
whatever eye cared to look.

As time went on a great many teams and pack trains and saddle animals
climbed up and down that road. Bright's Cove became quite a town. Old
Man Bright made six millions; other men aggregated nearly four millions
more; still others acquired deep holes and a deficit. It might be
remarked in passing that the squaw acquired experience, a calico dress
or so, and a final honourable discharge. Being an Indian she quite
cheerfully went back to pounding acorns in a _metate_.

In the fifth year of prosperity there drifted into camp two men,
possessed of innocence, three mules, and a thousand dollars. They
retained the mules; and, it is to be presumed, at least a portion of the
innocence.

The thousand dollars went to the purchase of the Lost Dog from Barney
Fallan. The Lost Dog consisted quite simply of a hole in the ground
guarded by an excellent five stamp-mill. The latter's existence could
only be explained by the incurable optimism of Barney Fallan--certainly
not by the contents of the hole in the ground. To the older men of the
camp it seemed a shame, for the newcomers were nice, fresh-cheeked,
clear-eyed lads to whom everything was new and strange and wonderful,
their enthusiasm was contagious, and their cheerful command of
vernacular exceedingly heart-warming. California John, then a man in his
forties, tried to head off the deal.

"Look here, son," said he to Gaynes. "Don't do it. There's nothin' in
it. Take my word."

"But Fallan's got a good stamp-mill all ready for business, and the
ledge----"

"Son," said California John, "every once in a while the Lord gets to
experimentin' makin' brains for a new species of jackass, and when he
runs out of donkeys to put 'em in----"

"Meaning me?" demanded Gaynes, his fair skin turning a deep red.

"Not at all. Meanin' Barney Fallan."

Nevertheless the Babes, as the Gaynes brothers were speedily nicknamed,
paid over their good thousand for Barney's worthless prospect with the
imposing but ridiculous stamp-mill. There they set cheerfully to work.
After a week's desperate and clanking experiment they got the machinery
under way and began to run rock through the crushers.

"It ain't even ore!" expostulated California John. "Why, son, it's only
country rock. Go down on your shaft until you strike a pan test, anyway!
You're wasting time and fuel and--Oh, hell!" he broke off hopelessly at
the sight of the two cherubic faces upturned respectful but unconvinced.

"But you never can tell where you will find gold," broke in Jimmy,
eagerly. "That's been proved over and over again. I heard one fellow say
once that they thought they'd never find gold in hornblende. But they
did."

California John stumped home in indignant disgust.

"Damn little ijits!" he exploded. "Pigheaded! Stubborn as a pair of
mules!" The recollection of the scrubbed red cheeks, the clear,
puppy-dog, frank brown eyes, the close-curling brown hair, forced his
lips to a wry grin. "Just like I was at that age," he admitted. He
sighed. "Well, they'll drop their little pile, of course. The only ray
of hope's the experience that old Bible fellow had with them turkey
buzzards--or was it ravens?"

The Babes pecked away for about a month, full of tribulation and
questions. They seemed to depend almost equally on optimism and chance,
in both of which they had supreme faith. A huge horseshoe was tacked
over the door of the stamp-mill. Jimmy Gaynes always spat over his right
shoulder before doing a day's work. They never walked under the short
ladders leading to the hoppers. Neither would they permit visitors to
their shafts. To California John and his friend Tibbetts they interposed
scandalized objections.

"It's bad luck to let another man in your shaft!" cried George. "I'm no
high-brow on this mining proposition, but I know enough for that."

"Bad as playing opposite a cross-eyed man," said Jimmy.

"Or holding Jacks full on Eights," supplemented George, conclusively.

"You're about as wise as a treeful of owls," said California John,
sarcastically. "But, Lord love you, I ain't cherishin' any very burnin'
ambition to crawl down your snake hole."

The Babes used up their provisions; they went about as far as they could
on credit; they harrowed the feelings of the community--and then, in a
very mild way, they struck it. Together they drifted down the single
street of the camp, arm in arm, an elaborate nonchalance steadying their
steps. Near the horse trough they paused.

"Gold," said Jimmy, oracularly, to George, "is where you find it."

"Likewise horse sense," quoth George.

Whereupon they whooped wildly and descended on the astonished group. To
it they exhibited yellow dust to the value of an hundred dollars. "And
more where that came from," said they.

"What kind of rock did you find it in?" demanded Tibbetts, after he had
recovered his breath from the youngsters' enthusiastic man-handling.

"Oh, a kind of red, pasty-looking rock," said they.

"Show us," demanded the miners.

"What?" cried Jimmy, astounded, "and give Old Man Luck the backhand slap
just when he's decided to buy a corner lot in the Gaynes Addition? Not
on your saccharine existence!"

"But we'll show you some more of this to-morrow Q.M.," said George.

They bought drinks all round, and paid their various bills, and departed
again feverishly to the Lost Dog whence rose smoke and clankings. And
next day, sure enough, they left their work just long enough to exhibit
another respectable little clean-up of fifty dollars or so.

"And we're just getting into it!" said George, triumphantly.

California John and all the rest of his good friends rejoiced
exceedingly and genuinely. They liked the Babes. The little strike of
the Lost Dog quite overshadowed in importance the fact that old man
Bright's "Clarice" had run into a fabulously rich pocket.

The end of the month drew near. The Lost Dog had produced nearly eight
hundred dollars. The Babes waxed important and talked largely of their
moneyed interests.

"I think," said Jimmy, importantly, "that we will decide to keep three
hundred dollars to boost the game; and nail down the rest where moths
won't corrupt. Where do you fellows salt your surplus, anyway?"

"There's an express goes out pretty soon," someone explained, "with the
clean-up of the Clarice. We send our dust out with that; and I reckon
you can fix it with Bright."

They saw Bright, but ran up against an unexpected difficulty. Old Man
Bright received them with considerable surliness. He considered himself
as the originator, discoverer, inventor, and almost the proprietor of
Bright's Cove and all it contained. Therefore, when he first heard of
the new strike, he walked up to the Lost Dog to see what it looked like.
The Babes, panic stricken at the intended affront to "Old Man Luck,"
headed him off. Bright had not the least belief in the reason given. He
surveyed them with disfavour.

"I can't take your package," he told them. "Send it out yourself."

"And that old skunk has cleaned up a hundred thousand this month!"
complained Jimmy, pathetically, to the group around the horse trough.
"And he won't even take a pore little five hundred package of dust out
to some suffering bank! I suppose I'll have to cache it in a tomato can
for Johnson's old billy goat to chew up."

"Bring it over and I'll shove it in with mine," suggested California
John.

So it was done. The express, carrying nearly four hundred pounds of gold
dust, set forth over the steep road. In two hours the driver and
messenger sailed in, bung-eyed with excitement. They had been held up by
a single road agent.

"He come out right on that point of rocks where you can see the whole
valley," said the driver in answer to many questions, "right where the
heavy grade is and the thick chaparral. We was busy climbing; and he had
us before we could wink. Made us drop off the dust and 'bout face. He
was a big, tall feller; and had a sawed-off Winchester. Once, when we
stopped, he dropped a bullet right behind us. He must have watched us
all the way to camp."

The camp turned out. As the men passed the Lost Dog someone yelled to
the Babes. George, covered with mud, came to the door of the mill.

"Gee!" said he. "Lucky we saved out that three hundred. I'm powerful
sorry for that suffering bank. I'll join you as soon as I can get Jimmy
up out of the shaft." Before the party had gone a mile they were joined
by the brothers boyishly eager over this new excitement.

The men toiled up the road to where the robbery had taken place. Plainly
to be seen were the marks of the man's boots. The tracks of a single
horse, walking, followed the man.

"He packed off the dust, and he had an almighty big horse to carry it,"
pronounced someone.

They followed the trail. It led a half mile to a broad sheet of rock.
There it disappeared. On one side the bank rose twenty or thirty feet.
On the other it fell away nearly a hundred. On the other side of the
sheet of rock stretched the dusty road unbroken by anything more recent
than the wheel-tracks of the day before. It was as though man and horse
had taken unto themselves wings.

Immediately Bright took active charge of the posse.

"Stand here, on this rock," he commanded. "This road's been tracked up
too much already. You, John, and Tibbetts and Simmins, there, come 'long
with me to see what you can make out."

The old mountaineers retraced their steps, examining carefully every
inch of the ground. They returned vastly puzzled.

"No sabe," California John summed up their investigations. "There's the
man's track leadin' his hoss. The hoss had on new shoes, and the robber
did his own shoeing. So we ain't got any blacksmiths to help us."

"How do you know he shod the horse himself?" asked Jimmy Gaynes.

"Shoes just alike on front and back feet. Shows he must just have tacked
on ready-made shoes. A blacksmith shapes 'em different. Those tracks
leads right up to this rock: and here they quit. If you can figger how a
horse, a man, and nigh four hundredweight of gold dust got off this
rock, I'll be obleeged."

The men looked up at the perpendicular cliff to their right; over the
sheer precipice at their left; and upon the untracked deep, white dust
ahead.

"Furthermore," California John went on, impressively, after a moment,
"where did that man and that hoss come from in the beginning? Not from
up this way. They's no fresh tracks comin' down the road no more than
they's fresh tracks goin' up. Not from camp. They's no tracks
whatsomever on the road below, except our'n and the stage outfit's."

"Are you sure of that?" asked Jimmy, his eyes shining with interest.

"Sartin sure," replied California John, positively. "We didn't take no
chances on that."

"Then he must have come into the road from up the mountain or down the
mountain."

"Where?" demanded California John. "A man afoot might scramble down in
one or two places; but not a hoss. They ain't no tracks either side the
muss-up where the express was stopped. And at that p'int the mountain is
straight up and down, like it is here."

They talked it over, and argued it, and reexamined the evidence, but
without avail. The stubborn facts remained: Between the hold-up and the
sheet of rock was one set of tracks going one way; elsewhere, nothing.




CHAPTER II


Nearly a year passed. If it had not been for the very tangible loss of a
hundred and fifty thousand dollars, the little community at Bright's
Cove might almost have come to doubt the evidence of their senses and
the accuracy of their memories, so fantastic on sober reflection did all
the circumstances become. Even the indisputable four hundred pounds of
gold could not quite avert an unconfessed suspicion of the uncanny.
Miners are superstitious folk. Old Man Bright remembered the parting and
involved curses of his squaw before she went back to her acorns and pine
nuts. To Tibbetts alone he imparted a vague hint of the imaginings into
which he had fallen. But he brooded much, seeking a plausible theory
that would not force him back on the powers of darkness. This he did not
find.

Nor did any other man. It remained a mystery, a single bizarre anomaly
in the life of the camp. For some time thereafter the express went
heavily guarded. The road was patrolled. Jimmy or George Gaynes in
person accompanied each shipment of dust. Their pay streak held out,
increased steadily in value. They would hire no assistance for the
actual mining in the shaft, although they had several hands to work at
the mill. One month they cleaned up twelve thousand dollars.

"You bet I'm going," said Jimmy, "I don't care if it is only a little
compared to what Bright and you fellows are sending. It's a heap sight
to us, and I'm going to see it safe to the city. No more spooks in mine.
I got my fingers crossed. Allah skazallalum! I don't know what a ghost
would want with cash assets, but they seemed to use George's and my
little old five hundred, all right."

Twelve months went by. Two expresses a month toiled up the road. Nothing
happened. Finally Jimmy decided that four good working days a month were
a good deal to pay for apparently useless supervision. Three men
comprised the shot-gun guard. They, with the driver, were considered
ample.

"You'll have to get on without me," said Jimmy to them in farewell. "Be
good boys. We've got the biggest clean-up yet aboard you."

They started on the twenty-fifth trip since the hold-up. After a time,
far up the mountain was heard a single shot. Inside of two hours the
express drew sorrowfully into camp. The driver appeared to be alone. In
the bottom of the wagon were the three guards weak and sick. The gold
sacks were very much absent.

"Done it again," said the driver. "Ain't more than got started afore the
whole outfit's down with the belly-ache. Too much of that cursed salmon.
Told 'em so. I didn't eat none. That road agent hit her lucky this trip
sure. He was all organized for business. Never showed himself at all.
Just opened fire. Sent a bullet through the top of my hat. He's either a
damn good shot or a damn poor one. I hung up both hands and yelled we
was down and out. What could I do? This outfit couldn't a fit a bumble
bee. And I couldn't git away, or git hold of no gun, or see anything to
shoot, if I did. He was behind that big rock."

The men nodded. They were many of them hard hit, but they had lived too
long in the West not to recognize the justice of the driver's implied
contention that he had done his best.

"He told me to throw out them sacks, and to be damn quick about it,"
went on the driver. "Then I drove home."

"What sort of a lookin' fellow was he?" asked someone. "Same one as last
year?"

"I never seen him," said the driver. "He hung behind his rock. He was
organized for shoot, and if the messengers hadn't happened to' a' been
out of it, I believe he could have killed us all."

"What did his hoss look like?" inquired California John.

"He didn't have no horse," stated the driver. "Leastways, not near him.
There was no cover. He might have been around a p'int. And I can sw'ar
to this: there weren't no tracks of no kind from there to camp."

They caught up horses and started out. When they came to the Lost Dog,
they stopped and looked at each other.

"Poor old Babes," said Simmins. "Biggest clean-up yet; and first time
one of 'em didn't go 'long."

"I'm glad they didn't," said Tibbetts. "That agent would have killed 'em
shore!"

They called out the Gaynes brothers and broke the news. For once the
jovial youngsters had no joke to make.

"This is getting serious," said Jimmy, seriously. "We can't afford to
lose that much."

George whistled dolefully, and went into the corral for the mules.

The party toiled up the mountain. Plainly in the dust could be made out
the trail of the express ascending and descending. Plain also were the
signs where the driver had dumped out the gold bags and turned around.
From that point the tracks of a man and a horse led to the sheet of
rock. Beyond that, nothing.

The men stared at each other a little frightened. Somebody swore softly.

"Boys," said Bright in a strained voice, "do you know how much was in
that express? A half million! There's nary earthly hoss can carry over
half a ton! And this one treads as light as a saddler."

They looked at each other blankly. Several even glanced in apprehension
at the sky.

In a perfunctory manner, for the sake of doing something, those skilled
in trail-reading went back over the ground. Nothing was added to the
first experience. At the point of robbery magically had appeared a man
and--if the stage driver's solemn assertion that at the time of the
hold-up no animal was in sight could be believed--subsequently, when
needed, a large horse. Whence had they come? Not along the road in
either direction: the unbroken, deep dust assured that. Not down the
mountain from above, for the cliff rose sheer for at least three hundred
feet. Jimmy Gaynes, following unconsciously the general train of
conjecture, craned his neck over the edge of the road. The broken jagged
rock and shale dropped off an hundred feet to a tangle of manzanita and
snowbrush.

California John looked over, too.

"Couldn't even get sheep up that," said he, "let alone a sixteen-hand
horse."

Old Man Bright was sunk in a superstitious torpor. He had lost hundreds
of thousands where he would have hated to spend pennies; yet the
financial part of the loss hardly touched him. He mumbled fearfully to
himself, and took not the slightest interest in the half-hearted
attempts to read the mystery. When the others moved, he moved with them,
because he was afraid to be left alone.

After the men had assured themselves again and again that the horse and
the man had apparently materialized from thin air exactly at the point
of robbery, they again followed the tracks to the broad sheet of rock.
Whither had the robber gone? Back into the thin air whence he had come.
There was no other solution. No tracks ahead; an absolute and physical
impossibility of anything without wings getting up or down the flanking
precipices--these were the incontestable facts.

After this second robbery a gloom descended on Bright's Cove which
lasted through many months. Old Man Bright hunted out the squaw with
whom he had first discovered the diggings, and set her up in an
establishment with gay curtains, glass danglers and red doileys. Each
month he paid for her provisions and sent to her a sum of money. In this
manner, at least, the phantom road agent had furthered the ends of
justice. The sop to the powers of darkness appeared to be effective in
this respect: no more hold-ups occurred; no more mysterious tracks
appeared in the dust; gradually men's minds swung back to the balanced
and normal, and the life of the camp went forward on its appointed way.

Nevertheless, certain effects remained. Each express went out heavily
guarded, and preceded and followed by men on horseback. Strangely enough
the gamblers left camp. In a little more than a year Old Man Bright fell
into a settled melancholia from which his millions never helped him to
the very day of his death a little more than a year later.

In the meantime, however varied the fortunes of the other mines and
prospects, the Lost Dog continued to work toward a steadily increasing
paying basis. It never reached the proportions of the Clarice, but
turned out an increasing value of dust at each clean-up. The Gaynes boys
two years before had been in debt for their groceries. Now they were
said to have shipped out something like three or four hundred thousand
dollars' worth of gold. Their friends used to wander down for the
regular clean-up, just to rejoice over the youngsters' deserved good
luck. The little five stamp-mill crunched away steadily; the water
flowed; and in the riffles the heavy gold dust accumulated.

"Why don't you-all put up a big mill, throw in a crew of men, and get
busy?" they were asked.

"I'll tell you," replied George, "it's because we know a heap sight more
about mining than we did when we came here. We have just one claim, and
from all indications it's only a pocket. The Clarice is on a genuine
lode; but we're likely to run into a 'horse' or pinch out most any
minute. When we do, it's all over but a few faint cries of fraud. And we
can empty that pocket just as well with a little jerkwater outfit like
this as we could with a big crew and a real mill. It'll take a little
longer; but we're pulling it and quick enough."

"Those Babes have more sense than we gave 'em credit for," commented
California John. "Their heads are level. They're dead right about it's
bein' a pocket. The stuff they run through there is the darndest mixture
_I_ ever see gold in."

Two months after this conversation the Babes drifted into camp to
announce that the expected pinch had come.

"We're going," said Jimmy. "We have a heap plenty dust salted away; and
there's not a colour left in the Lost Dog. The mill machinery is for
sale cheap. Any one can have the Lost Dog who wants it. We're going out
to see what makes the wheels go 'round. You boys have a first claim on
us wherever you find us. You've sure been good to us. If you catch that
spook, send us one of his tail feathers. It would be worth just twelve
thousand five hundred to us."

They sold the stamp-mill for almost nothing; packed eight animals with
heavy things they had accumulated; and departed up the steep white road,
over the rim to the outer world whence came no word of them more. The
camp went on prospering. Old Man Bright died. The heavily guarded
express continued to drag out yellow gold by the hundredweight.

About six weeks after the departure of the Babes, California John
saddled up his best horse, put on his best overalls, strapped about him
his shiny worn Colt's .45 and departed for his semi-annual visit to the
valleys and the towns. A week later he returned. It was about dusk. At
the water trough he dismounted.

"Boys," said he, quietly, "I've been held up." He eyed them quizzically.
"Up by the slide rock," he continued, "and by the spook."

"Who was he?" "What was it?" they cried, starting to their feet.

"It was Jimmy Gaynes," replied California John.

"The Babe?" someone broke the stunned silence at last.

"Precisely."

"Well, I'll be damned!" cried Tibbetts.

"Did he get much off you?" asked a miner after another pause.

"He never took a thing."

And on that, being much besieged, California John sat him down and told
of his experience.




CHAPTER III


California John was discursive and interested and disinclined to be
hurried. He crossed one leg over the other and lit his pipe.

"I was driftin' down the road busy with my own idees--which ain't many,"
he began, "when I was woke up all to once by someone givin' me advice. I
took the advice. Wasn't nothin' else to do. All I could see was a rock
and a gun barrel. That was enough. So I histed my hands as per commands
and waited for the next move." He chuckled. "I wasn't worryin'. Had to
squeeze my dust bag to pay my hotel bill when I left the city."

"'Drop yore gun in the road,' says the agent.

"I done so.

"'Now dismount.'

"I climbed down. And then Jimmy Gaynes rose up from behind that rock and
laughed at me.

"'The joke's on me!' said I, and reached down for my gun.

"'Better leave that!' said Jimmy pretty sharp. I know that tone of
voice, so I straightened up again.

"'Well, Jimmy,' said I, 'she lays if you say so. But where'd you come
from: and what for do you turn road agent and hold up your old friends?'

"'I'm holdin' you up,' Jimmy answered, 'because I want to talk to you
for ten minutes. As for where I come from, that's neither here nor
there.'

"'Of course,' said I, 'I'm one of these exclusive guys that needs a gun
throwed on him before he'll talk with the plain people like you.'

"'Now don't get mad,' says Jimmy. 'But light yore pipe, and set down on
that rock, and you'll see in a minute why I _pre_ferred to corner the
gatling market.'

"Well, I set down and lit up, and Jimmy done likewise, about ten feet
away.

"'I've come back a long ways to talk to one of you boys, and I've shore
hung around this road some few hours waitin' for some of you terrapins
to come along. Ever found out who done those two hold-ups?'

"'Nope,' said I, 'and don't expect to.'

"'Well, I done it,' says he.

"I looked him in the eye mighty severe.

"'You're one of the funniest little jokers ever hit this trail,' I told
him. 'If that's your general line of talkee-talkee I don't wonder you
don't want me to have no gun.'

"'Never_the_less,' he insists, 'I done it. And I'll tell you just how it
was done. Here's yore old express crawlin' up the road. Here I am behind
this little old rock. You know what happened next I reckon--from
experience.'

"'I reckon I know that,' says I, 'but how did you get behind that rock
without leavin' no tracks?'

"I climbed up the cliff out of the cañon, and I just walked up the cañon
from the Lost Dog through the brush.'

"'Yes,' says I, 'that might be: a man could make out to shinny up. But
how----'

"'One thing to a time. Then I ordered them dust sacks throwed out, and
the driver to 'bout-face and retreat.'

"'Sure,' says I, 'simple as a wart on a kid's nose. There was you with a
half ton of gold to fly off with! Come again.'

"'I then dropped them sacks off the edge of the cliff where they rolled
into the brush. After a while I climbed down after them, and was on hand
when your posse started out. Then I carried them home at leisure.'

"'What did you do with your hoss?' I asked him, mighty sarcastic. 'Seems
to me you overlook a few bets.'

"'I didn't have no hoss,' says he.

"'But the real hold-up----

"'You mean them tracks. Well, just to amuse you fellows, I walked in the
dust up to that flat rock. Then I clamped a big pair of horseshoes on
hind-side before and walked back again.'"

California John's audience had been listening intently. Now it could no
longer contain itself, but broke forth into exclamations indicative of
various emotions.

"That's why them front and back tracks was the same size!" someone
cried.

"Gee, you're bright!" said California John. "That's what I told him. I
also told him he was a wonder, but how did he manage to slip out near a
ton of dust up that road without our knowing it?

"'You did know it,' says he. 'Did you fellows really think there was any
gold-bearing ore in the Lost Dog? We just run that dust through the mill
along with a lot of worthless rock, and shipped it out open and above
board as our own mill run. There never was an ounce of dust come out of
the Lost Dog, and there never will.' Then he give me back my
gun--emptied--we shook hands, and here I be."

After the next burst of astonishment had ebbed, and had been succeeded
by a rather general feeling of admiration, somebody asked California
John if Jimmy had come back solely for the purpose of clearing up the
mystery. California John had evidently been waiting for this question.
He arose and knocked the ashes from his pipe.

"Bring a candle," he requested the storekeeper, and led the way to the
abandoned Lost Dog. Into the tunnel he led them, to the very end. There
he paused, holding aloft his light. At his feet was a canvas which,
being removed, was found to cover neatly a number of heavy sacks.

"Here's our dust," said California John, "every ounce of it, he said. He
kept about six hundred thousand or so that belonged to Bright: but he
didn't take none of ours. He come back to tell me so."

The men crowded around for closer inspection.

"I wonder why he done that?" Tibbetts marvelled.

"I asked him that," replied California John, grimly, "He said his
conscience never would rest easy if he robbed us babes."

Tibbetts broke the ensuing silence.

"Was 'babes' the word he used?" he asked, softly.

"'Babes' was the word," said California John.




THE TIDE


A short story, say the writers of text books and the teachers of
sophomores, should deal with but a single episode. That dictum is
probably true; but it admits of wider interpretation than is generally
given it. The teller of tales, anxious to escape from restriction but
not avid of being cast into the outer darkness of the taboo, can in
self-justification become as technical as any lawyer. The phrase "a
single episode" is loosely worded. The rule does not specify an episode
in one man's life; it might be in the life of a family, or a state, or
even of a whole people. In that case the action might cover many lives.
It is a way out for those who have a story to tell, a limit to tell it
within, but who do not wish to embroil themselves too seriously with the
august Makers of the Rules.




CHAPTER I


The time was 1850, the place that long, soft, hot dry stretch of blasted
desolation known as the Humboldt Sink. The sun stared, the heat rose in
waves, the mirage shimmered, the dust devils of choking alkali whirled
aloft or sank in suffocation on the hot earth. Thus it had been since in
remote ages the last drop of the inland sea had risen into a brazen sky.
But this year had brought something new. A track now led across the
desert. It had sunk deep into the alkali, and the soft edges had closed
over it like snow, so that the wheel marks and the hoof marks and the
prints of men's feet looked old. Almost in a straight line it led to the
west. Its perspective, dwindling to nothingness, corrected the deceit of
the clear air. Without it the cool, tall mountains looked very near. But
when the eye followed the trail to its vanishing, then, as though by
magic, the Ranges drew back, and before them denied dreadful forces of
toil, thirst, exhaustion, and despair. For the trail was marked. If the
wheel ruts had been obliterated, it could still have been easily
followed. Abandoned goods, furniture, stores, broken-down wagons,
bloated carcasses of oxen or horses, bones bleached white, rattling
mummies of dried skin, and an almost unbroken line of marked and
unmarked graves--like the rout of an army, like the spent wash of a wave
that had rolled westward--these in double rank defined the road.

The buzzards sailing aloft looked down on the Humboldt Sink as we would
look upon a relief map. Near the centre of the map a tiny cloud of white
dust crawled slowly forward. The buzzards stooped to poise above it.

Two ox wagons plodded along. A squirrel--were such a creature
possible--would have stirred disproportionately the light alkali dust;
the two heavy wagons and the shuffling feet of the beasts raised a
cloud. The fitful furnace draught carried this along at the slow pace of
the caravan, which could be seen only dimly, as through a dense fog.

The oxen were in distress. Evidently weakened by starvation, they were
proceeding only with the greatest difficulty. Their tongues were out,
their legs spread, spasmodically their eyes rolled back to show the
whites, from time to time one or another of them uttered a strangled,
moaning bellow. They were white with the powdery dust, as were their
yokes, the wagons, and the men who plodded doggedly alongside. Finally,
they stopped. The dust eddied by; and the blasting sun fell upon them.

The driver of the leading team motioned to the other. They huddled in
the scanty shade alongside the first wagon. Both men were so powdered
and caked with alkali that their features were indistinguishable. Their
red-rimmed, inflamed eyes looked out as though from masks.

The one who had been bringing up the rear looked despairingly toward the
mountains.

"We'll never get there!" he cried.

"Not the way we are now," replied the other. "But I intend to get
there."

"How?"

"Leave your wagon, Jim; it's the heaviest. Put your team on here."

"But my wagon is all I've got in the world!" cried the other, "and we've
got near a keg of water yet! We can make it! The oxen are pulling all
right!"

His companion turned away with a shrug, then thought better of it and
turned back.

"We've thrown out all we owned except bare necessities," he explained,
patiently. "Your wagon is too heavy. The time to change is while the
beasts can still pull."

"But I refuse!" cried the other. "I won't do it. Go ahead with your
wagon. I'll get mine in, John Gates, you can't bulldoze me."

Gates stared him in the eye.

"Get the pail," he requested, mildly.

He drew water from one of the kegs slung underneath the wagon's body.
The oxen, smelling it, strained weakly, bellowing. Gates slowly and
carefully swabbed out their mouths, permitted them each a few swallows,
rubbed them pityingly between the horns. Then he proceeded to unyoke the
four beasts from the other man's wagon and yoked them to his own. Jim
started to say something. Gates faced him. Nothing was said.

"Get your kit," Gates commanded, briefly, after a few moments. He parted
the hanging canvas and looked into the wagon. Built to transport much
freight it was nearly empty. A young woman lay on a bed spread along the
wagon bottom. She seemed very weak.

"All right, honey?" asked Gates, gently.

She stirred, and achieved a faint smile.

"It's terribly hot. The sun strikes through," she replied. "Can't we let
some air in?"

"The dust would smother you."

"Are we nearly there?"

"Getting on farther every minute," he replied, cheerfully.

Again the smothering alkali rose and the dust cloud crawled.

Four hours later the traveller called Jim collapsed face downward. The
oxen stopped. Gates lifted the man by the shoulders. So exhausted was he
that he had not the strength nor energy to spit forth the alkali with
which his fall had caked his open mouth. Gates had recourse to the
water keg. After a little he hoisted his companion to the front seat.

At intervals thereafter the lone human figure spoke the single word that
brought his team to an instantaneous dead stop. His first care was then
the woman, next the man clinging to the front seat, then the oxen.
Before starting he clambered to the top of the wagon and cast a long,
calculating look across the desolation ahead. Twice he even further
reduced the meagre contents of the wagon, appraising each article long
and doubtfully before discarding it. About mid-afternoon he said
abruptly:

"Jim, you've got to walk."

The man demurred weakly, with a touch of panic.

"Every ounce counts. It's going to be a close shave. You can hang on to
the tail of the wagon."

Yet an hour later Jim, for the fourth time, fell face downward, but now
did not rise. Gates, going to him, laid his hand on his head, pushed
back one of his eyelids, then knelt for a full half minute, staring
straight ahead. Once he made a tentative motion toward the nearly empty
water keg, once he started to raise the man's shoulders. The movements
were inhibited. A brief agony cracked the mask of alkali on his
countenance. Then stolidly, wearily, he arose. The wagon lurched
forward. After it had gone a hundred yards and was well under way in its
painful forward crawl, Gates, his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes fixed and
glazed, drew the revolver from its holster and went back.

At sundown he began to use the gad. The oxen were trying to lie down.
If one of them succeeded, it would never again arise. Gates knew this.
He plied the long, heavy whip in both hands. Where the lash fell it bit
out strips of hide. It was characteristic of the man that though
heretofore he had not in all this day inflicted a single blow on the
suffering animals, though his nostrils widened and his terrible red eyes
looked for pity toward the skies, yet now he swung mercilessly with all
his strength.

Dusk fell, but the hot earth still radiated, the powder dust rose and
choked. The desert dragged at their feet; and in the twilight John Gates
thought to hear mutterings and the soft sound of wings overhead as the
dread spirits of the wastes stooped low. He had not stopped for nearly
two hours. This was the last push; he must go straight through or fail.

And when the gleam of the river answered the gleam of the starlight he
had again to rouse his drained energies. By the brake, by directing the
wagon into an obstruction, by voice and whip he fought the frantic
beasts back to a moaning standstill. Then pail by pail he fed them the
water until the danger of overdrinking was past. He parted the curtains.
In spite of the noise outside the woman, soothed by the breath of cooler
air, had fallen asleep.

Some time later he again parted the curtains.

"We're here, honey," he said, "good water, good grass, shade. The desert
is past. Wake up and take a little coffee."

She smiled at him.

"I'm so tired."

"We're going to rest here a spell."

She drank the coffee, ate some of the food he brought her, thrust back
her hair, breathed deep of the cooling night.

"Where's Jim?" she asked at last.

"Jim got very tired," he said, "Jim's asleep."

       *       *       *       *       *

Three months later. The western slant of the Sierras just where the
cañon clefts begin to spread into foothills. On a flat near--too
near--the stream-bed was a typical placer-mining camp of the day. That
is, three or four large, rough buildings in a row, twenty or thirty log
cabins scattered without order, and as many tents.

The whole population was gathered interestedly in the largest structure,
which was primarily a dance hall. Ninety-five per cent. were men, of
whom the majority were young men. A year ago the percentage would have
been nearer one hundred, but now a certain small coterie of women had
drifted in, most of them with a keen eye for prosperity. The red or blue
shirt, the nondescript hat, and the high, mud-caked boots of the miner
preponderated. Here and there in the crowd, however, stood a man dressed
in the height of fashion. There seemed no middle ground. These latter
were either the professional gamblers, the lawyers, or the promoters.

A trial was in progress, to which all paid deep attention. Two men
disputed the ownership of a certain claim. Their causes were represented
by ornate individuals whose evident zest in the legal battle was not
measured by prospective fees. Nowhere in the domain and at no time in
the history of the law has technicality been so valued, has the game of
the courts possessed such intellectual interest, has substantial
justice been so uncertain as in the California of the early 'fifties.
The lawyer could spread himself unhampered; and these were so doing.

In the height of the proceedings a man entered from outside and took his
position leaning against the rail of the jury box. That he was a
stranger was evident from the glances of curiosity, cast in his
direction. He was tall, strong, young, bearded, with a roving, humorous
bold eye.

The last word was spoken. A rather bewildered-looking jury filed out.
Ensued a wait. The jury came back. It could not agree; it wanted
information. Both lawyers supplied it in abundance. The foreman, who
happened to be next the rail against which the newcomer was leaning,
cast on him a quizzical eye.

"Stranger," said he, "mout you be able to make head er tail of all that
air?"

The other shook his head.

"I'm plumb distracted to know what to do; and dear knows we all want to
git shet of this job. Thar's a badger fight----"

"Where is this claim, anyway?"

"Right adown the road. Location notice is on the first white oak you
come to. Cain't miss her."

"If I were you," said the stranger after a pause, "I'd just declare the
claim vacant. Then neither side would win."

At this moment the jury rose to retire again. The stranger unobtrusively
gained the attention of the clerk and from him begged a sheet of paper.
On this he wrote rapidly, then folded it, and moved to the outer door,
against the jamb of which he took his position. After another and
shorter wait, the jury returned.

"Have you agreed on your verdict, gentlemen?" inquired the judge.

"We have," replied the lank foreman. "We award that the claim belongs to
neither and be declared vacant."

At the words the stranger in the doorway disappeared. Two minutes later
the advance guard of the rush that had comprehended the true meaning of
the verdict found the white oak tree in possession of a competent
individual with a Colt's revolving pistol and a humorous eye.

"My location notice, gentlemen," he said, calling attention to a paper
freshly attached by wooden pegs.

"Honey-bug claim'," they read, "'John Gates'," and the usual
phraseology.

"But this is a swindle, an outrage!" cried one of the erstwhile owners.

"If so it was perpetrated by your own courts," said Gates, crisply. "I
am within my rights, and I propose to defend them."

Thus John Gates and his wife, now strong and hearty, became members of
this community. His intention had been to proceed to Sacramento. An
incident stopped him here.

The Honey-bug claim might or might not be a good placer mine--time would
show--but it was certainly a wonderful location. Below the sloping bench
on which it stood the country fell away into the brown heat haze of the
lowlands, a curtain that could lift before a north wind to reveal a
landscape magnificent as a kingdom. Spreading white oaks gave shade, a
spring sang from the side hill on which grew lofty pines, and back to
the east rose the dark or glittering Sierras. The meadow at the back was
gay with mariposa lilies, melodious with bees and birds, aromatic with
the mingled essences of tarweed, lads-love, and the pines. At this happy
elevation the sun lay warm and caressing, but the air tasted cool.

"I could love this," said the woman.

"You'll have a chance," said John Gates, "for when we've made our pile,
we'll always keep this to come back to."

At first they lived in the wagon, which they drew up under one of the
trees, while the oxen recuperated and grew fat on the abundant grasses.
Then in spare moments John Gates began the construction of a house. He
was a man of tremendous energy, but also of many activities. The days
were not long enough for him. In him was the true ferment of
constructive civilization. Instinctively he reached out to modify his
surroundings. A house, then a picket fence, split from the living trees;
an irrigation ditch; a garden spot; fruit trees; vines over the porch;
better stables; more fences; the gradual shaping from the wilderness of
a home--these absorbed his surplus. As a matter of business he worked
with pick and shovel until he had proved the Honey-bug hopeless, then he
started a store on credit. Therein he sold everything from hats to 42
calibre whiskey. To it he brought the same overflowing play-spirit that
had fashioned his home.

"I'm making a very good living," he answered a question; "that is, if
I'm not particular on how well I live," and he laughed his huge laugh.

He was very popular. Shortly they elected him sheriff. He gained this
high office fundamentally, of course, by reason of his courage and
decision of character; but the immediate and visible causes were the
Episode of the Frazzled Mule, and the Episode of the Frying Pan. The one
inspired respect; the other amusement.

The freight company used many pack and draught animals. One day one of
its mules died. The _mozo_ in charge of the corrals dragged the carcass
to the superintendent's office. That individual cursed twice; once at
the mule for dying, and once at the _mozo_ for being a fool. At
nightfall another mule died. This time the _mozo_, mindful of his
berating, did not deliver the body, but conducted the superintendent to
see the sad remains.

"Bury it," ordered the superintendent, disgustedly. Two mules at
$350--quite a loss.

But next morning another had died; fairly an epidemic among mules. This
carcass also was ordered buried. And at noon a fourth. The
superintendent, on his way to view the defunct, ran across John Gates.

"Look here, John," queried he, "do you know anything about mules?"

"Considerable," admitted Gates.

"Well, come see if you can tell me what's killing ours off."

They contemplated the latest victim of the epidemic.

"Seems to be something that swells them up," ventured the superintendent
after a while.

John Gates said nothing for some time. Then suddenly he snatched his
pistol and levelled it at the shrinking _mozo_.

"Produce those three mules!" he roared, "_mucho pronto_, too!" To the
bewildered superintendent he explained. "Don't you see? this is the same
old original mule. He ain't never been buried at all. They've been
stealing your animals pretending they died, and using this one over and
over as proof!"

This proved to be the case; but John Gates was clever enough never to
tell how he surmised the truth.

"That mule looked to me pretty frazzled," was all he would say.

The frying-pan episode was the sequence of a quarrel. Gates was bringing
home a new frying pan. At the proper point in the discussion he used his
great strength to smash the implement over his opponent's head so
vigorously that it came down around his neck like a jagged collar! Gates
clung to the handle, however, and by it led his man all around camp, to
the huge delight of the populace.

As sheriff he was effective, but at times peculiar in his
administration. No man could have been more zealous in performing his
duty; yet he never would mix in the affairs of foreigners. Invariably in
such cases he made out the warrants in blank, swore in the complaining
parties themselves as deputies, and told them blandly to do their own
arresting! Nor at times did he fail to temper his duty with a little
substantial justice of his own. Thus he was once called upon to execute
a judgment for $30 against a poor family. Gates went down to the
premises, looked over the situation, talked to the man--a
poverty-stricken, discouraged, ague-shaken creature--and marched back to
the offices of the plaintiffs in the case.

"Here," said he, calmly, laying a paper and a small bag of gold dust on
their table, "is $30 and a receipt in full."

The complainant reached for the sack. Gates placed his hand over it.

"Sign the receipt," he commanded. "Now," he went on after the ink had
been sanded, "there's your $30. It's yours legally; and you can take it
if you want to. But I want to warn you that a thousand-dollar licking
goes with it!"

The money--from Gates's own pocket--eventually found its way to the poor
family!

They had three children, two boys and a girl of which one boy died.

In five years the placers began to play out. One by one the more
energetic of the miners dropped away. The nature of the community
changed. Small hill ranches or fruit farms took the place of the mines.
The camp became a country village. Old time excitement calmed, the pace
of life slowed, the horizon narrowed.

John Gates, clear-eyed, energetic, keen brained, saw this tendency
before it became a fact.

"This camp is busted," he told himself.

It was the hour to fulfill the purpose of the long, terrible journey
across the plains, to carry out the original intention to descend from
the Sierras to the golden valleys, to follow the struggle.

"Reckon it's time to be moving," he told his wife.

But now his own great labours asserted their claim. He had put four
years of his life into making this farm out of nothing, four years of
incredible toil, energy, and young enthusiasm. He had a good dwelling
and spacious corrals, an orchard started, a truck garden, a barley
field, a pasture, cattle, sheep, chickens, his horses--all his creation
from nothing. One evening at sundown he found his wife in the garden
weeping softly.

"What is it, honey?" he asked.

"I was just thinking how we'd miss the garden," she replied.

He looked about at the bright, cheerful flowers, the vine-hung picket
fence, the cool verandah, the shady fig tree already of some size.
Everything was neat and trim, just as he liked it. And the tinkle of
pleasant waters, the song of a meadow lark, the distant mellow lowing of
cows came to his ears; the smell of tarweed and of pines mingled in his
nostrils.

"It's a good place for children," he said, vaguely.

Neither knew it, but that little speech marked the ebb of the wave that
had lifted him from his eastern home, had urged him across the plains,
had flung him in the almost insolent triumph of his youth high toward
the sun. Now the wash receded.




CHAPTER II


It was indeed a good place for children. Charley and Alice Gates grew
tall and strong, big boned, magnificent, typical California products.
They went to the district school, rode in the mountains, helped handle
the wild cattle. At the age of twelve Charley began to accompany the
summer incursions into the High Sierras in search of feed. At the age of
sixteen he was entrusted with a bunch of cattle. In these summers he
learned the wonder of the high, glittering peaks, the blueness of the
skies in high altitudes, the multitude of the stars, the flower-gemmed
secret meadows, the dark, murmuring forests. He fished in the streams,
and hunted on the ridges. His camp was pitched within a corral of heavy
logs. It was very simple. Utensils depending from trees, beds beneath
canvas tarpaulins on pine needles, saddlery, riatas, branding irons
scattered about. No shelter but the sky. A wonderful roving life.

It developed taciturnity and individualism. Charley Gates felt no
necessity for expression as yet; and as his work required little
coöperation from his fellow creatures he acknowledged as little
responsibility toward them. Thus far he was the typical mountaineer.

But other influences came to him; as, indeed, they come to all. But
young Charley was more susceptible than most, and this--on the impulse
of the next tide resurgent--saved him from his type. He liked to read;
he did not scorn utterly and boisterously the unfortunate young man who
taught the school; and, better than all, he possessed just the
questioning mind that refuses to accept on their own asseveration only
the conventions of life or the opinions of neighbours. If he were to
drink, it would be because he wanted to; not because his companions
considered it manly. If he were to enter the sheep war, it would be
because he really considered sheep harmful to the range; not because of
the overwhelming--and contagious--prejudice.

In one thing only did he follow blindly his sense of loyalty: He hated
the Hydraulic Company.

Years after the placers failed someone discovered that the wholesale use
of hydraulic "giants" produced gold in paying quantities. Huge streams
of water under high pressure were directed against the hills, which
melted like snow under the spring sun. The earth in suspension was run
over artificial riffles against which the heavier gold collected. One
such stream could accomplish in a few hours what would have cost hand
miners the better part of a season.

But the débris must go somewhere. A rushing mud and boulder-filled
torrent tore down stream beds adapted to a tenth of their volume. It
wrecked much of the country below, ripping out the good soil, covering
the bottomlands many feet deep with coarse rubble, clay, mud, and even
big rocks and boulders. The farmers situated below such operations
suffered cruelly. Even to this day the devastating results may be seen
above Colfax or Sacramento.

John Gates suffered with the rest. His was not the nature to submit
tamely, nor to compromise. He had made his farm with his own hands, and
he did not propose to see it destroyed. Much money he expended through
the courts; indeed the profits of his business were eaten by a
never-ending, inconclusive suit. The Hydraulic Company, securely
entrenched behind the barriers of especial privilege, could laugh at his
frontal attacks. It was useless to think of force. The feud degenerated
into a bitter legal battle and much petty guerrilla warfare on both
sides.

To this quarrel Charley had been bred up in a consuming hate of the
Hydraulic Company, all its works, officers, bosses, and employees. Every
human being in any way connected with it wore horns, hoofs, and a tail.
In company with the wild youths of the neighbourhood he perpetrated many
a raid on the Company's property. Beginning with boyish openings of
corrals to permit stock to stray, these raids progressed with the years
until they had nearly arrived at the dignity of armed deputies and bench
warrants.

The next day of significance to our story was October 15, 1872. On that
date fire started near Flour Gold and swept upward. October is always a
bad time of year for fires in foothill California--between the rains,
the heat of the year, everything crisp and brown and brittle. This
threatened the whole valley and water shed. The Gateses turned out, and
all their neighbours, with hoe, mattock, axe, and sacking, trying to
beat, cut, or scrape a "break" wide enough to check the flames. It was
cruel work. The sun blazed overhead and the earth underfoot. The air
quivered as from a furnace. Men gasped at it with straining lungs. The
sweat pouring from their bodies combined with the parching of the
superheated air induced a raging thirst. No water was to be had save
what was brought to them. Young boys and women rode along the line
carrying canteens, water bottles, and food. The fire fighters snatched
hastily at these, for the attack of the fire permitted no respite. Twice
they cut the wide swath across country; but twice before it was
completed the fire crept through and roared into triumph behind them.
The third time the line held, and this was well into the second day.

Charley Gates had fought doggedly. He had summoned the splendid
resources of youth and heritage, and they had responded. Next in line to
his right had been a stranger. This latter was a slender, clean-cut
youth, at first glance seemingly of delicate physique. Charley had
looked upon him with the pitying contempt of strong youth for weak
youth. He considered that the stranger's hands were soft and effeminate,
he disliked his little trimmed moustache, and especially the cool,
mocking, appraising glance of his eyes. But as the day, and the night,
and the day following wore away, Charley raised his opinion. The slender
body possessed unexpected reserve, the long, lean hands plied the tools
unweariedly, the sensitive face had become drawn and tired, but the
spirit behind the mocking eyes had not lost the flash of its defiance.
In the heat of the struggle was opportunity for only the briefest
exchanges. Once, when Charley despairingly shook his empty canteen, the
stranger offered him a swallow from his own. Next time exigency crowded
them together, Charley croaked:

"Reckon we'll hold her."

Toward evening of the second day the westerly breeze died, and shortly
there breathed a gentle air from the mountains. The danger was past.

Charley and the stranger took long pulls from their recently replenished
canteens. Then they sank down where they were, and fell instantly
asleep. The projecting root of a buckthorn stuck squarely into Charley's
ribs, but he did not know it; a column of marching ants, led by a
non-adaptable commander, climbed up and over the recumbent form of the
stranger, but he did not care.

They came to life in the shiver of gray dawn, wearied, stiffened, their
eyes swelled, their mouths dry.

"You're a sweet sight, stranger," observed Charley.

"Same to you and more of 'em," rejoined the other.

Charley arose painfully.

"There's a little water in my canteen yet," he proffered. "What might
you call yourself? I don't seem to know you in these parts."

"Thanks," replied the other. "My name's Cathcart; I'm from just above."

He drank, and lowered the canteen to look into the flaming, bloodshot
eyes of his companion.

"Are you the low-lived skunk that's running the Hydraulic Company?"
demanded Charley Gates.

The stranger laid down the canteen and scrambled painfully to his feet.

"I am employed by the Company," he replied, curtly, "but please to
understand I don't permit you to call me names."

"Permit!" sneered Charley.

"Permit," repeated Cathcart.

So, not having had enough exercise in the past two days, these young
game cocks went at each other. Charley was much the stronger
rough-and-tumble fighter; but Cathcart possessed some boxing skill.
Result was that, in their weakened condition, they speedily fought
themselves to a standstill without serious damage to either side.

"Now perhaps you'll tell me who the hell you think you are!" panted
Cathcart, fiercely.

At just beyond arm's length they discussed the situation, at first
belligerently with much recrimination, then more calmly, at last with a
modicum of mutual understanding. Neither seceded from his basic opinion.
Charley Gates maintained that the Company had no earthly business
ruining his property, but admitted that with all that good gold lying
there it was a pity not to get it out. Cathcart stoutly defended a man's
perfect right to do as he pleased with his own belongings, but conceded
that something really ought to be done about overflow waters.

"What are you doing down here fighting fire, anyway?" demanded Charley,
suddenly. "It couldn't hurt your property. You could turn the 'giants'
on it, if it ever came up your way."

"I don't know. I just thought I ought to help out a little," said
Cathcart, simply.

For three years more Charley ran his father's cattle in the hills. Then
he announced his intention of going away. John Gates was thunderstruck.
By now he was stranded high and dry above the tide, fitting perfectly
his surroundings. Vaguely he had felt that his son would stay with him
always. But the wave was again surging upward. Charley had talked with
Cathcart.

"This is no country to draw a salary in," the latter had told him, "nor
to play with farming or cows. It's too big, too new, there are too many
opportunities. I'll resign, and you leave; and we'll make our fortunes."

"How?" asked Charley.

"Timber," said Cathcart.

They conferred on this point. Cathcart had the experience of business
ways; Charley Gates the intimate knowledge of the country; there only
needed a third member to furnish some money. Charley broke the news to
his family, packed his few belongings, and the two of them went to San
Francisco.

Charley had never seen a big city. He was very funny about it, but not
overwhelmed. While willing, even avid, to go the rounds and meet the
sporting element, he declined to drink. When pressed and badgered by his
new acquaintances, he grinned amiably.

"I never play the other fellows' game," he said. "When it gets to be my
game, I'll join you."

The new partners had difficulty in getting even a hearing.

"It's a small business," said capitalists, "and will be. The demand for
lumber here is limited, and it is well taken care of by small concerns
near at hand."

"The state will grow and I am counting on the outside market," argued
Cathcart.

But this was too absurd! The forests of Michigan, Wisconsin, and
Minnesota were inexhaustible! As for the state growing to that extent;
of course we all believe it, but when it comes to investing good money
in the belief----

At length they came upon one of the new millionaires created by the
bonanzas of Virginia City.

"I don't know a damn thing about your timber, byes," said he, "but I
like your looks. I'll go in wid ye. Have a seegar; they cost me a dollar
apiece."

The sum invested was absurdly, inadequately small.

"It'll have to spread as thin as it can," said Cathcart.

They spent the entire season camping in the mountains. By the end of the
summer they knew what they wanted; and immediately took steps to acquire
it. Under the homestead laws each was entitled to but a small tract of
Government land. However, they hired men to exercise their privileges in
this respect, to take up each his allotted portion, and then to convey
his rights to Cathcart and Gates. It was slow business, for the show of
compliance with Government regulations had to be made. But in this
manner the sum of money at their disposal was indeed spread out very
thin.

For many years the small, nibbling lumbering operations their limited
capital permitted supplied only a little more than a bare living and the
taxes. But every available cent went back into the business. It grew.
Band saws replaced the old circulars; the new mills delivered their
product into flumes that carried it forty miles to the railroad. The
construction of this flume was a tremendous undertaking, but by now the
firm could borrow on its timber. To get the water necessary to keep the
flume in operation the partners--again by means of "dummies"--filed on
the water rights of certain streams. To take up the water directly was
without the law; but a show of mineral stain was held to justify a
"mineral claim," so patents were obtained under that ruling. Then
Charley had a bright idea.

"Look here, Cliff," he said to Cathcart. "I know something about
farming; I was brought up on a farm. This country will grow anything
anywhere if it has water. That lower country they call a desert, but
that's only because it hasn't any rainfall. We're going to have a lot of
water at the end of that flume----"

They bought the desert land at fifty cents an acre; scraped ditches and
checks; planted a model orchard, and went into the real estate business.
In time a community grew up. When hydro-electric power came into its own
Cathcart & Gates from their various water rights furnished light for
themselves, and gradually for the towns and villages round-about. Thus
their affairs spread and became complicated. Before they knew it they
were wealthy, very wealthy. Their wives--for in due course each had his
romance--began to talk of San Francisco.

All this had not come about easily. At first they had to fight tooth and
nail. The conditions of the times were crude, the code merciless. As
soon as the firm showed its head above the financial horizon, it was
swooped upon. Business was predatory. They had to fight for what they
got; had to fight harder to hold it. Cathcart was involved continually
in a maze of intricate banking transactions; Gates resisted aggression
within and without, often with his own two fists. They learned to trust
no man, but they learned also to hate no man. It was all part of the
game. More sensitive temperaments would have failed; these succeeded.
Cathcart became shrewd, incisive, direct, cold, a little hard; Charley
Gates was burly, hearty, a trifle bullying. Both were in all
circumstances quite unruffled; and in some circumstances ruthless.

About 1900 the entire holdings of the Company were capitalized, and a
stock company was formed. The actual management of the lumbering, the
conduct of the farms and ranches, the running of the hydro-electric
systems of light and transportation, were placed in the hands of active
young men. Charley Gates and his partner exercised over these activities
only the slightest supervision; auditing accounts, making an occasional
trip of inspection. Affairs would quite well have gone on without them;
though they would have disbelieved and resented that statement.

The great central offices in San Francisco were very busy--all but the
inner rooms where stood the partners' desks. One day Cathcart lit a
fresh cigar, and slowly wheeled his chair.

"Look here, Charley," he proposed, "we've got a big surplus. There's no
reason why we shouldn't make a killing on the side."

"As how?" asked Gates.

Cathcart outlined his plan. It was simply stock manipulation on a big
scale; although the naked import was somewhat obscured by the
complications of the scheme. After he had finished Gates smoked for some
time in silence.

"All right, Cliff," said he, "let's do it."

And so by a sentence, as his father before him, he marked the farthest
throw of the wave that had borne him blindly toward the shore. In the
next ten years Cathcart and Gates made forty million dollars. Charley
seemed to himself to be doing a tremendous business, but his real work,
his contribution to the episode in the life of the commonwealth, ceased
there. Again the wave receded.




CHAPTER III


The third generation of the Gates family consisted of two girls and a
boy. They were brought up as to their early childhood in what may be
called moderate circumstances. A small home near the little mill town, a
single Chinese servant, a setter dog, and plenty of horses formed their
entourage. When Charles, Jr., was eleven, and his sisters six and eight,
however, the family moved to a pretentious "mansion" on Nob Hill in San
Francisco. The environment of childhood became a memory: the reality of
life was comprised in the super-luxurious existence on Nob Hill.

It was not a particularly wise existence. Whims were too easily
realized, consequences too lightly avoided, discipline too capricious.
The children were sent to private schools where they met only their own
kind; they were specifically forbidden to mingle with the "hoodlums" in
the next street; they became accustomed to being sent here and there in
carriages with two servants, or later, in motor cars; they had always
spending money for the asking.

"I know what it is like to scrimp and save, and my children are going to
be spared that!" was Mrs. Gates's creed in the matter.

The little girls were always dressed alike in elaborately simple
clothes, with frilly, starched underpinnies, silk stockings, high boots
buttoned up slim legs; and across their shoulders, from beneath
wonderful lingerie hats, hung shining curls. The latter were not
natural, but had each day to be elaborately constructed. They made a
dainty and charming picture.

"Did you ever see anything so sweet in all your life!" was the
invariable feminine exclamation.

Clara and Ethel-May always heard these remarks. They conducted
themselves with the poise and _savoir faire_ of grown women. Before they
were twelve they could "handle" servants, conduct polite conversations
in a correctly artificial accent, and adapt their manners to another's
station in life.

Charley Junior's development was sharply divided into two periods, with
the second of which alone we have to do. The first, briefly, was
repressive. He was not allowed to play with certain boys, he was not
permitted to stray beyond certain bounds, he was kept clean and
dressed-up, he was taught his manners. In short, Mrs. Gates
tried--without knowing what she was doing--to use the same formula on
him as she had on Ethel-May and Clara.

In the second period, he was a grief to his family. Roughly speaking,
this period commenced about the time he began to be known as "Chuck"
instead of Charley.

There was no real harm in the boy. He was high spirited, full of life,
strong as a horse, and curious. Possessed of the patrician haughty good
looks we breed so easily from shirtsleeves, free with his money, known
as the son of his powerful father, a good boxer, knowing no fear, he
speedily became a familiar popular figure around town. It delighted him
to play the prince, either incognito or in person; to "blow off the
crowd," to battle joyously with longshoremen; to "rough house" the
semi-respectable restaurants. The Barbary Coast knew him, Taits,
Zinkands, the Poodle Dog, the Cliff House, Franks, and many other
resorts not to be spoken of so openly. He even got into the police
courts once or twice; and nonchalantly paid a fine, with a joke at the
judge and a tip to the policeman who had arrested him. There was too
much drinking, too much gambling, too loose a companionship, altogether
too much spending; but in this case the life was redeemed from its usual
significance by a fantastic spirit of play, a generosity of soul, a
regard for the unfortunate, a courtliness toward all the world, a
refusal to believe in meanness or sordidness or cruelty. Chuck Gates was
inbred with the spirit of _noblesse oblige_.

As soon as motor cars came in Chuck had the raciest possible. With it he
managed to frighten a good many people half out of their wits. He had no
accidents, partly because he was a very good heady driver, and partly
because those whom he encountered were quick witted. One day while
touring in the south he came down grade around a bend squarely upon a
car ascending. Chuck's car was going too fast to be stopped. He tried
desperately to wrench it from the road, but perceived at once that this
was impossible without a fatal skid. Fortunately the only turnout for a
half mile happened to be just at that spot. The other man managed to
jump his car out on this little side ledge and to jam on his brakes at
the very brink, just as Chuck flashed by. His mud guards slipped under
those at the rear of the other car.

"Close," observed Chuck to Joe Merrill his companion, "I was going a
little too fast," and thought no more of it.

But the other man, being angry, turned around and followed him into
town. At the garage he sought Chuck out.

"Didn't you pass me on the grade five miles back?" he inquired.

"I may have done so," replied Chuck, courteously.

"Don't you realize that you were going altogether too fast for a
mountain grade? that you were completely out of control?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to admit that that is so."

"Well," said the other man, with difficulty suppressing his anger. "What
do you suppose would have happened if I hadn't just been able to pull
out?"

"Why," replied Chuck, blandly, "I suppose I'd have had to pay heavily;
that's all."

"Pay!" cried the man, then checked himself with an effort, "so you
imagine you are privileged to the road, do whatever damage you
please--and _pay!_ I'll just take your number."

"That is unnecessary. My name is Charles Gates," replied Chuck, "of San
Francisco."

The man appeared never to have heard of this potent cognomen. A month
later the trial came off. It was most inconvenient. Chuck was in Oregon,
hunting. He had to travel many hundreds of miles, to pay an expensive
lawyer. In the end he was fined. The whole affair disgusted him, but he
went through with it well, testified without attempt at evasion. It was
a pity; but evidently the other man was no gentleman.

"I acknowledged I was wrong," he told Joe Merrill. He honestly felt that
this would have been sufficient had the cases been reversed. In answer
to a question as to whether he considered it fair to place the burden of
safety on the other man, he replied:

"Among motorists it is customary to exchange the courtesies of the
road--and sometimes the discourtesies," he added with a faint scorn.

The earthquake and fire of 1906 caught him in town. During three days
and nights he ran his car for the benefit of the sufferers; going
practically without food or sleep, exercising the utmost audacity and
ingenuity in getting supplies, running fearlessly many dangers.

For the rest he played polo well, shot excellently at the traps, was
good at tennis, golf, bridge. Naturally he belonged to the best clubs
both city and country. He sailed a yacht expertly, was a keen fisherman,
hunted. Also he played poker a good deal and was noted for his accurate
taste in dress.

His mother firmly believed that he caused her much sorrow; his sisters
looked up to him with a little awe; his father down on him with a
fiercely tolerant contempt.

For Chuck had had his turn in the offices. His mind was a good one; his
education both formal and informal, had trained it fairly well; yet he
could not quite make good. Energetic, ambitious, keen young men,
clambering upward from the ruck, gave him points at the game and then
beat him. It was humiliating to the old man. He could not see the
perfectly normal reason. These young men were striving keenly for what
they had never had. Chuck was asked merely to add to what he already had
more than enough of by means of a game that itself did not interest him.

Late one evening Chuck and some friends were dining at the Cliff House.
They had been cruising up toward Tomales Bay, and had had themselves put
ashore here. No one knew of their whereabouts. Thus it was that Chuck
first learned of his father's death from apoplexy in the scareheads of
an evening paper handed him by the majordomo. He read the article
through carefully, then went alone to the beach below. It had been the
usual sensational article; and but two sentences clung to Chuck's
memory: "This fortunate young man's income will actually amount to about
ten dollars a minute. What a significance have now his days--and
nights!"

He looked out to sea whence the waves, in ordered rank, cast themselves
on the shore, seethed upward along the sands, poised, and receded. His
thoughts were many, but they always returned to the same point. Ten
dollars a minute--roughly speaking, seven thousand a day! What would he
do with it? "What a significance have now his days--and nights!"

His best friend, Joe Merrill, came down the path to him, and stood
silently by his side.

"I'm sorry about your governor, old man," he ventured; and then, after a
long time:

"You're the richest man in the West."

Chuck Gates arose. A wave larger than the rest thundered and ran hissing
up to their feet.

"I wonder if the tide is coming in or going out," said Chuck, vaguely.




CLIMBING FOR GOATS




CHAPTER I


Near the point at which the great Continental Divide of the Rocky
Mountains crosses the Canadian border another range edges in toward it
from the south. Between these ranges lies a space of from twenty to
forty miles; and midway between them flows a clear, wonderful river
through dense forests. Into the river empty other, tributary, rivers
rising in the bleak and lofty fastnesses of the mountains to right and
left. Between them, in turn, run spur systems of mountains only a little
less lofty than the parent ranges. Thus the ground plan of the whole
country is a good deal like that of a leaf: the main stem representing
the big river, the lateral veins its affluents; the tiny veins its
torrents pouring from the sides of its mountains and glaciers; and the
edges of the leaf and all spaces standing for mountains rising very
sheer and abrupt from the floor of the densely forested stream valleys.
In this country of forty miles by five hundred, then, are hundreds of
distinct ranges, thousands of peaks, and innumerable valleys, pockets,
and "parks." A wilder, lonelier, grander country would be hard to find.
Save for the Forest Service and a handful of fur trappers, it is
uninhabited. Its streams abound in trout; its dense forests with elk
and white-tailed deer; its balder hills with blacktail deer; its upper
basins with grizzly bears; its higher country with sheep and that dizzy
climber the Rocky Mountain goat.

He who would enter this region descends at a little station on the Great
Northern, and thence proceeds by pack train at least four days,
preferably more, out into the wilderness. The going is through forests,
the tree trunks straight and very close together, so that he will see
very little of the open sky and less of the landscape. By way of
compensation the forest itself is remarkably beautiful. Its undergrowth,
though dense, is very low and even, not more than a foot or so off the
ground; and in the Hunting Moon the leaves of this undergrowth have
turned to purest yellow, without touch or trace of red, so that the
sombre forest is carpeted with gold. Here and there shows a birch or
aspen, also bright, pure light yellow, as though a brilliant sun were
striking down through painted windows. Groups of yellow-leafed larches
add to the splendour. And close to the ground grow little flat plants
decked out with red or blue or white wax berries, Christmas fashion.

In this green-and-gold room one journeys for days. Occasionally a chance
opening affords a momentary glimpse of hills or of the river sweeping
below; but not for long. It is a chilly room. The frost has hardened the
mud in the trail. One's feet and hands ache cruelly. At night camp is
made near the banks of the river, whence always one may in a few moments
catch as many trout as are needed, fine, big, fighting trout.

By the end of three or four days the prospect opens out. Tremendous
cliffs rise sheer from the bottom of the valley; up tributary cañons one
can see a dozen miles to distant snow ranges glittering and wonderful.
Nearer at hand the mountains rise above timber line to great buttes and
precipices.




CHAPTER II

THE FIRST CLIMB


Fisher, Frank, and I had been hunting for elk in the dense forests along
the foot of one of these mountains; and for a half day, drenched with
sweat, had toiled continuously up and down steep slopes, trying to go
quietly, trying to keep our wind, trying to pierce the secrets of the
leafy screen always about us. We were tired of it.

"Let's go to the top and look for goats," suggested Frank. "There are
some goat cliffs on the other side of her. It isn't very far."

It was not very far, as measured by the main ranges, but it was a two
hours' steady climb nearly straight up. We would toil doggedly for a
hundred feet, or until our wind gave out and our hearts began to pound
distressingly; then we would rest a moment. After doing this a few
hundred times we would venture a look upward, confidently expecting the
summit to be close at hand. It seemed as far as ever. We suffered a
dozen or so of these disappointments, and then learned not to look up.
This was only after we had risen above timber line to the smooth,
rounded rock-and-grass shoulder of the mountain. Then three times we
made what we thought was a last spurt, only to find ourselves on a
"false summit." After a while we grew resigned, we realized that we were
never going to get anywhere, but were to go on forever, without
ultimate purpose and without hope, pushing with tired legs, gasping with
inadequate lungs. When we had fully made up our minds to that, we
arrived. This is typical of all high-mountain climbing--the dogged,
hard, hopeless work that can never reach an accomplishment; and then at
last the sudden, unexpected culmination.

We topped a gently rounding summit; took several deep breaths into the
uttermost cells of our distressed lungs; walked forward a dozen
steps--and found ourselves looking over the sheer brink of a precipice.
So startlingly unforeseen was the swoop into blue space that I recoiled
hastily, feeling a little dizzy. Then I recovered and stepped forward
cautiously for another look. As with all sheer precipices, the lip on
which we stood seemed slightly to overhang, so that in order to see one
had apparently to crane away over, quite off balance. Only by the
strongest effort of the will is one able to rid oneself of the notion
that the centre of gravity is about to plunge one off head first into
blue space. For it was fairly blue space below our precipice. We could
see birds wheeling below us; and then below them again, very tiny, the
fall away of talus, and the tops of trees in the basin below. And
opposite, and all around, even down over the horizon, were other
majestic peaks, peers of our own, naked and rugged. From camp the great
forests had seemed to us the most important, most dominant, most
pervading feature of the wilderness. Now in the high sisterhood of the
peaks we saw they were as mantles that had been dropped about the feet.

Across the face of the cliff below us ran irregular tiny ledges;
buttresses ended in narrow peaks; "chimneys" ran down irregularly to the
talus. Here were supposed to dwell the goats.

We proceeded along the crest, spying eagerly. We saw tracks; but no
animals. By now it was four o'clock, and past time to turn campward. We
struck down the mountain on a diagonal that should take us home. For
some distance all went well enough. To be sure, it was very steep, and
we had to pay due attention to balance and sliding. Then a rock wall
barred our way. It was not a very large rock wall. We went below it.
After a hundred yards we struck another. By now the first had risen
until it towered far above us, a sheer, gray cliff behind which the sky
was very blue. We skirted the base of the second and lower cliff. It led
us to another; and to still another. Each of these we passed on the
talus beneath it; but with increasing difficulty, owing to the fact that
the wide ledges were pinching out. At last we found ourselves cut off
from farther progress. To our right rose tier after tier of great
cliffs, serenely and loftily unconscious of any little insects like
ourselves that might be puttering around their feet. Straight ahead the
ledge ceased to exist. To our left was a hundred-foot drop to the talus
that sloped down to the cañon. The cañon did not look so very far away,
and we desired mightily to reach it. The only alternative to getting
straight down was to climb back the weary way we had come; and that
meant all night without food, warm clothing, or shelter on a
snow-and-ice mountain.

Therefore, we scouted that hundred-foot drop to our left very
carefully. It seemed hopeless; but at last I found a place where a point
of the talus ran up to a level not much below our own. The only
difficulty was that between ourselves and that point of talus extended a
piece of sheer wall. I slung my rifle over my back, and gave myself to a
serious consideration of that wall. Then I began to work out across its
face.

The principle of safe climbing is to maintain always three points of
suspension: that it to say, one should keep either both footholds and
one handhold, or both handholds and one foothold. Failing that, one is
taking long chances. With this firmly in mind, I spidered out across the
wall, testing every projection and cranny before I trusted any weight to
it. One apparently solid projection as big as my head came away at the
first touch, and went bouncing off into space. Finally I stood, or
rather sprawled, almost within arm's length of a tiny scrub pine growing
solidly in a crevice just over the talus. Once there, our troubles were
over; but there seemed no way of crossing. For the moment it actually
looked as though four feet only would be sufficient to turn us back.

At last, however, I found a toehold half way across. It was a very
slight crevice, and not more than two inches deep. The toe of a boot
would just hold there without slipping. Unfortunately, there were no
handholds above it. After thinking the matter over, however, I made up
my mind to violate, for this occasion only, the rules for climbing. I
inserted the toe, gathered myself, and with one smooth swoop swung
myself across and grabbed that tiny pine!

Fisher now worked his way out and crossed in the same manner. But Frank
was too heavy for such gymnastics. Fisher therefore took a firm grip on
the pine, inserted his toe in the crevice, and hung on with all his
strength while Frank crossed on his shoulders!




CHAPTER III

THE SECOND AND THIRD CLIMBS


Once more, lured by the promise of the tracks we had seen, we climbed
this same mountain, but again without results. By now, you may be sure,
we had found an easier way home! This was a very hard day's work, but
uneventful.

Now, four days later, I crossed the river and set off above to explore
in the direction of the Continental Divide. Of course I had no intention
of climbing for goats, or, indeed, of hunting very hard for anything. My
object was an idle go-look-see. Equally, of course, after I had rammed
around most happily for a while up the wooded stream-bed of that cañon,
I turned sharp to the right and began to climb the slope of the spur,
running out at right angles to the main ranges that constituted one wall
of my cañon. It was fifteen hundred nearly perpendicular feet of hard
scrambling through windfalls. Then when I had gained the ridge, I
thought I might as well keep along it a little distance. And then,
naturally, I saw the main peaks not so _very_ far away; and was in for
it!

On either side of me the mountain dropped away abruptly. I walked on a
knife edge, steeply rising. Great cañons yawned close at either hand,
and over across were leagues of snow mountains.

In the cañon from which I had emerged a fine rain had been falling.
Here it had turned to wet sleet. As I mounted, the slush underfoot grew
firmer, froze, then changed to dry, powdery snow. This change was
interesting and beautiful, but rather uncomfortable, for my boots,
soaked through by the slush, now froze solid and scraped various patches
of skin from my feet. It was interesting, too, to trace the change in
bird life as the altitude increased. At snow line the species had
narrowed down to a few ravens, a Canada jay, a blue grouse or so,
nuthatches, and brown creepers. I saw one fresh elk track, innumerable
marten, and the pad of a very large grizzly.

The ridge mounted steadily. After I had gained to 2,300 feet above the
cañon I found that the ridge dipped to a saddle 600 feet lower. It
really grieved me to give up that hard-earned six hundred, and then to
buy it back again by another hard, slow, toilsome climb. Again I found
my way barred by some unsuspected cliffs about sixty feet in height.
Fortunately, they were well broken; and I worked my way to the top by
means of ledges.

Atop this the snow suddenly grew deeper and the ascent more precipitous.
I fairly wallowed along. The timber line fell below me. All animal life
disappeared. My only companions were now at spaced-out and mighty
intervals the big bare peaks that had lifted themselves mysteriously
from among their lesser neighbours, with which heretofore they had been
confused. In spite of very heavy exertions, I began to feel the cold; so
I unslung my rucksack and put on my buckskin shirt. The snow had become
very light and feathery. The high, still buttes and crags of the main
divide were right before me. Light fog wreaths drifted and eddied
slowly, now concealing, now revealing the solemn crags and buttresses.
Over everything--the rocks, the few stunted and twisted small trees, the
very surface of the snow itself--lay a heavy rime of frost. This rime
stood out in long, slender needles an inch to an inch and a half in
length, sparkling and fragile and beautiful. It seemed that a breath of
wind or even a loud sound would precipitate the glittering panoply to
ruin; but in all the really awesome silence and hushed breathlessness of
that strange upper world there was nothing to disturb them. The only
motion was that of the idly-drifting fog wreaths; the only sound was
that made by the singing of the blood in my ears! I felt as though I
were in a world holding its breath.

It was piercing cold. I ate a biscuit and a few prunes, tramping
energetically back and forth to keep warm. I could see in all directions
now: an infinity of bare peaks, with hardly a glimpse of forests or
streams or places where things might live. Goats are certainly either
fools or great poets.

After a half hour of fruitless examination of the cliffs I perforce had
to descend. The trip back was long. It had the added interest in that it
was bringing me nearer water. No thirst is quite so torturing as that
which afflicts one who climbs hard in cold, high altitudes. The throat
and mouth seem to shrivel and parch. Psychologically, it is even worse
than the desert thirst because in cold air it is unreasonable. Finally
it became so unendurable that I turned down from the spur-ridge long
before I should otherwise have done so, and did a good deal of extra
work merely to reach a little sooner the stream at the bottom of the
cañon. When I reached it, I found that here it flowed underground.




CHAPTER IV

OTHER CLIMBS


For ten days we hunted and fished. When the opportunity offered, we made
a goat-survey of a new place. Finally, as time grew short, we realized
that we must concentrate our energies in one effort if we were to get
specimens of this most desirable of all American big game. Therefore
Fisher, Frank, Harry, and I, leaving our other two companions and the
majority of the horses at the base camp, packed a few days' provisions
and started in for the highest peaks of all.

We journeyed up an unknown cañon eighteen miles long, heavily wooded in
the bottoms, with great mountains overhanging, and with a beautiful
clear trout stream singing down its bed. The first day we travelled ten
hours. One man was always in front cutting out windfalls or other
obstructions. I should be afraid to guess how many trees we chopped
through that day. Another man scouted ahead for the best route amid
difficulties. The other two performed the soul-destroying task of
getting the horses to follow the appointed way. After three o'clock we
began to hope for horse feed. At dark we reluctantly gave it up. The
forest remained unbroken. We had to tie the poor, unfed horses to trees,
while we ourselves searched diligently and with only partial success for
tiny spots level enough and clear enough for our beds. It was very cold
that night; and nobody was comfortable; the horses least of all.

Next morning we were out and away by daylight. If we could not find
horse feed inside of four hours, we would be forced to retreat. Three
hours of the four went by. Then Harry and I held the horses while our
companions scouted ahead rapidly. We nearly froze, for in that deep
valley the sun did not rise until nearly noon. Through an opening we
could see back to a tremendous sheer butte rising more than three
thousand feet[C] by a series of very narrow terraced ledges. We named it
the Citadel, so like was it to an ancient proud fortress.

Fisher reported first. He had climbed a tree, but had seen no feed. Ten
minutes later Frank returned. He had found the track of an ancient
avalanche close under the mountain, and in that track grew coarse
grasses. We pushed on, and there made camp.

It was a queer enough camp. Our beds we spread in the various little
spots among the roots and hummocks we imagined to look the most even.
The fire we had to build in quite another place. All around us the
lodge-pole pines, firs, and larches grew close and dark and damp. Only
to the west the snow ranges showed among the treetops like great,
looming white clouds.

For two days we lived high among the glaciers and snow crags, taking
tremendous tramps, seeing wonderful peaks, frozen lakes, sheer cliffs,
the tracks of grizzlies in numbers, the tiny sources of great streams,
and the infinity of upper spaces. But no goats; and no tracks of goats.
Little by little we eliminated the possibilities of the country
accessible to us. Leagues in all directions, as far as the eye could
reach, was plenty of other country, all equally good for goats; but it
was not within reach of us from this cañon; and our time was up.
Finally, we dropped back and made camp at the last feed; a mile or so
below the Citadel. Two ranges at right angles here converged, and the
Citadel rose like a tower at the corner. Here was our last chance.




CHAPTER V

GOATS


As we were finishing breakfast my eye was attracted to a snow speck on
the mountainside some two thousand feet above us and slightly westward
that somehow looked to me different from other snow specks. For nearly a
minute I stared at it through my glasses. At last the speck moved. The
game was in sight!

We drew straws for the shot, and Fisher won. Then we began our climb. It
was the same old story of pumping lungs and pounding hearts; but with
the incentive before us we made excellent time. A shallow ravine and a
fringe of woods afforded us the cover we needed. At the end of an hour
and a half we crawled out of our ravine and to the edge of the trees.
There across a steep cañon and perhaps four hundred yards away were the
goats, two of them, lying on the edge of small cliffs. We could see them
very plainly, but they were too far for a sure shot. After examining
them to our satisfaction we wormed our way back.

"The only sure way," I insisted, "is to climb clear to the top of the
ridge, go along it on the other side until we are above and beyond the
goats, and then to stalk them down hill."

That meant a lot more hard work; but in the end the plan was adopted.
We resumed our interminable and toilsome climbing.

The ridge proved to be of the knife-edge variety, and covered with snow.
From a deep, wide, walled-in basin on the other side rose the howling of
two brush wolves. We descended a few feet to gain safe concealment;
walked as rapidly as possible to the point above the goats; and then
with the utmost caution began our descent.

In the last two hundred yards is the essence of big-game stalking. The
hunter must move noiselessly, he must keep concealed; he must determine
_at each step_ just what the effect of that step has been in the matters
of noise and of altering the point of view. It is necessary to spy
sharply, not only from the normal elevation of a man's shoulders, but
also stooping to the waist line, and even down to the knees. An animal
is just as suspicious of legs as of heads; and much more likely to see
them.

The shoulder of the mountain here consisted of a series of steep grass
curves ending in short cliff jump-offs. Scattered and stunted trees and
tree groups grew here and there. In thirty minutes we had made our
distance and recognized the fact that our goats must be lying at the
base of the next ledge. Motioning Harry to the left and Fisher to the
front, I myself moved to the right to cut off the game should it run in
that direction. Ten seconds later I heard Fisher shoot; then Harry
opened up; and in a moment a goat ran across the ledge fifty yards below
me. With a thrill of the greatest satisfaction I dropped the gold bead
of my front sight on his shoulder!

The bullet knocked him off the edge of the cliff. He fell, struck the
steep grass slope, and began to roll. Over and over and over he went,
gathering speed like a snowball, getting smaller and smaller until he
disappeared in the brush far below, a tiny spot of white.

No one can appreciate the feeling of relaxed relief that filled me. Hard
and dangerous climbs, killing work, considerable hardship and discomfort
had at length their reward. I could now take a rest. The day was young,
and I contemplated with something like rapture a return to camp, and a
good puttery day skinning out that goat. In addition I was suffering now
from a splitting headache, the effects of incipient snow-blindness, and
was generally pretty wobbly.

And then my eye wandered to the left, whence that goat had come. I saw a
large splash of blood; at a spot _before_ I had fired! It was too
evident that the goat had already been wounded by Fisher; and therefore,
by hunter's law, belonged to him!

I set my teeth and turned up the mountain to regain the descent we had
just made. At the knife-edge top I stopped for a moment to get my breath
and to survey the country. Diagonally across the basin where the wolves
were howling, half way down the ridge running at right angles to my own,
I made out two goats. They were two miles away from me on an air line.
My course was obvious. I must proceed along my ridge to the Citadel,
keeping always out of sight; surmount that fortress; descend to the
second ridge; walk along the other side of it until I was above those
goats, and then sneak down on them.

I accomplished the first two stages of my journey all right, though
with considerably more difficulty in spots than I should have
anticipated. The knife edge was so sharp and the sides so treacherous
that at times it was almost impossible to travel anywhere but right on
top. This would not do. By a little planning, however, I managed to
reach the central "keep" of the Citadel: a high, bleak, broken pile,
flat on top, with snow in all the crevices, and small cliffs on all
sides. From this advantage I could cautiously spy out the lay of the
land.

Below me fifty feet dipped the second ridge, running nearly at right
angles. It sloped abruptly to the wolf basin, but fell sheer on the
other side to depths I could not at that time guess.[D] A very few
scattered, stunted, and twisted trees huddled close down to the rock and
snow. This saddle was about fifty feet in width and perhaps five hundred
yards in length. It ended in another craggy butte very much like the
Citadel.

My first glance determined that my original plan would not do. The goats
had climbed from where I had first seen them, and were now leisurely
topping the saddle. To attempt to descend would be to reveal myself. I
was forced to huddle just where I was. My hope was that the goats would
wander along the saddle toward me, and not climb the other butte
opposite. Also I wanted them to hurry, please, as the snow in which I
sat was cold, and the wind piercing.

This apparently they were not inclined to do. They paused, they nibbled
at some scanty moss, they gazed at the scenery, they scratched their
ears. I shifted my position cautiously--and saw below me,[E] lying on
the snow at the very edge of the cliff, a tremendous billy! He had been
there all the time; and I had been looking over him!

At the crack of the Springfield he lurched forward and toppled slowly
out of sight over the edge of the cliff. The two I had been stalking
instantly disappeared. But on the very top of the butte opposite
appeared another. It was a very long shot,[F] but I had to take chances,
for I could not tell whether or not the one I had just shot was
accessible or not. On a guess I held six inches over his back. The goat
gave one leap forward into space. For twenty feet he fell spread-eagled
and right side up as though flying. Then he began to turn and whirl. As
far as my personal testimony could go, he is falling yet through that
dizzy blue abyss.

"Good-bye, billy," said I, sadly. It looked then as though I had lost
both.

I worked my way down the face of the Citadel until I was just above the
steep snow fields. Here was a drop of six feet. If the snow was soft,
all right. If it was frozen underneath, I would be very likely to
toboggan off into space. I pried loose a small rock and dropped it,
watching with great interest how it lit. It sunk with a dull plunk.
Therefore I made my leap, and found myself waist deep in feathery snow.

With what anxiety I peered over the edge of that precipice the reader
can guess. Thirty feet below was a four-foot ledge. On the edge of that
ledge grew two stunted pines about three feet in height--and only two.
Against those pines my goat had lodged! In my exultation I straightened
up and uttered a whoop. To my surprise it was answered from behind me.
Frank had followed my trail. He had killed a nanny and was carrying the
head. Everybody had goats!

After a great deal of man[oe]uvring we worked our way down to the ledge
by means of a crevice and a ten-foot pole. Then we tied the goat to the
little trees, and set to work. I held Frank while he skinned; and then
he held me while I skinned. It was very awkward. The tiny landscape
almost directly beneath us was blue with the atmosphere of distance. A
solitary raven discovered us, and began to circle and croak and flop.

"You'll get your meal later," we told him.

Far below us, like suspended leaves swirling in a wind, a dense flock of
snowbirds fluttered.

We got on well enough until it became necessary to sever the backbone.
Then, try as we would, we could not in the general awkwardness reach a
joint with a knife. At last we had a bright idea. I held the head back
while Frank shot the vertebrae in two with his rifle!

Then we loosed the cords that held the body. It fell six hundred feet,
hit a ledge, bounded out, and so disappeared toward the hazy blue map
below. The raven folded his wings and dropped like a plummet, with a
strange rushing sound. We watched him until the increasing speed of his
swoop turned us a little dizzy, and we drew back. When we looked a
moment later he had disappeared into the distance--straight down!

Now we had to win our way out. The trophy we tied with a rope. I
climbed up the pole, and along the crevice as far as the rope would let
me, hauled up the trophy, jammed my feet and back against both sides of
the "chimney." Frank then clambered past me; and so repeat.

But once in the saddle we found we could not return the way we had come.
The drop-off into the feather snow settled that. A short reconnaissance
made it very evident that we would have to go completely around the
outside of the Citadel, at the level of the saddle, until we had gained
the other ridge. This meant about three quarters of a mile against the
tremendous cliff.

We found a ledge and started. Our packs weighed about sixty pounds
apiece, and we were forced to carry them rather high. The ledge proved
to be from six to ten feet wide, with a gentle slope outward. We could
not afford the false steps, nor the little slips, nor the overbalancings
so unimportant on level ground. Progress was slow and cautious. We could
not but remember the heart-stopping drop of that goat after we had cut
the rope; and the swoop of the raven. Especially at the corners did we
hug close to the wall, for the wind there snatched at us eagerly.

The ledge held out bravely. It had to; for there was no possible way to
get up or down from it. We rounded the shoulder of the pile. Below us
now was another landscape into which to fall--the valley of the stream,
with its forests and its high cliffs over the way. But already we could
see our ridge. Another quarter mile would land us in safety.

Without warning the ledge pinched out. A narrow tongue of shale, on so
steep a slope that it barely clung to the mountain, ran twenty feet to a
precipice. A touch sent its surface rattling merrily down and into
space. It was only about eight feet across; and then the ledge began
again.

We eyed it. Three steps would take us across. Alternative: return along
the ledge to attack the problem _ab initio_.

"That shale is going to start," said Frank. "If you stop, she'll sure
carry you over the ledge. But if you keep right on going, _fast_, I
believe your weight will carry you through."

We readjusted our packs so they could not slip and overbalance us; we
measured and re-measured with our eyes just where those steps would
fall; we took a deep breath--and we _hustled_. Behind us the fine shale
slid sullenly in a miniature avalanche that cascaded over the edge. Our
"weight had carried us through!"

In camp, we found that Harry's shooting had landed a kid, so that we had
a goat apiece.

We rejoined the main camp next day just ahead of a big snowstorm that
must have made travel all but impossible. Then for five days we rode
out, in snow, sleet, and hail. But we were entirely happy, and
indifferent to what the weather could do to us now.




MOISTURE, A TRACE


Last fall I revisited Arizona for the first time in many years. My
ultimate destination lay one hundred and twenty-eight miles south of the
railroad. As I stepped off the Pullman I drew deep the crisp, thin air;
I looked across immeasurable distance to tiny, brittle, gilded buttes; I
glanced up and down a ramshackle row of wooden buildings with crazy
wooden awnings, and I sighed contentedly. Same good old Arizona.

The Overland pulled out, flirting its tail at me contemptuously. A
small, battered-looking car, grayed and caked with white alkali dust,
glided alongside, and from under its swaying and disreputable top
emerged someone I knew. Not individually. But by many campfires of the
past I had foregathered with him and his kind. Same old Arizona, I
repeated to myself.

This person bore down upon me and gently extracted my bag from my grasp.
He stood about six feet three; his face was long and brown and grave;
his figure was spare and strong. Atop his head he wore the sacred
Arizona high-crowned hat, around his neck a bright bandana; no coat, but
an unbuttoned vest; skinny trousers, and boots. Save for lack of spurs
and _chaps_ and revolver he might have been a moving-picture cowboy.
The spurs alone were lacking from the picture of a real one.

He deposited my bag in the tonneau, urged me into a front seat, and
crowded himself behind the wheel. The effect was that of a grown-up in a
go-cart. This particular brand of tin car had not been built for this
particular size of man. His knees were hunched up either side the
steering column; his huge, strong brown hands grasped most competently
that toy-like wheel. The peak of his sombrero missed the wrinkled top
only because he sat on his spine. I reflected that he must have been
drafted into this job, and I admired his courage in undertaking to
double up like that even for a short journey.

"Roads good?" I asked the usual question as I slammed shut the door.

"Fair, suh," he replied, soberly.

"What time should we get in?" I inquired.

"Long 'bout six o'clock, suh," he informed me.

It was then eight in the morning--one hundred and twenty-eight
miles--ten hours--roads good, eh?--hum.

He touched the starter. The motor exploded with a bang. We moved.

I looked her over. On the running board were strapped two big galvanized
tanks of water. It was almost distressingly evident that the muffler had
either been lost or thrown away. But she was hitting on all four. I
glanced at the speedometer dial. It registered the astonishing total of
29,250 miles.

We swung out the end of the main street and sailed down a road that
vanished in the endless gentle slope of a "sink." Beyond the sink the
bank rose again, gently, to gain the height of the eyes at some _mesas_.
Well I know that sort of country. One journeyed for the whole day, and
the _mesas_ stayed where they were; and in between were successively
vast stretches of mesquite, or alkali, or lava outcrops, or _sacatone_
bottoms, each seeming, while one was in it, to fill all the world
forever, without end; and the day's changes were of mirage and the
shifting colours of distant hills.

It was soon evident that my friend's ideas of driving probably coincided
with his ideas of going up a mountain. When a mounted cowboy climbs a
hill he does not believe in fussing with such nonsense as grades; he
goes straight up. Similarly, this man evidently considered that, as
roads were made for travel and distance for annihilation, one should
turn on full speed and get there. Not one hair's breadth did he deign to
swerve for chuck-hole or stone; not one fractional mile per hour did he
check for gully or ditch. We struck them head-on, bang! did they happen
in our way. Then my head hit the disreputable top. In the mysterious
fashion of those who drive freight wagons my companion remained
imperturbably glued to his seat. I had neither breath nor leisure for
the country or conversation.

Thus one half hour. The speedometer dial showed the figures 29,260. I
allowed myself to think of a possible late lunch at my friend's ranch.

We slowed down. The driver advanced the hand throttle the full sweep of
the quadrant, steered with his knees, and produced the "makings." The
faithful little motor continued to hit on all four, but in slow and
painful succession, each explosion sounding like a pistol shot. We had
passed already the lowest point of the "sink," and were climbing the
slope on the other side. The country, as usual, looked perfectly level,
but the motor knew different.

"I like to hear her shoot," said the driver, after his first cigarette.
"That's why I chucked the muffler. Its plumb lonesome out yere all by
yourself. A hoss is different."

"Who you riding for?"

"Me? I'm riding for me. This outfit is mine."

It didn't sound reasonable; but that's what I heard.

"You mean you drive this car--as a living----"

"Correct."

"I should think you'd get cramped!" I burst out.

"Me? I'm used to it. I bet I ain't missed three days since I got
her--and that's about a year ago."

He answered my questions briefly, volunteering nothing. He had never had
any trouble with the car; he had never broken a spring; he'd overhauled
her once or twice; he averaged sixteen actual miles to the gallon. If I
were to name the car I should have to write advt. after this article to
keep within the law. I resolved to get one. We chugged persistently
along on high gear; though I believe second would have been better.

Presently we stopped and gave her a drink. She was boiling like a little
tea kettle, and she was pretty thirsty.

"They all do it," said Bill. Of course his name was Bill. "Especially
the big he-ones. High altitude. Going slow with your throttle wide open.
You're all right if you got plenty water. If not, why then ketch a cow
and use the milk. Only go slow or you'll git all clogged up with
butter."

We clambered aboard and proceeded. That distant dreamful _mesa_ had
drawn very near. It was scandalous. The aloof desert whose terror, whose
beauty, whose wonder, whose allure was the awe of infinite space that
could be traversed only in toil and humbleness, had been contracted by a
thing that now said 29,265.

"At this rate we'll get there before six o'clock," I remarked,
hopefully.

"Oh, this is County Highway!" said Bill.

As we crawled along, still on high gear--that tin car certainly pulled
strongly--a horseman emerged from a fold in the hills. He was riding a
sweat-covered, mettlesome black with a rolling eye. His own eye was
bitter, and likewise the other features of his face. After trying in
vain to get the frantic animal within twenty feet of our _mitrailleuse,_
he gave it up.

"Got anything for me?" he shrieked at Bill.

Bill leisurely turned off the switch, draped his long legs over the side
of the car, and produced his makings.

"Nothing, Jim. Expaicting of anything?"

"Sent for a new grass rope. How's feed down Mogallon way?"

"Fair. That a bronco you're riding?"

"Just backed him three days ago."

"Amount to anything?"

"That," said Jim, with an extraordinary bitterness, "is already a gaited
hoss. He has fo' gaits now."

"Four gaits," repeated Bill, incredulously. "I'm in the stink wagon
business. I ain't aiming to buy no hosses. What four gaits you claim
he's got?"

"Start, stumble, fall down _and_ git up," said Jim.

Shortly after this joyous _rencontre_ we topped the rise, and, looking
back, could realize the grade we had been ascending.

The road led white and straight as an arrow to dwindle in perspective to
a mere thread. The little car leaped forward on the invisible down
grade. Again I anchored myself to one of the top supports. A long, rangy
fowl happened into the road just ahead of us, but immediately flopped
clumsily, half afoot, half a-wing, to one side in the brush, like a
stampeded hen.

"Road runner," said Bill, with a short laugh. "Remember how they used to
rack along in front of a hoss for miles, keeping just ahead, lettin' out
a link when you spurred up? Aggravatin' fowl! They got over tryin' to
keep ahead of gasoline."

In the white alkaline road lay one lone, pyramidal rock. It was about
the size of one's two fists and all its edges and corners were sharp.
Probably twenty miles of clear space lay on either flank of that rock.
Nevertheless, our right front wheel hit it square in the middle. The car
leaped straight up, the rock popped sidewise, and the tire went off with
a mighty bang. Bill put on the brakes, deliberately uncoiled himself,
and descended.

"Seems like tires don't last no time at all in this country," he
remarked, sadly. He walked around the car and began to examine the four
wrecks he carried as spares. After some inspection of their respective
merits, he selected one. "I just somehow kain't git over the notion she
ought to sidestep them little rocks and holes of her own accord," he
exclaimed. "A hoss is a plumb, narrow-minded critter, but he knows
enough for that."

While he changed the tire--which incidentally involved patching one of
half a dozen over-worn tubes--I looked her over more in detail. The
customary frame, strut rods, and torsion rods had been supplemented by
the most extraordinary criss-cross of angle-iron braces it has ever been
my fortune to behold. They ran from anywhere to everywhere beneath that
car. I began to comprehend her cohesiveness.

"Jim Coles, blacksmith at the O T, puts them braces in all our cars,"
explained Bill. "He's got her down to a system."

The repair finished and the radiator refilled we resumed the journey. It
was now just eleven o'clock. The odometer reading was 29,276. The
temperature was well up toward 100 degrees. But beneath the disreputable
top, and while in motion, the heat was not noticeable. Nevertheless, the
brief stop had brought back poignantly certain old days--choking dust,
thirst, the heat of a heavy sun, the long day that led one nowhere----

The noon mirages were taking shape, throwing stately and slow their vast
illusions across the horizon. Lakes glimmered; distant ranges took on
the forms of phantasm, rising higher, flattening, reaching across space
the arches of their spans, rendering unreal a world of beauty and dread.
That in the old days was the deliberate fashion the desert had of
searing men's souls with her majesty. Slowly, slowly, the changes
melted one into the other; massively, deliberately the face of the world
was altered; so that at last the poor plodding human being, hot, dry,
blinded, thirsty, felt himself a nothing in the presence of eternities.
Well I knew that old spell of the desert. But now! Honestly, after a few
minutes I began to feel sorry for the poor old desert! Its spells didn't
work for the simple reason that _we didn't give it time!_ We charged
down on its phantom lakes and disproved them and forgot them. We broke
right in on the dignified and deliberate scene shifting of mountains and
_mesas_, showed them up for the brittle, dry hills they were, and left
them behind. It was pitiful! It was as though a revered tragedian should
overnight find that his vogue had departed; that he was no longer
getting over; that an irreverent upstart, breaking in on his most
sonorous periods, was getting laughs with slang. We had lots of water;
the dust we left behind; it wasn't even hot in the wind of our going!

In the shallow crease of hills a shimmer of white soon changed to
evident houses. We drew into a straggling desert town.

It was typical--thirty miles from the railroad, a distributing point for
the cattle country. Four broad buildings with peeled, sunburned faces, a
wooden house or so, and a dozen flat-roofed adobe huts hung pleasingly
with long strips of red peppers. Of course one of the wooden buildings
was labelled General Store; and another, smaller, contained a barber
shop and postoffice combined. The third was barred and unoccupied. The
fourth had been a livery stable but was now a garage. Six saddle horses
and six Fords stood outside the General Store, which was a fair
division.

Bill slowed down.

"Have a drink," I observed, hospitably.

"Arizona's a dry state," Bill reminded me; but nevertheless stopped and
uncoiled. That unbelievable phenomenon had escaped my memory. In the old
days I used to shut my eyes and project my soul into what I imagined was
the future. I saw Arizona, embottled, dying in the last-wet ditch, while
all the rest of the world, even including Milwaukee, bore down on her
carrying the banners of Prohibition. So much for prophecy. I voiced a
thought.

"There must be an awful lot of old timers died this spring. You can't
cut them off short and hope to save them."

Bill grunted.

We entered the store. It smelled good, as such stores always do--soap,
leather, ground coffee, bacon, cheese--all sorts of things. On the right
ran a counter and shelves of dry goods and clothing; on the left
groceries, cigars, and provisions generally. Down the middle saddles,
ropes, spurs, pack outfits, harness, hardware. In the rear a glass
cubby-hole with a desk inside. All that was customary, right and proper.
But I noticed also a glass case with spark plugs and accessories; a rack
full of tires; and a barrel of lubricating oil. I did not notice any
body polish. By the front door stood a paper-basket whose purport I
understood not at all.

Bill led me at once past two or three lounging cow persons to the
cubbyhole, where arose a typical old timer.

"Mr. White, meet Mr. Billings," he said.

The old timer grasped me firmly by the right hand and held tight while
he demanded, as usual, "What name?" We informed him together. He allowed
he was pleased. I allowed the same.

"I want to buy a yard of calico," said Bill.

The old timer reached beneath the counter and produced a strip of cloth.
It was already cut, and looked to be about a yard long. Also it showed
the marks of loving but brutal and soiled hands.

"Wrap it up?" inquired Mr. Billings.

"Nope," said Bill, and handed out three silver dollars. Evidently calico
was high in these parts. We turned away.

"By the way, Bill," Mr. Billings called after us, "I got a little
present here for you. Some friends sent her in to me the other day. Let
me know what you think of it."

We turned. Mr. Billings held in his hand a sealed quart bottle with a
familiar and famous label.

"Why, that's kind of you," said Bill, gravely. He took the proffered
bottle, turned it upside down, glanced at the bottom, and handed it
back. "But I don't believe I'd wish for none of that particular breed.
It never did agree with my stummick."

Without a flicker of the eye the storekeeper produced a second sealed
bottle, identical in appearance and label with the first.

"Try it," he urged. "Here's one from a different case. Some of these
yere vintages is better than others."

"So I've noticed," replied Bill, dryly. He glanced at the bottom and
slipped it into his pocket.

We went out. As we passed the door Bill, unobserved, dropped into the
heretofore unexplained waste-basket the yard of calico he had just
purchased.

"Don't believe I like the pattern for my boudoir," he told me, gravely.

We clambered aboard and shot our derisive exhaust at the diminishing
town.

"Thought Arizona was a dry state," I suggested.

"She is. You cain't sell a drop. But you can keep stuff for personal
use. There ain't nothing more personal than givin' it away to your
friends."

"The price of calico is high down here."

"And goin' up," agreed Bill, gloomily. He drove ten miles in silence
while I, knowing my type, waited.

"That old Billings ought to be drug out and buried," he remarked at
last. "We rode together on the Chiracahua range. He ought to know better
than to try to put it onto me."

"???" said I.

"You saw that first bottle? Just plain forty-rod dog poison--and me
payin' three good round dollars!"

"For calico," I reminded.

"Shore. That's why he done it. He had me--if I hadn't called him."

"But that first bottle was identically the same as the one you have in
your pocket," I stated.

"Shore?"

"Why, yes--at least--that is, the bottle and label were the same, and I
particularly noticed the cork seal looked intact."

"It was," agreed Bill. "That cap hasn't never been disturbed. You're
right."

"Then what objection----"

"It's one of them wonders of modern science that spoils the simple life
next to Nature's heart," said Bill, unexpectedly. "You hitch a big
hollow needle onto an electric light current. When she gets hot enough
you punch a hole with her in the bottom of the bottle. Then you throw
the switch and let the needle cool off. When she's cool you pour out the
real thing for your own use--mebbe. Then you stick in your
forty-cent-a-gallon squirrel poison. Heat up your needle again. Draw her
out very slow so the glass will close up behind her. Simple, neat,
effective, honest enough for down here. Cork still there, seal still
there, label still there. Bottle still there, except for a little bit of
a wart-lookin' bubble in the bottom."

It was now in the noon hour. Knowing cowboys of old I expected no lunch.
We racketed along, and our dust tried to catch us, and sleepy,
accustomed jack rabbits made two perfunctory hops as we turned on them
the battery of our exhaust.

We dipped down into a carved bottomland, several miles wide, filled with
minarets, peaks, vermilion towers, and strange striped labyrinths of
many colours above which the sky showed an unbelievable blue. The trunks
of colossal trees lay about in numbers. Apparently they had all been
cross-cut in sections like those sawed for shake bolts, for each was
many times clearly divided. The sections, however, lay all in place; so
the trunks of the trees were as they had fallen. About the ground were
scattered fragments of rock of all sizes, like lava, but of all the
colours of the giddiest parrots. The tiniest piece had at least all the
tints of the spectrum; and the biggest seemed to go the littlest several
better. They looked to me like beautiful jewels. Bill cast at them a
contemptuous glance.

"Every towerist I take in yere makes me stop while he sags down the car
with this junk," he said. Whenever I say "Bill said" or "I said," I
imply that we shrieked, for always through that great, still country we
hustled enveloped in a profanity of explosions, creaks, rattles, and
hums. Just now though, on a level, we travelled at a low gear.
"Petrified wood," Bill added.

I swallowed guiltily the request I was about to proffer.

The malpais defined itself. We came to a wide, dry wash filled with
white sand. Bill brought the little car to a stop.

Well I know that sort of sand! You plunge rashly into it on low gear;
you buzz bravely for possibly fifty feet; you slow down, slow down; your
driving wheels begin to spin--that finishes you. Every revolution digs a
deeper hole. It is useless to apply power. If you are wise you throw out
your clutch the instant she stalls, and thus save digging yourself in
unnecessarily. But if you are really wise you don't get in that fix at
all. The next stage is that wherein you thrust beneath the hind wheels
certain expedients such as robes, coats, and so forth. The wheels, when
set in motion, hurl these trivialities yards to the rear. The car then
settles down with a shrug. About the time the axle is actually resting
on the sand you proceed to serious digging, cutting brush, and laying
causeways. Some sand you can get out of by these methods, but not dry,
stream-bed sand in the Southwest. Finally you reach; the state of true
wisdom. Either you sit peacefully in the tonneau and smoke until someone
comes along; or, if you are doubtful of that miracle, you walk to the
nearest team and rope. And never, never, never are you caught again! A
détour of fifty miles is nothing after that!

While Bill manipulated the makings, I examined the prospects. This was
that kind of a wash; no doubt of it!

"How far is the nearest crossing?" I asked, returning.

"About eight feet," said he.

My mind, panic-stricken, flew to several things--that bottle (I regret
that I failed to record that by test its contents had proved genuine),
the cornered rock we had so blithely charged, other evidences of Bill's
casual nature. My heart sank.

"You ain't going to tackle that wash!" I cried.

"I shore am," said Bill.

I examined Bill. He meant it.

"How far to the nearest ranch?"

"'Bout ten mile."

I went and sat on a rock. It was one of those rainbow remnants of a
bygone past; but my interest in curios had waned.

Bill dove into the grimy mysteries of under the back seat and produced
two blocks of wood six or eight inches square and two strong straps with
buckles. He inserted a block between the frame of the car and the rear
axle; then he ran a strap around the rear spring and cinched on it until
the car body, the block, and the axle made one solid mass. In other
words, the spring action was entirely eliminated. He did the same thing
on the other side.

"Climb in," said he.

We went into low and slid down the steep clay bank into the waiting
sand. To me it was like a plunge into ice water. Bill stepped on her. We
ploughed out into trouble. The steering wheel bucked and jerked vainly
against Bill's huge hands; we swayed like a moving-picture comic; but we
forged steadily ahead. Not once did we falter. Our wheels gripped
continuously. When we pulled out on the other bank I exhaled as though
I, too, had lost my muffler. I believe I had held my breath the whole
way across. Bill removed the blocks and gave her more water. Still in
low we climbed out of the malpais.

It was now after two o'clock. We registered 29,328. I was getting humble
minded. Six o'clock looked good enough to me now.

One thing was greatly encouraging. As we rose again to the main level of
the country I recognized over the horizon a certain humped mountain.
Often in the "good old days" I had approached this mountain from the
south. Beneath its flanks lay my friend's ranch, our destination. Five
hours earlier in my experience its distance would have appalled me; but
my standards had changed. Nevertheless, it seemed far enough away. I was
getting physically tired. There is a heap of exercise in many
occupations, such as digging sewers and chopping wood and shopping with
a woman; but driving in small Arizona motor cars need give none of these
occupations any odds. And of late years I have been accustoming myself
to three meals a day.

For this reason there seems no excuse for detailing the next three
hours. From three o'clock until sunset the mirages slowly fade away into
the many-tinted veils of evening. I know that because I've seen it; but
never would I know it whilst an inmate of a gasoline madhouse. We
carried our own egg-shaped aura constantly with us, on the invisible
walls of which the subtle and austere influences of the desert beat in
vain. That aura was composed of speed, bumps, dust, profane noise, and
an extreme and exotic busyness. It might be that in a docile, tame,
expensive automobile, garnished with a sane and biddable driver, one
might see the desert as it is. I don't know whether such a combination
exists. But me--I couldn't get into the Officers' Training Camp because
of my advanced years: I may be an old fogy, but I cherish a sneaking
idea that perhaps you have to buy some of these things at the cost of
the aforementioned thirst, heat, weariness, and the slow passing of long
days. Still, an Assyrian brick in the British Museum is inscribed by a
father to his son away at school with a lament over the passing of the
"good old days!"

At any rate, we drew into Spring Creek at five o'clock, shooting at
every jump. My friend's ranch was only six miles farther. This was home
for Bill, and we were soon surrounded by many acquaintances. He had
letters and packages for many of them; and detailed many items of local
news. To us shortly came a cowboy who had evidently bought all the
calico he could carry. This person was also long and lean and brown;
hard bitten; bedecked with worn brown leather _chaps_, and wearing a
gun. The latter he unbuckled and cast from him with great scorn.

"And I don't need no gun to do it, neither!" he stated, as though
concluding a long conversation.

"Shore not, Slim," agreed one of the group, promptly annexing the
artillery. "What is it?"

"Kill that ---- ---- ---- Beck," said Slim, owlishly. "I can do it; and
I can do it with my bare hands, b' God!"

He walked sturdily enough in the direction of the General Store across
the dusty square. No one paid any further attention to his movements.
The man who had picked up the gun belt buckled it around his own waist.
Bill refilled the ever-thirsty radiator, peered at his gasoline gauge,
leisurely turned down a few grease cups. Ten minutes passed. We were
about ready to start.

Back across the square drifted a strange figure. With difficulty we
recognized it as the erstwhile Slim. He had no hat. His hair stuck out
in all directions. One eye was puffing shut, blood oozed from a cut in
his forehead and dripped from his damaged nose. One shirt sleeve had
been half torn from its parent at the shoulder. But, most curious of
all, Slim's face was evenly marked by a perpendicular series of long,
red scratches as though he had been dragged from stem to stern along a
particularly abrasive gravel walk. Slim seemed quite calm.

His approach was made in a somewhat strained silence. At length there
spoke a dry, sardonic voice.

"Well," said it, "did you kill Beck?"

"Naw!" replied Slim's remains disgustedly, "the son of a gun wouldn't
fight!"

We reached my friend's ranch just about dusk. He met me at the yard
gate.

"Well!" he said, heartily. "I'm glad you're here! Not much like the old
days, is it?"

I agreed with him.

"Journey out is dull and uninteresting now. But compared to the way we
used to do it, it is a cinch. Just sit still and roll along."

I disagreed with him--mentally.

"The old order has changed," said he.

"Yes," I agreed, "now it's one yard of calico."




THE RANCH




CHAPTER I

THE NEW AND THE OLD


The old ranching days of California are to all intents and purposes past
and gone. To be sure there remain many large tracts supporting a single
group of ranch buildings, and over which the cattle wander "on a
thousand hills." There are even a few, a very few--like the ranch of
which I am going to write--that are still undivided, still game haunted,
still hospitable, still delightful. But in spite of these apparent
exceptions, my first statement must stand. About the large tracts swarm
real estate men, eager for the chance to subdivide into small farms--and
the small farmers pour in from the East at the rate of a thousand a
month. No matter how sternly the old land-lords set their faces against
the new order of things, the new order of things will prevail; for
sooner or late old land-lords must die, and the heirs have not in them
the spirit of the ancient tradition. This is, of course, best for the
country and for progress; but something passes, and is no more. So the
Chino ranch and more recently Lucky Baldwin's broad acres have yielded.

And even in the case of those that still remain intact, whose wide
hills and plains graze thousands of head of cattle; whose pastures breed
their own cowhorses; whose cowmen, wearing still with a twist of pride
the all-but-vanished regalia of their all-but-vanished calling, refuse
to drop back to the humdrum status of "farm hands on a cow ranch"; even
here has entered a single element powerful enough to change the old to
something new. The new may be better--it is certainly more
convenient--and perhaps when all is said and done we would not want to
go back to the old. But the old is gone. One single modern institution
has been sufficient to render it completely of the past. That
institution is the automobile.

In the old days--and they are but yesterdays, after all--the ranch was
perforce an isolated community. The journey to town was not to be
lightly undertaken; indeed, as far as might be, it was obviated
altogether. Blacksmithing, carpentry, shoe cobbling, repairing,
barbering, and even mild doctoring were all to be done on the premises.
Nearly every item of food was raised at home, including vegetables,
fruit, meat, eggs, fowl, butter, and honey. Above all, the inhabitants
of that ranch settled down comfortably into the realization that their
only available community was that immediately about them; and so they
both made and were influenced by the individual atmosphere of the place.

In the latter years they have all purchased touring cars, and now they
run to town casually, on almost any excuse. They make shopping lists as
does the city dweller; they go back for things forgotten; and they
return to the ranch as one returns to his home on the side streets of a
great city. In place of the old wonderful and impressive expeditions to
visit in state the nearest neighbour (twelve miles distant), they drop
over of an afternoon for a ten-minutes' chat. The ranch is no longer an
environment in which one finds the whole activity of his existence, but
a dwelling place from which one goes forth.

I will admit that this is probably a distinct gain; but the fact is
indubitable that, even in these cases where the ranch life has not been
materially changed otherwise, the automobile has brought about a
condition entirely new. And as the automobile has fortunately come to
stay, the old will never return. It is of the old, and its charm and
leisure, that I wish to write.




CHAPTER II

THE OLD WEST


I went to the ranch many years ago, stepping from the train somewhere
near midnight into a cold, crisp air full of stars. My knowledge of
California was at that time confined to several seasons spent on the
coast, where the straw hat retires only in deference to a tradition
which none of the flowers seem bound to respect. As my dress accorded
with this experience, I was very glad to be conducted across the street
to a little hotel. My guide was an elderly, very brown man, with a white
moustache, and the bearing of an army regular. This latter surmise later
proved correct. Manning was one of the numerous old soldiers who had
fought through the General's Apache campaigns, and who now in his age
had drifted back to be near his old commander. He left me, after many
solicitations as to my comfort, and a promise to be back with the team
at seven o'clock sharp.

Promptly at that hour he drew up by the curb. My kit bag was piled
aboard, and I clambered in beside the driver. Manning touched his team.
We were off.

The rig was of the sort usual to the better California ranches of the
day, and so, perhaps, worth description. It might best be defined as a
rather wide, stiff buckboard set on springs, and supported by stout
running gear. The single seat was set well forward, while the body of
the rig extended back to receive the light freight an errand to town
was sure to accumulate. An ample hood top of gray canvas could be raised
for protection against either sun, wind, or rain. Most powerful brakes
could be manipulated by a thrust of the driver's foot. You may be sure
they were outside brakes. Inside brakes were then considered the weak
expedients of a tourist driving mercenary. Generally the tongue and
moving gear were painted cream; and the body of the vehicle dark green.

This substantial, practical, and business-like vehicle was drawn by a
pair of mighty good bright bay horses, straight backed, square rumped,
deep shouldered, with fine heads, small ears, and alert yet gentle eyes
of high-bred stock. When the word was given, they fell into a steady,
swinging trot. One felt instinctively the power of it, and knew that
they were capable of keeping up this same gait all day. And that would
mean many miles. Their harness was of plain russet leather, neat and
well oiled.

Concerning them I made some remark, trivial yet enough to start Manning.
He told me of them, and of their peculiarities and virtues. He descanted
at length on their breeding, and whence came they and their fathers and
their fathers' fathers even unto the sixth generation. He left me at
last with the impression that this was probably the best team in the
valley, bar none. It was a good team, strong, spirited, gentle, and
enduring.

We swung out from the little town into a straight road. If it has seemed
that I have occupied you too exclusively with objects near at hand, the
matter could not be helped. There was nothing more to occupy you. A fog
held all the land.

It was a dense fog, and a very cold. Twenty feet ahead of the horses
showed only a wall of white. To right and left dim, ghostly bushes or
fence posts trooped by us at the ordered pace of our trot. An occasional
lone poplar tree developed in the mist as an object on a dry plate
develops. We splashed into puddles, crossed culverts, went through all
the business of proceeding along a road--and apparently got nowhere. The
mists opened grudgingly before us, and closed in behind. As far as
knowing what the country was like I might as well have been blindfolded.

From Manning I elicited piecemeal some few and vague ideas. This
meagreness was not due to a disinclination on Manning's part, but only
to the fact that he never quite grasped my interest in mere
surroundings. Yes, said he, it was a pretty flat country, and some
brush. Yes, there were mountains, some ways off, though. Not many trees,
but some--what you might call a few. And so on, until I gave it up.
Mountains, trees, brush, and flat land! One could construct any and all
landscapes with such building blocks as those.

Now, as has been hinted, I was dressed for southern California; and the
fog was very damp and chill. The light overcoat I wore failed utterly to
exclude it. At first I had been comfortable enough, but as mile
succeeded mile the cold of that winter land fog penetrated to the bone.
In answer to my comment Manning replied cheerfully in the words of an
old saw:

    "_A winter's fog
    Will freeze a dog_,"

said he.

I agreed with him. We continued to jog on. Manning detailed what I then
thought were hunting lies as to the abundance of game; but which I
afterward discovered were only sober truths. When too far gone in the
miseries of abject cold I remembered his former calling, and glancing
sideways at his bronzed, soldierly face, wished I had gumption enough
left to start him going on some of his Indian campaigns. It was too
late; I had not the gumption; I was too cold.

Now I believe I am fairly well qualified to know when I really feel
cold. I have slept out with the thermometer out of sight somewhere down
near the bulb; I once snowshoed nine miles; and then overheated from
that exertion, drove thirty-five without additional clothing. On various
other occasions I have had experiences that might be called frigid. But
never have I been quite so deadly cold as on that winter morning's drive
through the land fog of semi-tropical California. It struck through to
the very heart.

I subsequently discovered that it takes two hours and three quarters to
drive to the ranch. That is a long time when one has nothing to look at,
and when one is cold. In fact, it is so long that one loses track of
time at all, and gradually relapses into that queer condition of passive
endurance whereto is no end and no beginning. Therefore the end always
comes suddenly, and as a surprise.

So it was in this case. Out of the mists sprang suddenly two tall fan
palms, and then two others, and still others. I realized dimly that we
were in an avenue of palms. The wheels grated strangely on gravel. We
swung sharply to the left between hedges. The mass of a building loomed
indistinctly. Manning applied the brakes. We stopped, the steam from
the horses' shining backs rising straight up to mingle with the fog.

"Well, here we are!" said Manning.

So we were! I hadn't thought of that. We must be here. After an
appreciable moment it occurred to me that perhaps I'd better climb down.
I did so, very slowly and stiffly, making the sad mistake of jumping
down from the height of the step. How that did injure my feelings! The
only catastrophe I can remember comparable to it was when a teacher
rapped my knuckles with a ruler after I had been making snowballs bare
handed. My benumbed faculties next swung around to the proposition of
proceeding up an interminable gravel walk--(it is twenty-five feet
long!) to a forbidding flight of stairs--(porch steps--five of them!) I
put this idea into execution. I reached the steps. And then----

The door was flung open from within, I could see the sparkle and leap of
a fine big grate fire. The Captain stood in the doorway, a broad smile
on his face; my hostess smiled another welcome behind him; the General
roared still another from somewhere behind her.

Now I had never met the Captain. He held out both hands in greeting. One
of those hands was for me to shake. The other held a huge glass of hot
scotch. The hot scotch was in the right hand!




CHAPTER III

THE PEOPLE AND THE PLACE


They warmed me through, and then another old soldier named Redmond took
me up to show me where I lived. We clambered up narrow boxed stairs that
turned three ways; we walked down a narrow passage; turned to the right;
walked down another narrow passage, climbed three steps to open a door;
promptly climbed three steps down again; crossed a screened-in bridge to
another wing; ducked through a passageway, and so arrived. The ranch
house was like that. Parts of it were built out on stilts. Five or six
big cottonwood trees grew right up through the verandahs, and spread out
over the roof of the house. There are all sorts of places where you hang
coats, or stack guns, or store shells, or find unexpected books;
passageways leading to outdoor upstairs screened porches, cubby holes
and the like. And whenever you imagine the house must be quite full of
guests, they can always discover to you yet another bedroom. It may, at
the last, be a very tiny bedroom, with space enough only for a single
bed and not much else; and you may get to it only by way of out of
doors; and it may be already fairly well occupied by wooden decoys and
shotgun shells, but there it is, guests and guests after you thought the
house must be full.

Belonging and appertaining unto the house were several fixtures. One of
these was old Charley, the Chinese cook. He had been there twenty-five
years. In that time he had learned perfect English, acquired our kind of
a sense of humour, come to a complete theoretical understanding of how
to run a ranch and all the people on it, and taught Pollymckittrick what
she knew.

Pollymckittrick was the bereaved widow of the noble pair of yellow and
green parrots Noah selected for his ark. At least I think she was that
old. She was certainly very wise in both Oriental and Occidental wisdom.
Her chief accomplishments, other than those customary to parrots, were
the ability to spell, and to sing English songs. "After the Ball" and
"Daisy Bell" were her favourites, rendered with occasional jungle
variations. She considered Charley her only real friend, though she
tolerated some others. Pollymckittrick was a product of artificial
civilization. No call of the wild in hers! She preferred her cage,
gilded or otherwise. Each afternoon the cage was placed out on the lawn
so Pollymckittrick could have her sun bath. One day a big redtail hawk
sailed by. Pollymckittrick fell backward off her perch, flat on her
back. The sorrowing family gathered to observe this extraordinary case
of heart failure. After an interval Pollymckittrick unfilmed one yellow
eye.

"Po--o--or Pollymckittrick!" she remarked.

At the sight of that hawk Pollymckittrick had fainted!

The third institution having to do with the house was undoubtedly
Redmond. Redmond was another of the old soldiers who had in their age
sought out their beloved General. Redmond was a sort of all-round man.
He built the fires very early in the morning; and he did your boots and
hunting clothes, got out the decoys, plucked the ducks, saw to the
shells, fed the dogs, and was always on hand at arrival and departure to
lend a helping hand. He dwelt in a square room in the windmill tower
together with a black cat and all the newspapers in the world. The cat
he alternately allowed the most extraordinary liberties or disciplined
rigorously. On the latter occasions he invariably seized the animal and
hurled it bodily through the open window. The cat took the long fall
quite calmly, and immediately clambered back up the outside stairway
that led to the room. The newspapers he read, and clipped therefrom
items of the most diverse nature to which he deprecatingly invited
attention. Once in so often a strange martial fervour would obsess him.
Then the family, awakened in the early dawn, would groan and turn over,
realizing that its rest was for that morning permanently shattered. The
old man had hoisted his colours over the windmill tower, and now in a
frenzy of fervour was marching around and around the tower beating the
long roll on his drum. After one such outbreak he would be his ordinary,
humble, quiet, obliging, almost deprecating self for another month or
so. The ranch people took it philosophically.

The fourth institution was Nobo. Nobo was a Japanese woman who bossed
the General. She was a square-built person of forty or so who had also
been with the family unknown years. Her capabilities were undoubted; as
also her faith in them. The hostess depended on her a good deal; and at
the same time chafed mildly under her calm assumption that she knew
perfectly what the situation demanded. The General took her domination
amusedly. To be sure nobody was likely to fool much with the General.
His vast good nature had way down beneath it something that on occasion
could be stern. Nobo could and would tell the General what clothes to
wear, and when to change them, and such matters; but she never ventured
to inhibit the General's ideas as to going forth in rains, or driving
where he everlastingly dod-blistered pleased, or words to that effect,
across country in his magnificently rattletrap surrey, although she
often looked very anxious. For she adored the General. But we all did
that.

As though the heavy curtain of fog had been laid upon the land expressly
that I might get my first impressions of the ranch in due order, about
noon the weather cleared. Even while we ate lunch, the sun came out.
After the meal we went forth to see what we could see.

The ranch was situated in the middle of a vast plain around three sides
of which rose a grand amphitheatre of mountains. The nearest of them was
some thirty miles away, yet ordinarily, in this clear, dry, Western
atmosphere they were always imminent. Over their eastern ramparts the
sun rose to look upon a chill and frosty world; behind their western
barriers the sun withdrew, leaving soft air, purple shadows, and the
flight of dim, far wildfowl across a saffron sky. To the north was only
distance and the fading of the blue of the heavens to the pearl gray of
the horizon.

So much if one stepped immediately beyond the ranch itself. The plains
were broad. Here and there the flatness broke in a long, low line of
cottonwoods marking the winding course of a slough or trace of subsoil
water. Mesquite lay in dark patches; sagebrush; the green of
pasture-land periodically overflowed by the irrigation water. Nearer at
home were occasional great white oaks, or haystacks bigger than a house,
and shaped like one.

To the distant eye the ranch was a grove of trees. Cottonwoods and
eucalyptus had been planted and had thriven mightily on the abundant
artesian water. We have already noticed the six or eight great trees
growing fairly up through the house. On the outskirts lay also a fruit
orchard of several hundred acres. Opposite the house, and separated from
it by a cedar hedge, was a commodious and attractive bungalow for the
foreman. Beyond him were the bunk house, cook houses, blacksmith shops,
and the like.

We started our tour of inspection by examining and commenting gravely
upon the dormant rose garden and equally dormant grape arbour. Through
this we came to the big wire corrals in which were kept the dogs. Here I
met old Ben.

Old Ben was not very old; but he was different from young Ben. He was a
pointer of the old-fashioned, stocky-built, enduring type common--and
serviceable--before our bench-show experts began to breed for speed,
fineness, small size--and lack of stamina. Ben proved in the event to be
a good all-round dog. He combined the attributes of pointer, cocker
spaniel, and retriever. In other words, he would hunt quail in the
orthodox fashion; or he would rustle into the mesquite thorns for the
purpose of flushing them out to us; or he would swim anywhere any number
of times to bring out ducks. To be sure he occasionally got a little
mixed. At times he might try to flush quail in the open, instead of
standing them; or would attempt to retrieve some perfectly lively
specimens. Then Ben needed a licking; and generally got it. He lacked in
his work some of the finish and style of the dogs we used after grouse
in Michigan, but he was a good all-round dog for the work. Furthermore,
he was most pleasant personally.

Next door to him lived the dachshunds.

The dachshunds were a marvel, a nuisance, a bone of contention, an
anomaly, an accident, and a farce. They happened because somebody had
once given the hostess a pair of them. I do not believe she cared
particularly for them; but she is good natured, and the ranch is large,
and they are rather amusing. At the time of my first visit the original
pair had multiplied. Gazing on that yardful of imbecile-looking canines,
my admiration for Noah's wisdom increased; he certainly needed no more
than a pair to restock the earth. Redmond claimed there were twenty-two
of them, though nobody else pretended to have been able to disentangle
them enough for a census. They were all light brown in colour; and the
aggregation reminded me of a rather disentangled bunch of angle-worms.
They lived in a large enclosure; and emerged therefrom only under
supervision, for they considered chickens and young pigs their especial
prey. The Captain looked upon them with exasperated tolerance; Redmond
with affection; the hostess, I think, with a good deal of the
partisanship inspired not so much by liking as by the necessity of
defending them against ridicule; and the rest of the world with amused
expectation as to what they would do next. The Captain was continually
uttering half-serious threats as to the different kinds of sudden death
he was going to inflict on the whole useless, bandylegged, snipe-nosed,
waggle-eared----

The best comment was offered last year by the chauffeur of the
automobile. After gazing on the phenomenon of their extraordinary build
for some moments he remarked thoughtfully:

"Those dogs have a mighty long wheel base!"

For some reason unknown two of the dachshunds have been elevated from
the ranks, and have house privileges. Their names are respectively Pete
and Pup. They hate each other, and have sensitive dispositions. It took
me just four years to learn to tell them apart. I believe Pete has a
slightly projecting short rib on his left side--or is it Pup? It was
fatal to mistake.

"Hullo, Pup!" I would cry to one jovially.

"G--r--r--r--!" would remark the dog, retiring under the sofa. Thus I
would know it was Pete. The worst of it was that said Pete's feelings
were thereby lacerated so deeply that I was not forgiven all the rest of
that day.

Beyond the dogs lay a noble enclosure so large that it would have been
subdivided into building lots had it been anywhere else. It was
inhabited by all sorts of fowl, hundreds of them, of all varieties.
There were chickens, turkeys, geese, and a flock of ducks. The Captain
pointed out the Rouen ducks, almost exactly like the wild mallards.

"Those are my live decoys," said he.

For the accommodation of this multitude were cities of nest houses,
roost houses, and the like. Huge structures elevated on poles swarmed
with doves. A duck pond even had been provided for its proper denizens.

Thus we reached the southernmost outpost of our quadrangle, and turned
to the west, where an ancient Chinaman and an assistant cultivated
minutely and painstakingly a beautiful vegetable garden. Tiny irrigation
streams ran here and there, fitted with miniature water locks. Strange
and foreign bamboo mattings, withes, and poles performed strange and
foreign functions. The gardener, brown and old and wrinkled, his cue
wound neatly beneath his tremendous, woven-straw umbrella of a hat,
possessing no English, no emotion, no single ray of the sort of
intelligence required to penetrate into our Occidental world, bent over
his work. When we passed, he did not look up. He dwelt in a shed. At
least, such it proved to be, when examined with the cold eye of
analysis. In impression it was ancient, exotic, Mongolian, the abode of
one of a mysterious and venerable race, a bit of foreign country. By
what precise means this was accomplished it would be difficult to say.
It is a fact well known to all Californians that a Chinaman can with no
more extensive properties than a few pieces of red paper, a partition, a
dingy curtain, and a varnished duck transform utterly an American
tenement into a Chinese pagoda.

Thence we passed through a wicket and came to the abode of hogs. They
dotted the landscape into the far distance, rooting about to find what
they could; they lay in wallows; they heaped themselves along fences;
they snorted and splashed in sundry shallow pools; a good half mile of
maternal hogs occupied a row of kennels from which the various progeny
issued forth between the bars. I cannot say I am much interested in
hogs, but even I could dimly comprehend the Captain's attitude of
swollen pride. They were clean, and black, and more nearly approximated
the absurd hog advertisements than I had believed possible. You know the
kind I mean; an almost exact rectangle on four short legs.

In the middle distance stood a long, narrow, thatched roof supported on
poles. Beneath this, the Captain told me, were the beehives. They proved
later to be in charge of a mild-eyed religious fanatic who believed the
world to be flat.

We took a cursory glance at a barn filled to the brim with prunes; and
the gushing, beautiful artesian well; at the men's quarters; the
blacksmith shop, and all the rest. So we rounded the circle and came to
the most important single feature of the ranch--the quarters for the
horses.

A very long, deep shed, open on all sides, contained a double row of
mangers facing each other, and divided into stalls. Here stood and were
fed the working horses. By that I mean not only the mule and horse
teams, but also the utility driving teams and the saddle horses used by
the cowboys. Between each two stalls was a heavy pillar supporting the
roof, and well supplied with facilities for hanging up the harness and
equipments. As is usual in California, the sides and ends were open to
the air; and the floor was simply the earth well bedded.

But over against this shed stood a big barn of the Eastern type. Here
were the private equipments.

The Captain is a horseman. He breeds polo ponies after a formula of his
own; and so successfully that many of them cross the Atlantic. On the
ranch are always several hundred head of beautiful animals; and of
these the best are kept up for the use of the Captain and his friends.
We looked at them in their clean, commodious stalls; we inspected the
harness and saddle room, glistening and satiny with polished metal and
well-oiled leather; we examined the half dozen or so of vehicles of all
descriptions. The hostess told with relish of her one attempt to be
stylish.

"We had such beautiful horses," said she, "that I thought we ought to
have something to go with them, so I sent up to the city for my
brougham. It made a very neat turnout; and Tom was as proud of it as I
was, but when it came to a question of proper garb for Tom I ran up
against a deadlock. Tom refused point blank to wear a livery or anything
approaching a livery. He was perfectly respectful about it; but he
refused. Well, I drove around all that winter, when the weather was bad,
in a well-appointed brougham drawn by a good team in a proper harness;
and on the box sat a lean-faced cow puncher in sombrero, red
handkerchief, and blue jeans!"

Tom led forth the horses one after the other--Kingmaker, the Fiddler,
Pittapat, and the others. We spent a delightful two hours. The sun
dropped; the shadows lengthened. From the fields the men began to come
in. They drove the wagons and hay ricks into the spacious enclosure, and
set leisurely about the task of caring for their animals. Chinese and
Japanese drifted from the orchards, and began to manipulate the
grindstone on their pruning knives. Presently a cowboy jogged in, his
spurs and bit jingling. From the cook house a bell began to clang.

We turned back to the house. Before going in I faced the west. The sky
had turned a light green full of lucence. The minor sounds of the ranch
near by seemed to be surrounded by a sea of silence outside. Single
sounds came very clearly across it. And behind everything, after a few
moments, I made out a queer, monotonous background of half-croaking
calling. For some time this puzzled me. Then at last my groping
recollection came to my assistance. I was hearing the calling of myriads
of snow geese.




CHAPTER IV

THE EARLY BIRD


I was awakened rather early by Redmond, who silently entered the room,
lit a kerosene stove, closed the windows, and departed. As I was now
beneath two blankets and an eiderdown quilt, and my nose was cold, I was
duly grateful. Mistaking the rite for a signal to arise, I did so; and
shortly descended. The three fireplaces were crackling away merrily, but
they had done little to mitigate the atmosphere as yet. Maids were
dusting and sweeping. The table was not yet set. Inquiry telling that
breakfast was more than an hour later, I took a gun from the rack,
pocketed the only five shells in sight, and departed to see what I could
see.

The outer world was crisp with frost. I clambered over the corral fence,
made my way through a hundred acres or so of slumbering pigs, and so
emerged into the open country.

In the middle distance and perhaps a mile away was a low fringe of
brush; to the left an equal distance a group of willows; and almost
behind me a clump of cottonwoods. I resolved to walk over to the brush,
swing around to the willows, turn to the cottonwoods, and so back to the
ranch. It looked like about four miles or so. Perhaps with my five
shells I might get something. At any rate, I would have a good walk.

The mountains were turning from the rose pink of early morning. I could
hear again the bickering cries of the snow geese and sandhill cranes
away in an unknown distance, the homelier calls of barnyard fowl nearer
at hand. Cattle trotted before me and to right and left, their heads
high, their gait swinging with the freedom of the half-wild animals of
the ranges. After a few steps they turned to stare at me, eyes and
nostrils wide, before making up their minds whether or not it would be
wise to put a greater distance between me and them. The close sod was
green and strong. It covered the slightly rounding irrigation "checks"
that followed in many a curve and double the lines of contours on the
flat plain.

The fringe of brush did not amount to anything; it was merely a
convenient turning mark for my little walk. Arrived there, I executed a
sharp "column left----"

Seven ducks leaped into the air apparently from the bare, open, and dry
ground!

Every sportsman knows the scattering effect on the wits of the
absolutely unexpected appearance of game. Every sportsman knows also the
instinctive reactions that long habit will bring about. Thus,
figuratively, I stood with open mouth, heart beating slightly faster,
and mind making to itself such imbecile remarks as: "Well, _what_ do you
think of that! Who in blazes would have expected ducks here?" and other
futile remarks. In the meantime, the trained part of me had jerked the
gun off my shoulder, pushed forward the safety catch, and prepared for
one hasty long shot at the last and slowest of the ducks. Now the
instinctive part of one can do the preparations, but the actual
shooting requires a more ordered frame of mind. By this time my wits
had snapped back into place. I had the satisfaction of seeing the duck's
outstretched neck wilt; of hearing him hit the ground with a thud
somewhere beyond.

Marking the line of his fall, I stepped confidently forward, and without
any warning whatever found myself standing on the bank of an irrigation
ditch. It was filled to the brim with placid water on which floated a
few downy feathers. On this side was dry sod; and on the other was dry
sod. Nothing indicated the presence of that straight band of silvery
water until one stood fairly at its brink. To the right I could see its
sides narrow to the point of a remote perspective. To the left it ran
for a few hundred yards, then apparently came to an abrupt stop where it
turned at an angle.

In the meantime, my duck was on the other side; I was in my citizen's
clothes.

No solution offered in sight, so I made my way to the left where I could
look around the bend. Nearing the bend I was seized with a bright idea.
I dropped back below the line of sight, sneaked quietly to the bank,
and, my eye almost level with the water, peered down the new vista. Sure
enough, not a hundred and fifty yards away floated another band of
ducks.

I watched them for a moment until I was sure, by various small
landmarks, of their exact location. Then I dropped back far enough so
that, even standing erect, I would be below the line of vision of those
ducks; strolled along until opposite my landmarks; then, bolt upright,
walked directly forward, the gun at ready. When within twenty yards the
ducks arose. It was, of course, easy shooting. Both fell across the
ditch. That did not worry me; if worst came to worst I could strip and
wade.

This seemed to be an exceedingly unique and interesting way to shoot
ducks. To be sure, I had only two shells left; but then, it must be
almost breakfast time. I repeated the feat a half mile farther on,
discovered a flood gate over which I could get to the other side,
collected my five ducks, and cut across country to the ranch. The sun
was just getting in its work on the frost. Long files of wagons and men
could be seen disappearing in the distance. I entered proudly, only ten
minutes late.




CHAPTER V

QUAIL


The family assembled took my statement with extraordinary calm,
contenting themselves with a general inquiry as to the species. I was
just a trifle crestfallen at this indifference. You see at this time I
was not accustomed to the casual duck. My shooting heretofore had been a
very strenuous matter. It had involved arising many hours before sun-up,
and venturing forth miles into wild marshes; and much endurance of cold
and discomfort. To make a bag of any sort we were in the field before
the folk knew the night had passed. Upland shooting meant driving long
distances, and walking through the heavy hardwood swamps and slashes
from dusk to dusk. Therefore I had considered myself in great luck to
have blundered upon my ducks so casually; and, furthermore, from the
family's general air of leisure and unpreparedness, jumped to the
conclusion that no field sport was projected for that day.

Mrs. Kitty presided beside a copper coffee pot with a bell-shaped glass
top. As this was also an institution, it merits attention. A small
alcohol lamp beneath was lighted. For a long time nothing happened. Then
all at once the glass dome clouded, was filled with frantic brown and
racing bubbling. Thereupon the hostess turned over a sand glass. When
the last grains had run through, the alcohol lamp was turned off.
Immediately the glass dome was empty again. From a spigot one drew off
coffee.

But if perchance the Captain and I wished to get up before anybody else
could be hired to get up, the Dingbat could be so loaded as to give down
an automatic breakfast. The evening before the maid charged the affair
as usual, and at the last popped four eggs into the glass dome. After
the mysterious alchemical perturbations had ceased, we fished out those
eggs soft boiled to the second! One day the maid mistook the gasoline
bottle for the alcohol bottle. That is a sad tale having to do with
running flames, and burned table pieces, not to speak of a melted-down
connection or so on the Dingbat. We did not know what was the matter;
and our attitude was not so much that of alarm, as of grief and
indignation that our good old tried and trained Dingbat should in his
old age cut up any such didoes. Especially as there were new guests
present.

After breakfast we wandered out on the verandah. Nobody seemed to be in
any hurry to start anything. The hostess made remarks to
Pollymckittrick; the General read a newspaper; the Captain sauntered
about enjoying the sun. After fifteen minutes, as though the notion had
just occurred, somebody suggested that we go shooting.

"How about it?" the Captain asked me.

"Surely," I agreed, and added with some surprise out of my other
experience, "Isn't it a little late?"

But the Captain misunderstood me.

"I don't mean blind shooting," said he, "just ram around."

He seized a megaphone and bellowed through it at the stables.

"Better get on your war paint," he suggested to me.

I changed hastily into my shooting clothes, and returned to the
verandah. After some few moments the Captain joined me. After some few
moments more a tremendous rattling came from the stable. A fine bay team
swung into the driveway, rounded the circle, and halted. It drew the
source of the tremendous rattling.

Thus I became acquainted with the Liver Invigorator. The Invigorator was
a buckboard high, wide, and long. It had one wide seat. Aft of that seat
was a cage with bars, in which old Ben rode. Astern was a deep box
wherein one carried rubber boots, shells, decoys, lunch, game, and the
like. The Invigorator was very old, very noisy, and very able. With it
we drove cheerfully anywhere we pleased--over plowed land, irrigation
checks, through brush thick enough to lift our wheels right off the
ground, and down into and out of water ditches so steep that we
alternately stood the affair on its head and its tail, and so deep that
we had to hold all our belongings in our arms, while old Ben stuck his
nose out the top bars of his cage for a breath of air. It could not be
tipped over; at least we never upset it. To offset these virtues it
rattled like a runaway milk wagon; and it certainly hit the high spots
and hit them _hard_. Nevertheless, in a long and strenuous sporting
career the Invigorator became endeared through association to many
friends. When the Captain proposed a new vehicle with easier springs and
less noise, a wail of protest arose from many and distant places. The
Invigorator still fulfills its function.

Now there are three major topics on the Ranch: namely, ducks, quail, and
ponies. In addition to these are five of minor interest: the mail,
cattle, jackrabbits, coons, and wildcats.

I was already familiar with the valley quail, for I had hunted him since
I was a small boy with the first sixteen-gauge gun ever brought to the
coast. I knew him for a very speedy bird, much faster than our bob
white, dwelling in the rounded sagebrush hills, travelling in flocks of
from twenty to several thousand, exceedingly given to rapid leg work. We
had to climb hard after him, and shoot like lightning from insecure
footing. His idiosyncrasies were as strongly impressed on me as the fact
that human beings walk upright. Here, however, I had to revise my ideas.

We drove down the avenue of palms, pursued by four or five yapping
dachshunds, and so out into a long, narrow lane between pasture fences.
Herds of ponies, fuzzy in their long winter coats, came gently to look
at us. The sun was high now, so the fur of their backs lay flat. Later,
in the chill of evening, the hair would stand out like the nap of
velvet, thus providing for additional warmth by the extra air space
between the outside of the coat and the skin. It must be very handy to
carry this invisible overcoat, ready for the moment's need. Here, too,
were cattle standing about. On many of them I recognized the familiar
J-I brand of many of my Arizona experiences. Arizona bred and raised
them; California fattened them for market. We met a cowboy jingling by
at his fox trot; then came to the country road.

Along this we drove for some miles. The country was perfectly flat, but
variegated by patches of greasewood, of sagebrush, of Egyptian-corn
fields, and occasionally by a long, narrow fringe of trees. Here, too,
were many examples of that phenomenon so vigorously doubted by most
Easterners: the long rows of trees grown from original cotton wood or
poplar fence posts. In the distance always were the mountains. Overhead
the sky was very blue. A number of buzzards circled.

After a time we turned off the road and into a country covered over with
tumbleweed, a fine umber red growth six or eight inches high, and
scattered sagebrush. Inlets, bays, and estuaries of bare ground ran
everywhere. The Captain stood up to drive, watching for the game to
cross these bare places.

I stood up, too. It is no idle feat to ride the Invigorator thus over
hummocky ground. It lurched and bumped and dropped into and out of
trouble; and in correspondence I alternately rose up and sat down again,
hard. The Captain rode the storm without difficulty. He was accustomed
to the Invigorator; and, too, he had the reins to hang on by.

"There they go!" said he, suddenly, bringing the team to a halt.

I looked ahead. Across a ten-foot barren ran the quail, their crests
cocked forward, their trim figures held close as a sprinter goes, rank
after rank, their heads high in the alert manner of quail.

The Captain sat down, jerked off the brake, and spoke to his horses. I
sat down, too; mainly because I had to. The Invigorator leaped from hump
to hump. Before those quail knew it we were among them. Right, left, all
around us they roared into the air. Some doubled back; some buzzed low
to right or left; others rose straight ahead to fly a quarter mile, and
then, wings set, to sail another quarter until finally they pitched down
into some bit of inviting cover.

The Captain brought his horses to a stand with great satisfaction. We
congratulated each other gleefully; and even old Ben, somewhat shaken up
in his cage astern, wagged his tail in appreciation of the situation.

For, you see, we had scattered the covey, and now they would lie. If the
band had flushed, flown, and lighted as one body, immediately on hitting
the ground they would have put their exceedingly competent little legs
into action, and would have run so well and so far that, by the time we
had arrived on the spot, they would have been a good half mile away. But
now that the covey was broken, the individuals and small bands would
stay put. If they ran at all, it would be for but a short distance. On
this preliminary scattering depends the success of a chase after
California quail. I have seen six or eight men empty both barrels of
their guns at a range of more than a hundred yards. They were not insane
enough to think they would get anything. Merely they hoped that the
racket and the dropping of the spent shot would break the distant covey.

We hitched the horses to a tree, released old Ben, and started forth.

For a half hour we had the most glorious sport, beating back and forth
over the ground again and again. The birds lay well in the low cover,
and the shooting was clean and open. I soon found that the edges of the
bare ground were the most likely places. Apparently the birds worked
slowly through the cover ahead of us, but hesitated to cross the open
spots, and so bunched at the edge. By walking in a zigzag along some of
these borders, we gathered in many scattered birds and small bunches.
Why the zigzag? Naturally it covers a trifle more ground than a straight
course, but principally it seems to confuse the game. If you walk in a
straight line, so the quail can foretell your course, it is very apt
either to flush wild or to hide so close that you pass it by. The zigzag
fools it.

Thus, with varying luck, we made a slow circle back to the wagon. Here
we found Mrs. Kitty and Carrie and the lunch awaiting us with the
ponies.

These robust little animals were not miniature horses, but genuine
ponies, with all the deviltry, endurance, and speed of their kind. They
were jet-black, about waist high, and of great intelligence. They drew a
neat little rig, capable of accommodating two, at a persistent rapid
patter that somehow got over the road at a great gait. And they could
keep it up all day. Although perfectly gentle, they were as alert as
gamins for mischief, and delighted hugely in adding to the general row
and confusion if anything happened to go wrong. Mrs. Kitty drove them
everywhere. One day she attempted to cross an irrigation ditch that
proved to be deeper than she had thought it. The ponies disappeared
utterly, leaving Mrs. Kitty very much astonished. Horses would have
drowned in like circumstances, but the ponies, nothing daunted, dug in
their hoofs and scrambled out like a pair of dogs, incidentally dipping
their mistress on the way.

In the shade of a high greasewood we unpacked the pony carriage. This
was before the days of thermos bottles, so we had a most elaborate
wicker basket whose sides let down to form a wind shield protecting an
alcohol burner and a kettle. When the water boiled, we made hot tea, and
so came to lunch.

Strangely enough this was my first experience at having lunch brought
out to the field. Ordinarily we had been accustomed to carry a sandwich
or so in the side pockets of our shooting coats, which same we ate at
any odd moment that offered. Now was disclosed an astonishing variety.
There were sandwiches, of course, and a salad, and the tea, but
wonderful to contemplate was a deep dish of potted quail, row after row
of them, with delicious white sauce. In place of the frugal bite or so
that would have left us alert and fit for an afternoon's work, we ate
until nothing remained. Then we lit pipes and lay on our backs, and
contemplated a cloudless sky. It was the warm time of day. The horses
snoozed, a hind leg tucked up; old Ben lay outstretched in doggy
content; Mrs. Kitty knit or crocheted or something of that sort; and
Carrie and the Captain and I took cat naps. At length, the sun's rays no
longer striking warm from overhead, the Captain aroused us sternly.

"You're a nice, energetic, able lot of sportsmen!" he cried with
indignation. "Have I got to wait until sunset for you lazy chumps to get
a full night's rest?"

"Don't mind him," Mrs. Kitty told me, placidly; "he was sound asleep
himself; and the only reason he waked is because he snored and I
_punched_ him."

She folded up her fancy work, shook out her skirts, and turned to the
ponies.

It was now late in the afternoon. We had disgracefully wasted our time,
and enjoyed doing it. The Captain decided it to be too late to hunt up a
new covey, so we reversed to pick up some of those that had originally
doubled back. We flushed forty or fifty of them at the edge of the road.
They scattered ahead of us in a forty-acre plowed field.

Until twilight, then, we walked leisurely back and forth, which is the
only way to walk in a plowed field, after all. The birds had pitched
down into the old furrows, and whenever a tuft of grass, a piece of
tumbleweed, or a shallow grassy ditch offered a handful of cover, there
the game was to be found. Mrs. Kitty followed at the Captain's elbow,
and Carrie at mine. Carrie made a first-rate dog, marking down the birds
unerringly. The quail flew low and hard, offering in the gathering
twilight and against the neutral-coloured earth marks worthy of good
shooting. At last we turned back to our waiting team. The dusk was
coming over the land, and the "shadow of the earth" was marking its
strange blue arc in the east. As usual the covey was now securely
scattered. Of a thousand or so birds we had bagged forty-odd; and yet of
the remainder we would have had difficulty in flushing another dozen. It
is the mystery of the quail, and one that the sportsman can never
completely comprehend. As we clambered into the Invigorator we could
hear from all directions the birds signalling each other. Near, far, to
right, to left, the call sounded, repeating over and over again a
parting, defiant denial that the victory was ours.

"You _can't_ shoot! You _can't_ shoot! You _can't_ shoot!"

And nearer at hand the contented chirping twitter as the covey found
itself.




CHAPTER VI

PONIES


Next morning the Captain decided that he had various affairs to attend
to, so we put on our riding clothes and went down to the stables.

The Captain had always forty or fifty polo ponies in the course of
education, and he was delighted to have them ridden, once he was
convinced of your seat and hands. They were beautiful ponies, generally
iron gray in colour, very friendly, very eager, and very lively. Riding
them was like flying through the air, for they sailed over rough ground,
irrigation checks, and the like without a break in their stride, and
without a jar. By the same token it was necessary to ride them. At odd
moments they were quite likely to give a wide sidewise bound or a
stiff-legged buck from sheer joy of life. One got genuine "horse
exercise" out of them.

The Captain, as perhaps I have said, invented these ponies himself. From
Chihuahua he brought in some of the best mustang mares he could find;
and, in case you have Frederick Remington's pictures of starved
winter-range animals in mind, let me tell you a good mustang is a very
handsome animal indeed. These he bred to a thoroughbred. The resulting
half-breeds grew to the proper age. Then he started to have them broken
to the saddle. A start was as far as he ever got, for nobody could ride
them. They combined the intelligence and vice of the mustang with the
endurance and nervous instability of the thoroughbred. The Captain tried
all sorts of men, even sending at last to Arizona for a good bronco
buster on the J-I. Only one or two of the many could back the animals at
all, though many aspirants made a try at it. After a long series of
experiments, the Captain came to the reluctant conclusion that the cross
was no good. It seemed a pity, for they were beautiful animals, up to
full polo size, deep chested, strong shouldered, close coupled, and
speedy.

Then, by way of idleness, he bred some of the half-bred mares. The
three-quarter cross proved to be ideal. They were gentle, easily broken,
and to the eye differed in no particular from their pure-blooded
brothers. So, ever since, the Captain has been raising these most
excellent polo ponies to his great honour and profit and the incidental
pleasure of his friends who like riding.

One of these ponies was known as the Merry Jest. He had a terrifying but
harmless trick. The moment the saddle was cinched, down went his head
and he began to buck in the most vicious style. This he would keep up
until further orders. In order to put an end to the performance all one
had to do was to haul in on the rope, thrust one's foot in the stirrup,
and clamber aboard. For, mark you this, Merry Jest in the course of a
long and useful life never failed to buck under the empty saddle--and
_never_ bucked under a rider!

This, of course, constituted the Merry Jest. Its beauty was that it was
so safe.

"Want to ride?" asked the Captain.

"Surely," replied the unsuspecting stranger.

The Merry Jest was saddled, brought forth, and exhibited in action.

"There's your horse," remarked the Captain in a matter-of-course tone.

We rode out the corral gate and directly into the open country. The
animals chafed to be away; and when we loosened the reins, leaped
forward in long bounds. Over the rough country they skimmed like
swallows, their hoofs hardly seeming to touch the ground, the powerful
muscles playing smoothly beneath us like engines. After a mile of this
we pulled up, and set about the serious business of the day.

One after another we oversaw all the major activities of such a ranch;
outside, I mean, of the ranch enclosure proper where were the fowls, the
vegetable gardens, and the like. Here an immense hay rick was being
driven slowly along while two men pitched off the hay to right and left.
After it followed a long line of cattle. This manner of feeding obviated
the crowding that would have taken place had the hay not been thus
scattered. The more aggressive followed close after the rick, snatching
mouthfuls of the hay as it fell. The more peaceful, or subdued, or
philosophical strung out in a long, thin line, eating steadily at one
spot. They got more hay with less trouble, but the other fellows had to
maintain reputations for letting nobody get ahead of _them_!

At another point an exceedingly rackety engine ran a hay press, where
the constituents of one of the enormous house-like haystacks were fed
into a hopper and came out neatly baled. A dozen or so men oversaw the
activities of this noisy and dusty machine.

Down by the northerly cottonwoods two miles away we found other men with
scrapers throwing up the irrigation checks along the predetermined
contour lines. By means of these irregular meandering earthworks the
water, admitted from the ditch to the upper end of the field, would work
its way slowly from level to level instead of running off or making
channels for itself. This job, too, was a dusty one. We could see the
smoke of it rising from a long distance; and the horses and men were
brown with it.

And again we rode softly for miles over greensward through the cattle,
at a gentle fox trot, so as not to disturb them. At several points stood
great blue herons, like sentinels, decorative as a Japanese screen,
absolutely motionless. The Captain explained that they were "fishing"
for gophers; and blessed them deeply. Sometimes our mounts splashed for
a long distance through water five or six inches shallow. Underneath the
surface we could see the short green grass of the turf that thus
received its refreshment. Then somewhere near, silhouetted against the
sky or distant mountains, on the slight elevation of the irrigation
ditch bank, we were sure to see some of the irrigation Chinamen. They
were strange, exotic figures, their skins sunburned and dark, their
queues wound around their heads; wearing always the same uniform of blue
jeans cut China-fashion, rubber boots, and the wide, inverted bowl
Chinese sun hat of straw. By means of shovels wherewith to dig, and iron
bars wherewith to raise and lower flood gates, they controlled the
artificial rainfall of the region. So accustomed did the ducks become
to these amphibious people that they hardly troubled themselves to get
out of the way, and were utterly careless of how near they flew. Uncle
Jim once disguised himself as an irrigation Chinaman and got all kinds
of shooting--until the ducks found him out. Now they seem able to
distinguish accurately between a Chinaman with a long shovel and a white
man with a shotgun, no matter how the latter is dressed. Ducks, tame and
wild, have a lot of sense. It must bore the former to be forced to
associate with chickens.

Over in the orchard, of a thousand acres or so, were many more
Orientals, and hundreds of wild doves. These Chinese were all of the
lower coolie orders, and primitive, not to say drastic in their medical
ideas. One evening the Captain heard a fine caterwauling and drum
beating over in the quarters, and sallied forth to investigate. In one
of the huts he found four men sitting on the outspread legs and arms of
a fifth. The latter had been stripped stark naked. A sixth was engaged
in placing live coals on the patient's belly, while assorted assistants
furnished appropriate music and lamentation. The Captain put a stop to
the proceedings and bundled the victim to a hospital where he promptly
died. It was considered among Chinese circles that the Captain had
killed him by ill-timed interference!

Everywhere we went, and wherever a small clump of trees or even large
brush offered space, hung the carcasses of coyotes, wildcats, and lynx.
Some were quite new, while others had completely mummified in the dry
air of these interior plains. These were the trophies of the
professional "varmint killer," a man hired by the month. Of course it
would be only too easy for such an official to loaf on his job, so this
one had adopted the unique method of proving his activity. Everywhere
the Captain rode he could see that his man had been busy.

All this time we had been working steadily away from the ranch. Long
zigzags and side trips carried us little forward, and a constant
leftward tendency swung us always around, until we had completed a half
circle of which the ranch itself was the centre. The irrigated fields
had given place to open country of a semi-desert character grown high
with patches of greasewood, sagebrush, thorn-bush; with wide patches of
scattered bunch grass; and stretches of alkali waste. Here, unexpectedly
to me, we stumbled on a strange but necessary industry incidental to so
large an estate. Our nostrils were assailed by a mighty stink. We came
around the corner of some high brush directly on a small two-story
affair with a factory smokestack. It was fenced in, and the fence was
covered with drying hides. I will spare you details, but the function of
the place was to make glue, soap, and the like of those cattle whose
term of life was marked by misfortune rather than by the butcher's
knife. The sole workman at this economical and useful occupation did not
seem to mind it. The Captain claimed he was as good as a buzzard at
locating the newly demised.

Our ponies did not like the place either. They snorted violently, and
pricked their ears back and forth, and were especially relieved and
eager to obey when we turned their heads away.

We rode on out into the desert, our ponies skipping expertly through
the low brush and gingerly over the alkali crust of the open spaces
beneath which might be holes. Jackrabbits by the thousand, literally,
hopped away in front of us, spreading in all directions as along the
sticks of a fan. They were not particularly afraid, so they loped easily
in high-bounding leaps, their ears erect. Many of them sat bolt upright,
looking at least two feet high. Occasionally we managed really to scare
one, and then it was a grand sight to see him open the throttle and scud
away, his ears flat back, in the classical and correct attitude of the
constantly recurring phrase of the ancients: "belly to earth he flew!"

Jackrabbits are a great nuisance. The Captain had to enclose his
precious alfalfa fields with rabbit-proof wire to prevent utter
destruction. There was a good deal of fence, naturally, and occasionally
the inquiring rabbit would find a hole and crawl through. Then he was in
alfalfa, which is, as every Californian knows, much better than being in
clover. He ate at first greedily, then more daintily, wandering always
farther afield in search of dessert. Never, however, did he forget the
precise location of the opening by which he had entered, as was wise of
him. For now, behold, enter the dogs. Ordinarily these dogs, who were
also wise beasts, passed by the jackrabbit in his abundance with only
inhibited longing. Their experience had taught them that to chase
jackrabbits in the open with any motive ulterior to that of healthful
exercise and the joy of seeing the blame things run was as vain and as
puppish as chasing one's tail. But in the alfalfa fields was a chance,
for it must be remembered that such fields were surrounded by the
rabbit-proof wire in which but a single opening was known to the jack in
question. Therefore, with huge delight, the dogs gave chase. Mr. Rabbit
bolted back for his opening, his enemies fairly at his heels. Now comes
the curious part of the episode. The dogs knew perfectly well that if
the rabbit hit the hole in the fence he was safe for all of them; and
they had learned, further, that if the rabbit missed his plunge for
safety he would collide strongly with that tight-strung wire. When
within twenty feet or so of the fence they stopped short in expectation.
Probably three times out of five the game made his plunge in safety and
scudded away over the open plain outside. Then the dogs turned and
trotted philosophically back to the ranch. But the other two times the
rabbit would miss. At full speed he would hit the tight-strung mesh,
only to be hurled back by its resiliency fairly into the jaws of his
waiting pursuers. Though thousands may consider this another
nature-fake, I shall always have the comfort of thinking that the
Captain and the dogs know it for the truth.

At times jackrabbits get some sort of a plague and die in great numbers.
Indeed some years at the ranch they seemed almost to have disappeared.
Their carcasses are destroyed almost immediately by the carrion
creatures, and their delicate bones, scattered by the ravens, buzzards,
and coyotes, soon disintegrate and pass into the soil. One does not find
many evidences of the destruction that has been at work; yet he will see
tens instead of myriads. I have been at the ranch when one was never out
of sight of jackrabbits, in droves, and again I have been there when
one would not see a half dozen in a morning's ride. They recover their
numbers fast enough, and the chances are that this "narrow-gauge mule"
will be always with us. The ranchman would like nothing better than to
bid him a last fond but genuine farewell; but I should certainly miss
him.

The greasewood and thorn-bush grew in long, narrow patches. The ragweed
grew everywhere it pleased, affording grand cover for the quail. The
sagebrush occurred singly at spaced intervals, with tiny bare spaces
between across which the plumed little rascals scurried hurriedly. The
tumbleweed banked high wherever, in the mysterious dispensations of
Providence, a call for tumbleweed had made itself heard.

The tumbleweed is a curious vegetable. It grows and flourishes amain,
and becomes great even as a sagebrush, and puts forth its blossoms and
seeds, and finally turns brown and brittle. Just about as you would
conclude it has reached a respectable old age and should settle down by
its chimney corner, it decides to go travelling. The first breath of
wind that comes along snaps it off close to the ground. The next turns
it over. And then, inasmuch as the tumbleweed is roughly globular in
shape, some three or four feet in diameter, and exceedingly light in
structure, over and over it rolls across the plain! If the wind happens
to increase, the whole flock migrates, bounding merrily along at a good
rate of speed. Nothing more terrifying to the unaccustomed equine can be
imagined than thirty or forty of these formidable-looking monsters
charging down upon him, bouncing several feet from the surface of the
earth. The experienced horse treats them with the contempt such
light-minded senility deserves, and wades through their phantom attack
indifferent. After the breeze has died the debauched old tumbleweeds are
everywhere to be seen, piled up against brush, choking the ditches,
filling the roads. Their beautiful spherical shapes have been frayed out
so that they look sodden and weary and done up. But their seeds have
been scattered abroad over the land.

Wherever we found water, there we found ducks. The irrigating ditches
contained many bands of a dozen or fifteen; the overflow ponds had each
its little flock. The sky, too, was rarely empty of them; and the cries
of the snow geese and the calls of sandhill cranes were rarely still. I
remarked on this abundance.

"Ducks!" replied the Captain, wonderingly. "Why, you haven't _begun_ to
see ducks! Come with me."

Thereupon we turned sharp to the left. After ten minutes I made out from
a slight rise above the plain a black patch lying across the distance.
It seemed to cover a hundred acres or so, and to represent a sort of
growth we had not before encountered.

"That," said the Captain, indicating, "is a pond covered with ducks."

I did not believe it. We dropped below the line of sight and rode
steadily forward.

All at once a mighty roar burst on our ears, like the rush of a heavy
train over a high trestle; and immediately the air ahead of us was
filled with ducks towering. They mounted, and wheeled, and circled back
or darted away. The sky became fairly obscured with them in the sense
that it seemed inconceivable that hither space could contain another
bird. Before the retina of the eye they swarmed exactly as a nearer
cloud of mosquitoes would appear.

Hardly had the shock of this first stupendous rise of wildfowl spent
itself before another and larger flight roared up. It seemed that all
the ducks in the world must be a-wing; and yet, even after that, a third
body arose, its rush sounding like the abrupt, overwhelming noise of a
cataract in a sudden shift of wind. I should be afraid to guess how many
ducks had been on that lake. Its surface was literally covered, so that
nowhere did a glint of water show. I suppose it would be a simple matter
to compute within a few thousand how many ducks would occupy so much
space; but of what avail? Mere numbers would convey no impression of the
effect. Rather fill the cup of heaven with myriads thick as a swarm of
gnats against the sun. They swung and circled back and forth before
making up their minds to be off, crossing and recrossing the various
lines of flight. The first thrice-repeated roar of rising had given
place to the clear, sustained whistling of wings, low, penetrating,
inspiring. In the last flight had been a band of several hundred snow
geese; and against the whiteness of their plumage the sun shone.

"That," observed the Captain with conviction, "is what you might call
ducks."

By now it was the middle of the afternoon. We had not thought of lunch.
At the ranch lunch was either a major or a minor consideration; there
was no middle ground. If possible, we ate largely of many most delicious
things. If, on the other hand, we happened to be out somewhere at noon,
we cheerfully omitted lunch. So, when we returned to the ranch, the
Captain, after glancing at his watch and remarking that it was rather
late to eat, proposed that we try out two other ponies with the polo
mallets.

This we proceeded to do. After an hour's pleasant exercise on the flat
in the "Enclosure," we jogged contentedly back into the corral.

Around the corner of the barn sailed a distracted and utterly stampeded
hen. After her, yapping eagerly, came five dachshunds.

Pause and consider the various elements of outrage the situation
presented. (A) Dachshunds are, as before quoted, a bunch of useless,
bandylegged, snip-nosed, waggle-eared----, anyway, and represent an
amiable good-natured weakness on the part of Mrs. Kitty. (B) Dachshunds
in general are _not_ supposed to run wild all over the place, but to
remain in their perfectly good, sufficiently large, entirely comfortable
corral, Pete and Pup excepted. (C) Chickens are valuable. (D) Confound
'em! This sort of a performance will be a bad example for Young Ben.
First thing we'll know, he'll be chasing chickens, too!

The Captain dropped from his pony and joined the procession. The hen
could run just a trifle faster than the dachshunds; and the dachshunds
just a trifle faster than the Captain. I always claimed they circled the
barn three times, in the order named. The Captain insists with dignity
that I exaggerate three hundred per cent. At any rate, the hen finally
blundered, the dachshunds fell upon her--and the Captain swung his polo
mallet.

Five typical "sickening thuds" were heard; five dachshunds literally
sailed through the air to fall in quivering heaps. The Captain, his
anger cooled, came back, shaking his head.

"I wouldn't have killed those dogs for anything in the world!" he
muttered half to me, half to himself as we took the path to the house.
"I don't know what Mrs. Kitty will say to this! I certainly am sorry
about it!" and so on, at length.

We turned the corner of the hedge. There in a row on the top step of the
verandah sat five dachshunds, their mouths open in a happy smile, six
inches of pink tongue hanging, their eyes half closed in good-humoured
appreciation.

The Captain approached softly and looked them over with great care. He
felt of their ribs. He stared up at me incredulously.

"Is this the same outfit?" he whispered.

"It is," said I, "I know the blaze-face brute."

"But--but----"

"They played 'possum on you, Captain."

The Captain arose and his wrath exploded.

"You miserable hounds!" he roared.

With a wise premonition they decamped.

"I'm going to clean out the whole bandylegged tribe!" threatened the
Captain for the fiftieth time in the month. "I won't have them on the
ranch!"

That was seven years ago. They are still there--they and numerous
descendants.[G]




CHAPTER VII

DINNER


We washed up and came down stairs. All at once it proved to be drowsy
time. The dark had fallen and the lamps were lit. A new fire crackled in
the fireplace, anticipating the chill that was already descending.
Carrie played the piano in the other room. The General snorted over
something in his city paper. Mrs. Kitty had disappeared on household
business. Pete and Pup, having been mistaken one for the other by some
innocent bystander, gloomed and glowered under chairs.

Both the Captain and myself made some sort of a pretence of reading the
papers. It was only a pretence. The grateful warmth, the soothing
crackling of the fire, the distant music--and, possibly, our state of
starvation--lulled us to a half doze. From this we were aroused by an
announcement of dinner.

We had soup and various affairs of that sort; and there was brought on a
huge and baronial roast, from which the Captain promptly proceeded to
slice generous allowances. With it came vegetables. They were all cooked
in cream; not milk, but rich top cream thick enough to cut with a knife.
I began to see why all the house servants were plump. Also there were
jellies, and little fat hot rolls, and strange pickled products of the
soil. I was good and hungry; and I ate thereof.

The plates were removed. I settled back with a sigh of repletion----

The door opened to admit the waitress bearing a huge platter on which
reposed, side by side, five ducks. That meant a whole one apiece! To my
feeble protest the family turned indignantly.

"Of course you must eat your duck!" Mrs. Kitty settled the whole
question at last.

So I ate my duck. It was a very good duck; as indeed it should have
been, for it was fattened on Egyptian corn, hung the exact number of
days, and cooked by Charley. It had a little spout of celery down which
I could pour the abundant juice from its inside; and it was flanked
right and left respectively by a piece of lemon liberally sprinkled with
red pepper and sundry crisp slabs of fried hominy. Every night of the
shooting season each member of the household had "his duck." Later I was
shown the screened room wherein hung the game, each dated by a little
tag.

After I had made way with most of my duck, and other things, and had had
my coffee, and had lighted a cigar, I was entirely willing to sink back
to disgraceful ease. But the Captain suddenly developed an inexcusable
and fiendish energy.

"No, you don't," said he. "You come with me and Redmond and get out the
decoys."

"What for?" I temporized, feebly.

"To keep the moths out of them, of course," replied the Captain with
fine sarcasm. "Do you mean to tell me that you can sit still and do
nothing after seeing all those ducks this afternoon? You're a fine
sportsman! Brace up!"

"Let me finish this excellent cigar," I pleaded. "You gave it to me."

To this he assented. Carrie went back to the piano. The lights were dim.
Mrs. Kitty went on finishing her crochet work or whatever it was. Nobody
said anything for a long time. The Captain was busy in the gun room with
one of the ranch foremen.

But this could not last, and at length I was haled forth to work.

The crisp, sharp air beneath the frosty stars, after the tepid air
within, awakened me like the shock of cold water. Redmond was awaiting
us with a lantern. By the horse block lay the mass of something
indeterminate which I presently saw to be sacks full of something
knobby.

"I have six sacks of wooden decoys," said Redmond, "with weights all on
them."

The Captain nodded and passed on. We made our way down past the grape
arbour, opened the high door leading into chickenville, and stopped at
the border of the little pond. On its surface floated a hundred or so
tame ducks of all descriptions. By means of clods of earth we woke them
up. They came ashore and waddled without objection to a little
inclosure. We followed them and shut the gate.

One after another the Captain indicated those he wished to take with him
on the morrow. Redmond caught them, inserted them in gunny sacks, two to
the sack. They made no great objection to being caught. One or two
youngsters flopped and flapped about, and had to be chased into a
corner. In general, however, they accepted the situation
philosophically, and snuggled down contentedly in their sacks.

"They are used to it," the Captain explained. "Most of these Rouen ducks
are old hands at the business; they know what to expect."

He was very particular as to the colouring of the individuals he
selected. A single white feather was sufficient to cause the rejection
of a female; and even when the colour scheme was otherwise perfect, too
light a shade proved undesired.

"I don't know just why it is," said he, "but the wild ducks are a lot
more particular about the live decoys than about the wooden. A wooden
decoy can be all knocked to pieces, faded and generally disreputable,
but it does well enough; but a live decoy must look the part absolutely.
That gives us six apiece; I think it will be enough."

Redmond took charge of our capture. We left him with the lantern,
stowing away the decoys, live and inanimate, in the Invigorator. Within
fifteen minutes thereafter I was sleeping the sleep of the moderately
tired and the fully fed.




CHAPTER VIII

DUCKS


The Captain rapped on my door. It was pitch dark, and the wind, which
had arisen during the night, was sweeping through the open windows,
blowing the light curtains about. Also it was very cold.

"All right," I answered, took my resolution in my hands, and stepped
forth.

Ten minutes later, by the light of a single candle, we were manipulating
the coffee-and-egg machine, and devouring the tall pile of
bread-and-butter sandwiches that had been left for us over night. Then,
stepping as softly as we could in our clumping rubber boots, our arms
burdened with guns and wraps, we stole into the outer darkness.

It was almost black, but we could dimly make out the treetops whipped
about by the wind. Over by the stable we caught the intermittent flashes
of many lanterns where the teamsters were feeding their stock. Presently
a merry and vigorous _rattle_--_rattle_--_rattle_ arose and came nearer.
The Invigorator was ready and under way.

We put on all the coats and sweaters, and climbed aboard. The Captain
spoke to his horses, and we were off.

That morning I had my first experience of a phenomenon I have never
ceased admiring--and wondering at. I refer to the Captain's driving in
the dark.

The night was absolutely black, so that I could hardly make out the
horses. In all the world were only two elements, the sky full of stars
and the mass of the earth. The value of this latter, as a means of
showing us where we were, was nullified by the fact that the skyline
consisted, not of recognizable and serviceable landmarks, but of the
distant mountains. We went a certain length of time, and bumped over a
certain number of things. Then the Captain pulled his team sharp around
to the left. Why he did so I could not tell you. We drove an hour over a
meandering course.

"Hang tight," remarked the Captain.

I did so. The front end of the Invigorator immediately fell away from
under me, so that if I had not been obeying orders by hanging tight I
should most certainly have plunged forward against the horses. We seemed
to slide and slither down a steep declivity, then hit water with a
splash, and began to flounder forward. The water rose high enough to
cover the floor of the Invigorator, causing the Captain to speculate on
whether Redmond had packed in the shells properly. Then the bow rose
with a mighty jerk and we scrambled out the other side.

"That's the upper ford on the Slough," observed the Captain, calmly.

Everywhere else along the Slough, as I subsequently discovered, the
banks fell off perpendicular, the water was deep, and the bottom soft.
The approach was down no fenced lane, but across the open, with no other
landmarks even in daylight than the break of low willows and
cottonwoods exactly like a hundred others. Ten minutes later the
Captain drew rein.

"Here you are," said he, cautiously. "You can dump your stuff off right
here. I can't get through the fence with the team; but it's only a short
distance to carry."

Accordingly, in entire faith, I descended and unloaded my three sacks of
wooden decoys and my three sacks of live ducks and my gun and shells.

"I'll drive on to another hole," said the Captain. "Good luck!"

"Would you mind," I suggested, meekly, "telling me in which direction
this mythical fence is situated; what kind of a fence it is; and where I
carry to when I get through it?"

The Captain chuckled.

"Why," he explained, "the fence is straight ahead of you; and it's
barbed wire; and as for where you're headed, you'll find the pond where
we saw all those ducks last night about a hundred yards or so west."

Where we saw all those ducks! My blood increased its pace through my
veins. Now that I was afoot, I could begin to make out things in the
starlight--the silhouettes of bushes or brush, and even three or four
posts of the fence.

The Invigorator rattled into the distance. I got my stuff the other side
of the wires, and, shouldering a sack, plodded away due west.

But now I made out the pond gleaming; and by this and by the dim
grayness of the earth immediately about me knew that dawn was at last
under way. The night had not yet begun to withdraw, but its first
strength was going. Objects in the world about became, not visible, but
existent. By the time I had carried my last load the rather liberal
hundred yards to the shores of the pond the eastern sky had banished its
stars.

My movements had, of course, alarmed the ducks. There were not many of
them, as I could judge by the whistling of their departing wings and by
the silvery furrows where they had left the water. It is curious how
strong the daylight must become before the eye can distinguish a duck in
flight. The comparative paucity of numbers, I reflected, was probably
due to the fact that the ducks used this pond merely as a loafing place
during the day. Therefore I should anticipate a good flight as soon as
feeding time should be over; especially as one end of the pond proved to
be fairly well sheltered from the high wind.

At once I set to work to build me a blind. This I constructed of
tumbleweed and willow shoots, with a lucky sagebrush as a good basis. I
made it thick below and thin on top, so I could crouch hidden, and rise
easily to shoot. Also I made it hastily, working away with a
concentration that would prove very valuable could it be brought to a
useful line of work. There can nothing equal the busyness of a man
hastening to perfect his arrangements before a flight of ducks is due to
start. Every few moments I would look anxiously up to see how things
were going with the morning. The light was indubitably increasing. That
is to say, I could make out the whole width of the pond, for example,
although the farther banks were still in silhouette, and the sky was
almost free of stars. Also the perpendicular plane of the mountains to
the west, in some subtle manner, was beginning to break. It was not yet
daylight; but the dawn was here.

I reached cautiously into one of the sacks and brought forth one of the
decoy ducks. Around his neck I buckled a little leather collar to a ring
in which had been attached a cord and weight. Then I cautiously waded
out and anchored him.

He was delighted, and proceeded immediately to take a bath, ducking his
head under and out again, ruffling his wings, and wagging his absurd
little tail. Apparently the whole experience was a matter of course to
him; but he was willing to show pleasure that this phase of it was over.
I anchored out his five companions, and then proceeded to arrange the
wooden decoys artistically around the outskirts. By now it was quite
genuinely early daylight. Three times the overhead whistle of wings had
warned me to hurry; and twice small flocks of ducks had actually swung
down within range only to discover me at the last moment and tower away
again. When younger, I used, at such junctures, to rush for my gun. That
is a puppy stage, for by the time you get your gun those ducks are gone;
and by the time you have regained your abandoned task more ducks are in.
Therefore one early learns that when he goes out from his blind to pick
up ducks, or catch cripples, or arrange decoys, he would better do so,
paying no attention whatever to the game that will immediately appear.
So now the whistle of wings merely caused me to work the faster. At
length I was able to wade ashore and sink into my blind.

Immediately, as usual, the flights ceased for the time being. I had
nothing to do but sit tight and wait.

This was no unpleasant task. The mountains to the west had become
lucent, and glowed pink in the dawn; those to the east looked like
silhouettes of very thin slate-coloured cardboard stuck up on edge,
across which a pearl wash had been laid. The flatter world of the plains
all about me lay half revealed in an unearthly gray light. The wind
swooped and tore away at the brush, sending its fan-shaped cat's-paws
across the surface of the pond. My ducks, having finished their
ablutions, now gave a leisurely attention to smoothing out their plumes
ruffled by the night in the gunnysack. They ran each feather separately
through their bills, preening and smoothing. All the time they conversed
together in low tones of voice. Whenever one made a rather clever
remark, or smoothed to glossiness a particularly rumpled feather, he
wagged his short tail vigorously from side to side in satisfaction.

Suddenly the one farthest out in the pond stilled to attention and
craned forward his neck.

"_Mark_!" quoth he, loudly, and then again: "_Mark_!
_quok_--_quok_--_quok_!"

The other five looked in the same direction, and then they, too, lifted
up their voices. Cautiously I turned my head. Low against the growing
splendour of the sunrise, wings rigidly set, came a flock of mallards.
My ducks fairly stood up on their tails the better to hurl invitations
and inducements at their wild brethren. The chorus praising this
particular spot was vociferous and unanimous, I wonder what the mallards
thought of the other fifty or sixty in my flock, the wooden ones, that
sat placidly aloof. Did they consider these remarkably exclusive; or did
they perhaps look upon the live ones as the "boosters" committee for
this particular piece of duck real estate? At any rate, they dropped in
without the slightest hesitation, which shows the value of live decoys.
The mallard is ordinarily a wily bird and circles your pond a number of
times before deciding to come in to wooden decoys. At the proper moment
I got to my feet, and, by good fortune, knocked down two fat
green-heads.

They fell with a splash right among my ducks. Did the latter exhibit
alarm over either the double concussion of the gun or this fall of
defunct game from above? Not at all! they were tickled to death. Each
swam vigorously around and around at the limit of his tether, ruffling
his plumage and waggling his tail with the utmost vigour.

"Well, I rather think we fooled that bunch!" said they, one to another.
"Did you ever see an easier lot? Came right down without a look! If the
Captain had been here he'd have killed a half dozen of the chumps before
they got out of range!" and so on. For your experienced decoy always
seems to enjoy the game hugely, and to enter into it with much
enthusiasm and intelligence. And all the while the flock of wooden
decoys headed unanimously up wind, and bobbed in the wavelets; and the
sun went on gilding the mountains to the west.

Next a flock of teal whirled down wind, stooped, and were gone like a
flash. I got in both barrels; and missed both. The dissatisfaction of
this was almost immediately mitigated by a fine smash at a flock of
sprig that went by overhead at extreme long range, but from which I
managed to bring down a fine drake. When the shot hit him he faltered,
then, still flying, left the ranks at an acute angle, sloping ever the
quicker downward, until he fell on a long slant, his wings set, his neck
still outstretched. I marked the direction as well as I could, and
immediately went in search of him. Fortunately he lay in the open, quite
dead. Looking back, I could see another good flock fairly hovering over
the decoys.

The sun came up, and grew warm. The wind died. I took off my sweater.
Between flights I basked deliciously. The affair was outside of all
precedent and reason. A duck shooter ought to be out in a storm, a good
cold storm. He ought to break the scum ice when he puts out his decoys.
He ought to sit half frozen in a wintry blast, his fingers numb, his
nose blue, his body shivering. That sort of discomfort goes with duck
shooting. Yet here I was sitting out in a warm, summerlike day in my
shirt sleeves, waiting comfortably--and the ducks were coming in, too!

After a time I heard the mighty rattle of the Invigorator, and the
Captain's voice shouting. Reluctantly I disentangled myself from my
blind and went over to see what all the row was about.

"Had enough?" he demanded, cheerily.

I saw that I was supposed to say yes; so I said it. The ducks were still
coming in fast. You see, I was not yet free from the traditions to which
I had been brought up. Back in Michigan, when a man went for a day's
shoot, he stayed with it all day. It was serious business. I was not
yet accustomed to being so close to the game that the casual expedition
was after all the most fun.

So I pulled up my rubber boots, and waded out, gathering in the game. To
my immense surprise I found that I had thirty-seven ducks down. It had
not occurred to me that I had shot half that number, which is perhaps
commentary on how fast ducks had been coming in. It was then only about
eight o'clock. After gathering them in, next we performed the slow and
very moist task of lifting the wooden decoys and winding their anchor
cords around their placid necks. Lastly we gathered in the live ducks.
They came, towed at the end of their tethers, with manifest reluctance;
hanging back at their strings, flapping their wings, and hissing at us
indignantly. I do not think they were frightened, for once we had our
hands on them, they resumed their dignified calm. Only they enjoyed the
fun outside; and they did not fancy the bags inside; a choice eminently
creditable to their sense.

So back we drove to the ranch. The Captain, too, had had good shooting.
Redmond appeared with an immense open hamper into which he dumped the
birds two by two, keeping tally in a loud voice. Redmond thoroughly
enjoyed all the small details.




CHAPTER IX

UNCLE JIM


Each morning, while we still sat at breakfast, Uncle Jim drove up from
the General's in his two-wheeled cart to see if there might be anything
doing. Uncle Jim was a solidly built elderly man, with the brown
complexion and the quizzical, good-humoured eye of the habitual
sportsman. He wore invariably an old shooting coat and a cap that had
seen younger, but perhaps not better, days. His vehicle was a battered
but serviceable two-wheeled cart drawn by a placid though adequate
horse. His weapon for all purposes was a rather ponderous twelve-gauge.

If we projected some sporting expedition Uncle Jim was our man; but if
there proved to be nothing in the wind, he disappeared promptly. He
conducted various trapping ventures for "varmints," at which he seemed
to have moderate success, for he often brought in a wildcat or coyote.
In fact, he maintained one of the former in a cage, to what end nobody
knew, for it was a harsh and unsociable character. Uncle Jim began to
show signs of life about July fifteenth when the dove season opened; he
came into his own from the middle of October until the first of
February, during which period one can shoot both ducks and quail; he
died down to the bare earth when the game season was over, and only sent
up a few green shoots of interest in the matter of supplying his
wildcat with that innumerable agricultural pest, the blackbird.

Sometimes I accompanied Uncle Jim, occupying the other side of the
two-wheeled cart. We never had any definite object in view; we just went
forth for adventure. The old horse jogged along very steadily,
considering the fact that he was as likely to be put at cross country as
a road. We humped up side by side in sociable silence, spying keenly for
what we could see. A covey of quail disappearing in the brush caused us
to pull up. We hunted them leisurely for a half hour and gathered in a
dozen birds. Always we tried to sneak ducks, no matter how hopeless the
situation might seem. Once I went on one hand and my knees through three
inches of water for three hundred yards, stalking a flock of sprig
loafing in an irrigation puddle. There was absolutely no cover; I was in
plain sight; from a serious hunting standpoint the affair was quixotic,
not to say imbecile. If I had been out with the Captain we should
probably not have looked twice at those sprig. Nevertheless, as the
general atmosphere of Uncle Jim's expeditions was always one of
adventure and forlorn hopes and try-it-anyway, I tried it on. Uncle Jim
sat in the cart and chuckled. Every moment I expected the flock to take
wing, but they lingered. Finally, when still sixty yards distant, the
leaders rose. I cut loose with both barrels for general results. To my
vast surprise three came down, one dead, the other two wing-tipped. The
two latter led me a merry chase, wherein I managed to splatter the rest
of myself. Then I returned in triumph to the cart. The forlorn hope had
planted its banner on the walls of achievement. Uncle Jim laughed at me
for my idiocy in crawling through water after such a fool chance. I
laughed at Uncle Jim because I had three ducks. We drove on, and the
warm sun dried me off.

In this manner we made some astonishing bags; astonishing not by their
size, but by the manner of their accomplishment.

We were entirely open minded. Anything that came along interested us. We
investigated all the holes in all the trees, in hopes of 'coons or honey
or something or other. We drove gloriously through every patch of brush.
Sometimes an unseen hummock would all but upset us; so we had to
scramble hastily to windward to restore our equilibrium.

The country was gridironed with irrigation ditches. They were eight to
ten feet deep, twenty or thirty feet wide, and with elevated,
precipitous banks. One could cross them almost anywhere--except when
they were brimful, of course. The banks were so steep that, once
started, the vehicle had to go, but so short that it must soon reach
bottom. On the other side the horse could attain the top by a rush;
after which, having gained at least a front footing over the bank, he
could draw the light vehicle by dead weight the rest of the distance.
Naturally, the driver had to take the course at exactly right angles, or
he capsized ingloriously.

One day Uncle Jim and I started to cross one of these ditches that had
long been permitted to remain dry. Its bottom was covered by weeds six
inches high, and looked to be about six feet down. We committed
ourselves to the slope. Then, when too late to reconsider, we discovered
that the apparent six-inch growth of weeds was in reality one of four
or five feet. The horse discovered it at the same time. With true
presence of mind, he immediately determined that it was up to him to
leap that ditch. Only the fact that he was hitched to the cart prevented
him from doing so; but he made a praiseworthy effort.

The jerk threw me backward, and had I not grabbed Uncle Jim I would most
certainly have fallen out behind. As for Uncle Jim, he would most
certainly have fallen out behind, too, if he had not clung like grim
death to the reins. And as for the horse, alarmed by the check and
consequent scramble, he just plain bolted, fortunately straight ahead.
We hit the opposite bank with a crash, sailed over it, and headed across
country.

Consider us as we went. Feet in air, I was poised on the end of my
backbone in a state of exact equilibrium. A touch would tumble me out
behind; an extra ounce would tip me safely into the cart; my only
salvation was my hold on Uncle Jim. I could not apply that extra ounce
for the simple reason that Uncle Jim also, feet in air, was poised
exactly on the end of his backbone. If the reins slackened an inch, over
he went; if he could manage to pull up the least bit in the world, in he
came! So we tore across country for several hundred yards, unable to
recover and most decidedly unwilling to fall off on the back of our
heads. It must have been a grand sight; and it seemed to endure an hour.
Finally, imperceptibly we overcame the opposing forces. We were saved!

Uncle Jim cursed out "Henry" with great vigour. Henry was the mare we
drove. Uncle Jim, in his naming of animals, always showed a stern
disregard for the female sex. Then, as usual, we looked about to see
what we could see.

Over to the left grew a small white oak. About ten or twelve feet from
the ground was a hole. That was enough; we drove over to investigate
that hole. It was not an easy matter, for we were too lazy to climb the
tree unless we had to. Finally we drove close enough so that, by
standing on extreme tip-toe atop the seat of the cart, I could get a
sort of sidewise, one-eyed squint at that hole.

"If," I warned Uncle Jim, "Henry leaves me suspended in mid-air I'll
bash her fool head in!"

"No, you won't," chuckled Uncle Jim, "it's too far home."

It was a very dark hole, and for a moment I could see nothing. Then, all
at once, I made out two dull balls of fire glowing steadily out of the
blackness. That was as long as I could stand stretching out my entire
anatomy to look down any hole.

On hearing my report, Uncle Jim phlegmatically thrust the flexible whip
down the hole.

"'Coon," he pronounced, after listening to the resultant remarks from
within.

And then the same bright idea struck us both.

"Mrs. Kitty here makes good with those angleworms," Uncle Jim voiced the
inspiration.

We blocked up the hole securely; and made rapid time back to the ranch.




CHAPTER X

THE MEDIUM-SIZE GAME


Against many attacks and accusations of uselessness cast at her
dachshunds, Mrs. Kitty had always stoutly opposed the legend of
"medium-size game." The dachshunds may look like bologna sausages on
legs, ran the gist of her argument; and they may progress like rather
lively measuring worms; and the usefulness of their structure may seem
to limit itself to a facility for getting under furniture without
stooping, _but_--Mrs. Kitty's eloquence always ended by convincing
herself, and she became very serious--but that is not the dogs' fault.
Rather it is the fault of their environment to which they have been
transplanted. Back in their own native vaterland they were always used
for medium-sized game. And what is more they are _good_ at it! Come
here, Pete, they shan't abuse you!

Coyotes and bobcats are medium-size game, someone ventured to point out.

Not at all, medium-size game should live in holes, like badgers.
Dachshunds are evidently built for holes. They are long and low, and
they have spatulate feet for digging, and their bandy legs enable them
to throw the dirt out behind them. Their long, sharp noses are like
tweezers to seize upon the medium-size game. In short, by much
repetition, a legend had grown up around the dachshunds, a legend of
fierceness inhibited only by circumstances, of pathetic deprivation of
the sports of their native land. If only we could have a badger, we
could almost hear them say to each other in dog language, a strong,
morose, savage badger! Alas! we are wasting our days in idleness, our
talents rust from disuse! Finally, Uncle Jim remained the only frankly
skeptical member.

At this time there visited the ranch two keen sportsmen whom we shall
call Charley and Tommy; as also several girls. We burst on the assembled
multitude with our news. Immediately a council of war was called. After
the praetors and tribunes of the people had uttered their opinions,
Uncle Jim arose and spoke as follows:

"Here is your chance to make good," said he, addressing Mrs. Kitty.
"Those badger hounds of yours, according to you, have just been fretting
for medium-size game. Well, here's some. Bring out the whole flock, and
let's see them get busy."

The proposition was received with a shout of rapture Uncle Jim smiled
grimly.

"Well, they'll do it!" cried Mrs. Kitty, with spirit.

Preparations were immediately under way. In half an hour the army
debouched from the ranch and strung out single file across the plain.

First came Uncle Jim and myself in the two-wheeled cart as scouts and
guides.

Followed the General in his surrey. The surrey had originally been
intended for idle dalliance along country lanes. In the days of its
glory it had been upholstered right merrily, and around its flat top had
dangled a blithesome fringe. Both the upholstery and fringe were still
somewhat there. Of the glory that was past no other reminder had
persisted. The General sat squarely in the middle of the front seat,
very large, erect, and imposing, driving with a fine military disregard
of hummocks or the laws of equilibrium. In or near the back seat hovered
a tiny Japanese boy to whom the General occasionally issued short,
sharp, military comments or commands.

Then came Mrs. Kitty and the ponies with Carrie beside her. Immediately
astern of the pony cart followed a three-seated carry-all with assorted
guests. This was flanked by the Captain and Charley as outriders. The
rear was closed by the Invigorator rilled with dachshunds. Their pointed
noses poked busily through the slats of the cage, and sniffed up over
the edge of the wagon box.

The rear, did I say? I had forgotten Mithradates Antikamia Briggs. The
latter polysyllabic person was a despised, apologetic, rangy,
black-and-white mongrel hound said to have belonged somewhere to a man
named Briggs. I think the rest of his name was intended as an insult.
Ordinarily Mithradates hung around the men's quarters where he was
liked. Never had he dared seek either solace or sympathy at the doors of
the great house; and never, never had he remotely dreamed of following
any of the numerous hunting expeditions. That would have been
lese-majesty, high treason, sublime impudence, and intolerable nuisance
to be punished by banishment or death. Mithradates realized this
perfectly; and never did he presume to raise his eyes to such high and
shining affairs.

But to-day he followed. Nobody was subsequently able to explain why
Mithradates Antikamia should on this one occasion so have plucked up
heart. My private opinion is that he saw the dachshunds being taken,
and, in his uncultivated manner, communed with himself as follows:

"Well, will you gaze on that! I don't pretend to be in the same class
with Old Ben or Young Ben, or even of the fox terriers; but if I'm not
more of a dog than that lot of splay-footed freaks, I'll go bite myself!
If they're _that_ hard up for dogs, I'll be cornswizzled if I don't go
myself!"

Which he did. We did not want him; this was distinctly the dachshunds'
party, and we did not care to have any one messing in. The Captain tried
to drive him back. Mithradates Antikamia would not go. The Captain
dismounted and tried force. Mithradates shut both eyes, crouched to the
ground, and immediately weighed a half ton. When punished he rolled over
and held all four paws in the air. The minute the Captain turned his
back, after stern admonitions to "go home!" and "down, charge!" and the
like, Mithradates crawled slowly forward to the waiting line, ducking
his head, wrinkling his upper lips ingratiatingly, and sneezing in the
most apologetic tones. Finally we gave it up.

"But," we "saved our face," "you'll have to behave when we get there!"

So, as has been said, Mithradates Antikamia Briggs brought up the rear.

Arrived at the tree the whole procession drew into a half circle. We
unblocked the opening, and the Invigorator was driven to a spot beneath
it so each person could take his turn at standing on the seat and
peering down the hole. The eyes still glowed like balls of fire.

Next the dachshunds were lifted up one by one and given a chance to
smell at the game. This was to make them keen. Held up by means of a
hand held either side their chests, they curled up their hind legs and
tails and seemed to endure. Mrs. Kitty explained that they had never
been so far off the ground in their lives, and so were naturally
preoccupied by the new sensation. This sounded reasonable, so we placed
them on the ground. There they sat in a circle looking up at our
performances, a solemn and mild interest expressing itself in their
lugubrious countenances. A dachshund has absolutely no sense of humour
or lightness of spirits. He never cavorts.

By sounding carefully with a carriage whip we determined the depth of
the hole, and proceeded to cut through to the bottom. This was quite a
job, for the oak was tough, and the position difficult. Tommy had
ascended the tree, and proclaimed loudly the first signs of daylight as
the axe bit through. Mine happened to be the axe work; so when I had
finished a neat little orifice, I swung up beside Tommy, and the
Invigorator drove out of the way.

My elevated position was a good one; and as Tommy was peering eagerly
down the hole, I had nothing to do but survey the scene.

The rigs were drawn up in a semi-circle twenty yards away. Next the
horses' heads stood the drivers of the various vehicles, anxious to miss
none of the fun. The dachshunds sat on their haunches, looking up, and
probably wondering why their friend, Tommy, insisted on roosting up a
tree. The Captain and Charley were immediately below, engaged in an
earnest effort to poke the 'coon into ascending the hole. Tommy was
reporting the result of these efforts from above. The General, his feet
firmly planted, had unlimbered a huge ten-bore shotgun, so as to be
ready for anything. Uncle Jim stood by, smoking his pipe. Mithradates
Antikamia Briggs sat sadly apart.

The poking efforts accomplished little. Occasionally the 'coon made a
little dash or scramble, but never went far. There was a great deal of
talking, shouting, and advice.

At last Uncle Jim, knocking the ashes from his pipe, moved into action.
He plucked a double handful of the tall, dry grass, touched a match to
it, and thrust it in the nick.

Without the slightest hesitation the 'coon shot out at the top!

Now just at that moment Tommy happened to be leaning over for a right
_good_ look down the hole. He received thirty pounds or so of agitated
'coon square in the chest. Thereupon he fell out of the tree
incontinently, with the 'coon on top of him.

We caught our breath in horror. Although we could plainly see that Tommy
was in no degree injured by his short fall, yet we all realized that it
was going to be serious to be mixed up with a raging, snarling beast
fight of twenty-two members. When the dachshunds should pounce on their
natural prey, the medium-size game, poor Tommy would be at the bottom of
the heap. Several even started forward to restrain the dogs, but stopped
as they realized the impossibilities.

Tommy and the 'coon hit with a thump. The dachshunds took one horrified
look; then with the precision of a drilled man[oe]uvre they unanimously
turned tail and plunged into the tall grass. From my elevated perch I
could see it waving agitatedly as they made their way through it in the
direction of the distant ranch.

For a moment there was astounded silence. Then there arose a shriek of
delight. The Captain rolled over and over and clutched handfuls of turf
in his joy. The General roared great salvos of laughter. Tommy, still
seated where he had fallen, leaned weakly against the tree, the tears
coursing down his cheeks. The rest of the populace lifted up their
voices and howled. Even Uncle Jim, who rarely laughed aloud, although
his eyes always smiled, emitted great Ho! ho!'s. Only Mrs. Kitty, dumb
with indignation, stared speechless after that wriggling mess of
fugitives.

The occasion was too marvellous. We enjoyed it to the full. Whenever the
rapture sank somewhat, someone would gasp out a half-remembered bit of
Mrs. Kitty's former defences.

"Their long, sharp noses are like tweezers to seize the game!" declaimed
Charley, weakly. [Spasm by the audience.]

"Their spatulate feet are meant for digging," the Captain took up the
tale. [Another spasm.]

"Their bandy legs enabled them to throw the dirt out behind them--as
they ran," suggested Tommy.

"If _only_ they could have had a badger they'd have beaten all records!"
we chorused.

And then finally we wiped our eyes and remembered that there used to be
a 'coon. At the same time we became conscious of a most unholy row in
the offing: the voice of Mithradates Antikamia.

"If you people want your 'coon," he was remarking in a staccato and
exasperated voice, "you'd better come and lend a hand. _I_ can't manage
him alone! The blame thing has bitten me in three places already. Of
course, I like to see people have a good time, and I hope you won't
curtail your enjoyment on my account; but if you've had _quite_ enough
of those made-in-Germany imitations, perhaps you'll just stroll over and
see what one good American-built DOG can do!"




CHAPTER XI

IN SEARCH OF ADVENTURE


Uncle Jim had friends everywhere. Continually we were pulling up by one
of the tiny two-roomed shacks wherein dwelt the small settlers. The
houses were always of new boards, unpainted, perched on four-by-fours,
in the middle of bare ground, perhaps surrounded by young poplars or
cottonwoods, but more likely fully exposed to the sun. A trifling open
shed protected a battered buggy on the thills and wheels of which
perched numerous chickens. A rough corral and windmill completed the
arrangements. Near the house was usually a small patch of alfalfa.
Farther out the owner was engaged in the strenuous occupation of
brushing and breaking a virgin country.

To greet us rushed forth a half-dozen mongrel dogs, and appeared a swarm
of children, followed by the woman of the place. Uncle Jim knew them all
by name, including even the dogs. He carefully wound the reins around
the whip, leaned forward comfortably, and talked. Henry dozed; and I
listened with interest. Uncle Jim had the natural gift of popularity. By
either instinct or a wide experience he knew just what problems and
triumphs, disappointments and perplexities these people were
encountering; and he plunged promptly into the discussion of them. Also,
I was never able to make out whether Uncle Jim was a conscious or
unconscious diplomat; but certainly he knew how judiciously to make use
of the subtle principle, so well illustrated by Molière, that it pleases
people to confer small favours. Thus occasionally he gravely "borrowed"
a trifle of axle grease, which we immediately applied, or a cup of milk,
or a piece of string to mend something. When finally our leisurely
roadside call was at an end, we rolled away from unanimously hearty
signals of farewell.

In accordance with our settled feeling of taking things as they came,
and trying for everything, we blundered into varied experiences, none of
which arrange themselves in recollection with any pretence of logical
order. Perhaps it might not be a bad idea to copy our method, to set
forth and see where we land.

One of the most amusing happened when we were out with my younger, but
not smaller, brother. This youth was at that time about eighteen years
old, and six feet two in height. His age _plus_ his stature _equalled_ a
certain lankiness. As we drove peacefully along the highway we observed
in the adjacent field a coyote. The animal was some three or four
hundred yards away, lying down, his head between his paws, for all the
world like a collie dog. Immediately the lad was all excitement. We
pointed out the well-known facts that the coyote is no fool and is
difficult to stalk at best; that while he is apparently tame as long as
the wagon keeps moving, he decamps when convinced that his existence is
receiving undue attention; that in the present instance the short grass
would not conceal a snake; and that, finally, a 16-gauge gun loaded with
number-six shot was not an encouraging coyote weapon. He brushed them
aside as mere details. So we let him out.

He dropped into the grass and commenced his stalk. This he accomplished
on his elbows and knees. A short review of the possibilities will
convince you that the sight was unique. Although the boy's head and
shoulders were thus admirably close to the ground, there followed an
extremely abrupt apex. Add the fact that the canvas shooting coat soon
fell forward over his shoulders.

The coyote at first paid no attention. As this strange object worked
nearer, he raised his head to take a look. Then he sat up on his
haunches to take a better look. At this point we expected him to lope
away instead of which he trotted forward a few feet and stopped, his
ears pricked forward. There he sat, his shrewd brain alive with
conjecture until, at thirty-five yards, the kid emptied both barrels.
Thereupon he died, his curiosity as to what a movable brown pyramid
might be still unsatisfied.

Uncle Jim, the kid, and I had great fun cruising for jackrabbits. Uncle
Jim sat in the middle and drove while the kid and I hung our feet over
the sides and constituted ourselves the port and starboard batteries.
Bumping and banging along at full speed over the uneven country, we
jumped the rabbits, and opened fire as they made off. Each had to stick
to his own side of the ship, of course. Uncle Jim's bird dog, his head
between our feet, his body under the seat, watched the proceedings,
whining. It looked like good fun to him, but it was forbidden. A
jackrabbit arrested in full flight by a charge of shot turns a very
spectacular somersault. The dog would stand about five rabbits. As the
sixth turned over, he executed a mad struggle, accomplished a flying
leap over the front wheel, was rolled over and over by the forward
momentum of the moving vehicle, scrambled to his feet, pounced on that
rabbit, and most everlastingly and savagely shook it up! Then Uncle Jim
descended and methodically and dispassionately licked the dog.

Jackrabbits were good small-rifle game. They started away on a slow
lope, but generally stopped and sat up if not too seriously alarmed. A
whistle sometimes helped bring them to a stand. After a moment's
inspection they went away, rapidly. With a .22 automatic one could turn
loose at all sorts of ranges at all speeds. It was a good deal of fun,
too, sneaking about afoot through the low brush, making believe that the
sage was a jungle, the tiny pellets express bullets, the rabbits
magnified--I am sorry for the fellow who cannot have fun sometimes
"pretending!" In the brush, too, dwelt little cottontails, very good to
eat. The jackrabbit was a pest, but the cottontail was worth getting. We
caught sight of him first in the bare open spaces between the bushes,
whereupon he proceeded rapidly to cover. It was necessary to shoot
rather quickly. The inexperienced would be apt to run forward eagerly,
hoping to catch a glimpse of the cottontail on the other side; but
always it would be in vain. That would be owing to the fact that the
little rabbit has a trick of apparently running through a brush at full
speed, but in reality of stopping abruptly and squatting at the roots.
Often it is possible to get a shot by scrutinizing carefully the last
place he was seen. He can stop as suddenly as a cow pony.

Often and often, like good strategic generals, we were induced by
circumstances to change our plans or our method of attack at the last
moment. On several occasions, while shooting in the fields of Egyptian
corn, I have killed a quail with my right barrel and a duck with my
left! Continually one was crouching in hopes, when some unexpected flock
stooped toward him as he walked across country. These hasty concealments
were in general quite futile, for it is a fairly accurate generalization
that, in the open, game will see you before you see it. This is not
always true. I have on several occasions stood stock still in the open
plain until a low-flying mallard came within easy range. Invariably the
bird was flying toward the setting sun, so I do not doubt his vision was
more or less blinded.

The most ridiculous effort of this sort was put into execution by the
Captain and myself.

Be it premised that while, in the season, the wildfowl myriads were
always present, it by no means followed that the sportsman was always
sure of a bag. The ducks followed the irrigation water. One week they
might be here in countless hordes; the next week might see only a few
coots and hell divers left, while the game was reported twenty miles
away. Furthermore, although fair shooting--of the pleasantest sort, in
my opinion--was always to be had by jumping small bands and singles from
the "holes" and ditches, the big flocks were quite apt to feed and loaf
in the wide spaces discouragingly free of cover. Irrigation was done on
a large scale. A section of land might be submerged from three inches to
a foot in depth. In the middle of this temporary pond and a half dozen
others like it fed the huge bands of ducks. What could you do? There
was no cover by which to sneak them. You might build a blind, but before
the ducks could get used to its strange presence in a flat and
featureless landscape the water would be withdrawn from that piece of
land. Only occasionally, when a high wind drove them from the open, or
when the irrigation water happened to be turned in to a brushy country,
did the sportsman get a chance at the great swarms. Since a man could
get all the ducks he could reasonably require, there was no real reason
why he should look with longing on these inaccessible packs, but we all
did. It was not that we wanted more ducks; for we held strictly within
limits, but we wanted to get in the thick of it.

On the occasion of which I started to tell, the Captain and I were
returning from somewhere. Near the Lakeside ranch we came across a big
tract of land overflowed by not deeper than two or three inches of
water. The ducks were everywhere on it. They sat around fat and solemn
in flocks; they swirled and stooped and lit and rose again; they fed
busily; they streamed in from all points of the compass, cleaving the
air with a whistling of wings.

Cover there was none. It was exactly like a big, flat cow pasture
without any fences. We pulled up the Invigorator and eyed the scene with
speculative eyes. Finally, we did as follows:

Into the middle of that field waded we. The ducks, of course, arose with
a roar, circled once out of range, and departed. We knew that in less
than a minute the boldest would return to see if, perchance, we might
have been mere passers-by. Finding us still there, they would, in the
natural course of events, circle once or twice and then depart for
good.

Now we had noticed this: ducks will approach to within two or three
hundred yards of a man standing upright, but they will come within one
hundred--or almost in range--if he squats and holds quite still. This,
we figured, is because he is that much more difficult to recognize as a
man, even though he is in plain sight. We had to remain in plain sight;
but could we not make ourselves more difficult to recognize?

After pulling up our rubber boots carefully, we knelt in the two inches
of water, placed our chests across two wooden shell boxes we had brought
for the purpose, ducked our heads, and waited. After a few moments
overhead came the peculiar swift whistle of wings. We waited, rigid.
When that whistle sounded very loud indeed, we jerked ourselves upright
and looked up. Immediately above us, already towering frantically, was a
flock of sprig. They were out of range, but we were convinced that this
was only because we had mistakenly looked up too soon.

It was fascinating work, for we had to depend entirely on the sense of
hearing. The moment we stirred in the slightest degree away went the
ducks. As it took an appreciable time to rise to our feet, locate the
flock, and get into action, we had to guess very accurately. We fired a
great many times, and killed a very few; but each duck was an
achievement.

Though the bag could not be guaranteed, the sight of ducks could. When
my brother went with me to the ranch, the duck shooting was very poor.
This was owing to the fact that sudden melting of the snows in the
Sierras had overflowed an immense tract of country to form a lake eight
or nine miles across. On this lake the ducks were safe, and thither they
resorted in vast numbers. As a consequence, the customary resorts were
deserted. We could see the ducks, and that was about all. Realizing the
hopelessness of the situation we had been confining ourselves so
strictly to quail that my brother had begun to be a little sceptical of
our wildfowl tales. Therefore, one day, I took him out and showed him
ducks.

They were loafing in an angle of the lake formed by the banks of two
submerged irrigating ditches, so we were enabled to measure them
accurately. After they had flown we paced off their bulk. They had
occupied a space on the bank and in the water three hundred yards long
by fifty yards wide; and they were packed in there just about as thick
as ducks could crowd together. An able statistician might figure out how
many there were. At any rate, my brother agreed that he had seen some
ducks.

There was one thing about Uncle Jim's expeditions: they were cast in no
rigid lines. Their direction, scope, or purpose could be changed at the
last moment should circumstances warrant.

One day Uncle Jim came after me afoot, with the quiet assurance that he
knew where there were "some ducks."

"Tommy is down there now," said he, "in a blind. We'll make a couple
more blinds across the pond, and in that way one or the other of us is
sure to get a shot at everything that comes in. And the way they're
coming in is scand'lous!"

Therefore I filled my pockets with duck shells, seized my close-choked
12-bore, and followed Uncle Jim. We walked across three fields.

"Those ducks are acting mighty queer," proffered Uncle Jim in puzzled
tones.

We stopped a moment to watch. Flock after flock stooped toward the
little pond, setting their wings and dropping with the extraordinary
confidence wildfowl sometimes exhibit. At a certain point, however, and
while still at a good elevation, they towered swiftly and excitedly.

"Doesn't seem like they'd act so scared even if Tommy wasn't well hid,"
puzzled Uncle Jim.

We proceeded cautiously, keeping out of sight behind some greasewood,
until we could see the surface of the pond. There were Tommy's decoys,
and there was Tommy's blind. We could not see but that it was a
well-made blind. Even as we looked another flock of sprig sailed down
wind, stopped short at a good two hundred yards, towered with every
appearance of lively dismay, and departed. Tommy's head came above the
blind, gazing after them.

"They couldn't act worse if Tommy was out waving his hat at 'em," said
Uncle Jim.

We climbed a fence. This brought us to a slight elevation, but
sufficient to enable us to see abroad over the flat landscape.

Immediately beyond Tommy was a long, low irrigation check grown with
soft green sod. On the farther slope thereof were the girls. They had
brought magazines and fancy work, and evidently intended to spend the
afternoon in the open, enjoying the fresh air and the glad sunshine and
the cheerful voices of God's creatures. They were, of course, quite
unconscious of Tommy's sporting venture not a hundred feet away. Their
parasols were green, red, blue, and other explosive tints.

Uncle Jim and I sat for a few moments on the top of that fence enjoying
the view. Then we climbed softly down and went away. We decided tacitly
not to shoot ducks. The nature of the expedition immediately changed. We
spent the rest of the afternoon on quail. To be sure number-five shot in
a close-choked twelve is not an ideal load for the purpose; but by care
in letting our birds get far enough away we managed to have a very good
afternoon's sport. And whenever we would make a bad miss we had ready
consolation: the thought of Tommy waiting and wondering and puzzling in
his blind.




CHAPTER XII

THE GRAND TOUR


Almost always our sporting expeditions were of this casual character,
sandwiched in among other occupations. Guns were handy, as was the game.
To seize the one and pursue the other on the whim of the moment was the
normal and usual thing. Thus one day Mrs. Kitty drove me over to look at
a horse I was thinking of buying. On the way home, in a corner of brush,
I hopped out and bagged twelve quail; and a little farther on, by a
lucky sneak, I managed to gather in five ducks from an irrigation pond.
On another occasion, having a spare hour before lunch, I started out
afoot from the ranch house at five minutes past eleven, found my quail
within a quarter mile, had luck in scattering them, secured my limit of
twenty-five, and was back at the house at twelve twenty-five! Before
this I had been to drive with Mrs. Kitty; and after lunch we drove
twelve miles to call on a neighbour. Although I had enjoyed a full day's
quail shoot, it had been, as it were, merely an interpolation.

Occasionally, however, it was elected to make a grand and formal raid on
the game. This could be either a get-up-early-in-the-morning session in
the blinds, a formal quail hunt, or the Grand Tour.

To take the Grand Tour we got out the Liver Invigorator and as many
saddle horses as might be needed to accommodate the shooters. On
reaching the hog field it was proper to disembark, and to line up for an
advance on the corner of the irrigation ditch where I had so
unexpectedly jumped the ducks my first morning on the ranch. In extended
order we approached. If ducks were there, they got a great hammering.
Everybody shot joyously--whether in sure range or not, it must be
confessed. The birds went into a common bag, for it would be impossible
to say who had killed what. After congratulations and reproaches, both
of which might be looked upon as sacrifices to the great god Josh, we
swung to the left and tramped a half mile to the artesian well. The
Invigorator and saddle horses followed at a respectful distance. When we
had investigated the chances at the well, we climbed aboard again and
rattlety-banged across country to the Slough.

The Slough comprised a wide and varied country. In proper application it
was a little winding ravine sunk eight or ten feet below the flat plain,
and filled with water. This water had been grown thick with trees, but
occasionally, for some reason to me unknown, the growth gave space for
tiny open ponds or channels. These were further screened by occasional
willows or greasewood growing on the banks. They were famous loafing
places for mallards.

It was great fun to slip from bend to bend of the Slough, peering
keenly, moving softly, trying to spy through the thick growth to a
glimpse of the clear water. The ducks were very wary. It was necessary
to know the exact location of each piece of open water, its
surroundings, and how best it was to be approached. Only too often, peer
as cautiously as we might, the wily old mallards would catch a glimpse
of some slight motion. At once they would begin to swim back and forth
uneasily. Always then we would withdraw cautiously, hoping against hope
that suspicion would die. It never did. Our stalk would disclose to us
only a troubled surface of water on which floated lightly a half dozen
feathers.

But when things went right we had a beautiful shot. The ducks towered
straight up, trying to get above the level of the brush, affording a
shot at twenty-five or thirty yards' range. We always tried to avoid
shooting at the same bird, but did not always succeed. Old Ben delighted
in this work, for now he had a chance to plunge in after the fallen. As
a matter of fact, it would have been quite useless to shoot ducks in
these circumstances had we not possessed a good retriever like Old Ben.

The Slough proper was about two miles long, and had probably eight or
ten "holes" in which ducks might be expected. The region of the Slough
was, however, a different matter.

It was a fascinating stretch of country, partly marshy, partly dry, but
all of it overgrown with tall and rustling tules. These reeds were
sometimes so dense that one could not force his way through them; at
others so low and thin that they barely made good quail cover. Almost
everywhere a team could be driven; and yet there were soft places and
water channels and pond holes in which a horse would bog down
hopelessly. From a point on the main north-and-south ditch a man afoot
left the bank to plunge directly into a jungle of reeds ten feet tall.
Through them narrow passages led him winding and twisting and doubting
in a labyrinth. He waded in knee-deep water, but confidently, for he
knew the bottom to be solid beneath his feet. On either side, fairly
touching his elbows, the reeds stood tall and dense, so that it seemed
to him that he walked down a narrow and winding hallway. And every once
in a while the hallway debouched into a secret shallow pond lying in the
middle of the tule jungle in which might or might not be ducks. If there
were ducks, it behooved him to shoot very, very quickly, for those that
fell in the tules were probably not to be recovered. Then more narrow
passages led to other ponds.

Always the footing was good, so that a man could strike forward
confidently. But again there are other places in the Slough region where
one has to walk for half a mile to pass a miserable little trickle only
just too wide to step across. The watercress grows thick against either
oozy bank, leaving a clear of only a foot. Yet it is bottomless.

The Captain knew this region thoroughly, and drove in it by landmarks of
his own. After many visits I myself got to know the leading "points of
interest" and how to get to them by a set route; but their relations one
to another have always remained a little vague.

For instance, there was an earthen reservoir comprising two circular
connecting ponds, elevated slightly above the surrounding flats, so that
a man ascended an incline to stand on its banks. One half of this
reservoir is bordered thickly by tules; but the other half is without
growth. We left the Invigorator at some hundreds of yards distance; and,
single file, followed the Captain. We stopped when he did, crawled when
he did, watched to see what dry and rustling footing he avoided, every
sense alert to play accurately this unique game of "follow my leader."
He alone kept watch of the cover, the game, and the plan of attack. We
were like the tail of a snake, merely following where the head directed.
This was not because the Captain was so much more expert than ourselves,
but so as to concentrate the chances of remaining undiscovered. If each
of us had worked out his own stalk we should have multiplied the chances
of alarming the game; we should have created the necessity for signals;
and we should have had the greatest difficulty in synchronizing our
arrival at the shooting point. We moved a step at a time, feeling
circumspectly before resting our weight. At the last moment the Captain
motioned with his hand. Wriggling forward, we came into line. Then, very
cautiously, we crawled up the bank of the reservoir and peered over!
That was the supreme moment! The wildfowl might arise in countless
numbers; in which case we shot as carefully and as quickly as possible,
reloading and squatting motionless in the almost certain hope of a
long-range shot or so at a straggler as the main body swung back over
us. Or, again, our eager eyes were quite likely to rest upon nothing but
a family party of mud-hens gossiping sociably.

Just beyond the reservoir on the other side was an overflowed small
flat. It was simply hummocky solid ground with a little green grass and
some water. Behind the hummocks, even after a cannonade at the
reservoir, we were almost certain to jump two or three single spoonbills
or teal. Why they stayed there, I could not tell you; but stay they
did. We walked them up one at a time, as we would quail. The range was
long. Sometimes we got them; and sometimes we did not.

From the reservoir we drove out into the illimitable tules. The horses
went forward steadily, breasting the rustling growth. Behind them the
Invigorator rocked and swayed like a small boat in a tide rip. We stayed
in as best we could, our guns bristling up in all directions. The
Captain drove from a knowledge of his own. After some time, across the
yellow, waving expanse of the rushes, we made out a small dead willow
stub slanted rakishly. At sight of this we came to a halt. Just beyond
that stub lay a denser thicket of tules, and in the middle of them was
known to be a patch of open water about twenty feet across. There was
not much to it; but invariably a small bunch of fat old greenheads were
loafing in the sun.

It now became, not a question of game, for it was always there, but a
question of getting near enough to shoot. To be sure, the tiny pond was
so well covered that a stranger to the country would actually be unaware
of its existence until he broke through the last barrier of tules; but,
by the same token, that cover was the noisiest cover invented for the
protection of ducks. Often and often, when still sixty or seventy yards
distant, we heard the derisive _quack_, _quack_, _quack_, with which a
mallard always takes wing, and, a moment later, would see those wily
birds rising above the horizon. A false step meant a crackle; a stumble
meant a crash. We fairly wormed our way in by inches. Each yard gained
was a triumph. When, finally, after a half hour of Indian work, we had
managed to line up ready for the shot, we felt that we had really a few
congratulations coming. We knew that within fifteen or twenty feet
floated the wariest of feathered game; and _absolutely unconscious of
our presence_.

"Now!" the Captain remarked, aloud, in conversational tones.

We stood up, guns at present. The Captain's command was answered by the
instant beat of wings and the confused quicker calling of alarm. In the
briefest fraction of a second the ducks appeared above the tules. They
had to tower straight up, for the pond was too small and the reeds too
high to permit of any sneaking away. So close were they that we could
see the markings of every feather--the iridescence of the heads, the
delicate, wave-marked cinnamons and grays and browns, even the absurd
little curled plumes over the tails. The guns cracked merrily, the
shooters aiming at the up-stretched necks. Down came the quarry with
mighty splashes that threw the water high. The remnant of the flock
swung away. We stood upright and laughed and joked and exulted after the
long strain of our stalk. Ben plunged in again and again, bringing out
the game.

Of these tule holes there were three. When we had visited them each in
turn we swung back toward the west. There, after much driving, we came
to the land of irrigation ditches again. At each new angle one of us
would descend, sneak cautiously to the bank and, bending low, peer down
the length of the ditch. If ducks were in sight, he located them
carefully and then we made our sneak. If not, we drove on to the next
bend. Once we all lay behind an embankment like a lot of soldiers
behind a breastwork while one of us made a long détour around a big
flock resting in an overflow across the ditch. The ruse was successful.
The ducks, rising at sight of the scout, flew high directly over the
ambuscade. A battery of six or eight guns thereupon opened up. I believe
we killed three or four ducks among us; but if we had not brought down a
feather we should have been satisfied with the fact that our stratagem
succeeded.

So at the last, just as the sun was setting, we completed the circle and
landed at the ranch. We had been out all day in the warm California sun
and the breezes that blow from the great mountains across the plains; we
had worked hard enough to deserve an appetite; we had in a dozen
instances exercised our wit or our skill against the keen senses of wild
game; we had used our ingenuity in meeting unexpected conditions; we had
had a heap of companionship and good-natured fun one with another; we
had seen a lot of country. This was much better than sitting solitary
anchored in a blind. To be sure a man could kill more ducks from a
blind; but what of that?




CHAPTER XIII

RANCH ACTIVITIES


Big as it was, the ranch was only a feeder for the open range. Way down
in southeastern Arizona its cattle had their birth and grew to their
half-wild maturity. They won their living where they could, fiercely
from the fierce desert. On the broad plains they grazed during the fat
season; and as the feed shortened and withered, they retired slowly to
the barren mountains. In long lines they plodded to the watering places;
and in long, patient lines they plodded their way back again, until deep
and indelible troughs had been worn in the face of the earth. Other
living creatures they saw few, save the coyotes that hung on their
flanks, the jackrabbits, the prairie dogs, the birds strangely cheerful
in the face of the mysterious and solemn desert. Once in a while a pair
of mounted men jog-trotted slowly here and there among them. They gave
way to right and left, swinging in the free trot of untamed creatures,
their heads high, their eyes wild. Probably they remembered the terror
and ignominy and temporary pain of the branding. The men examined them
with critical eye, and commented technically and passed on.

This was when the animals were alive with the fat grasses. But as the
drought lengthened, they pushed farther into the hills until the boldest
or hardiest of them stood on the summits, and the weakest merely stared
dully as the mounted men jingled by. The desert, kind in her bounty, was
terrible in her wrath. She took her toll freely and the dried bones of
her victims rattled in the wind. The fittest survived. Durham died,
Hereford lived through, and turned up after the first rains wiry, lean,
and active.

Then came the round-up. From the hidden defiles, the buttes and ranges,
the hills and plains, the cowboys drew their net to the centre. Each
"drive" brought together on some alkali flat thousands of the restless,
milling, bawling cattle. The white dust rose in a cloud against the very
blue sky. Then, while some of the cowboys sat their horses as sentinels,
turning the herd back on itself, others threaded a way through the
multitude, edging always toward the border of the herd some animal
uneasy in the consciousness that it was being followed. Surrounding the
main herd, and at some distance from it, other smaller herds rapidly
formed from the "cut." Thus there was one composed entirely of cows and
unbranded calves; another of strays from neighbouring ranges; and a
third of the steers considered worthy of being made into beef cattle.

In due time the main herd was turned back on the range; the strays had
been cut out and driven home by the cowboys of their several owners; the
calves had been duly branded and sent out on the desert to grow up. But
there remained still compact the beef herd. When all the excitement of
the round-up had died, it showed as the tangible profit of the year.

Its troubles began. Driven to the railroad and into the corrals, it next
had to be urged to its first experience of sidedoor Pullmans. There the
powerful beasts went frantic. Pike poles urged them up the chute into
the cars. They rushed, and hesitated, and stopped and turned back in a
panic. At times it seemed impossible to get them started into the narrow
chute. On the occasion of one after-dark loading old J.B., the foreman,
discovered that the excited steers would charge a lantern light.
Therefore he posted himself, with a lantern, in the middle of the chute.
Promply the maddened animals rushed at him. He skipped nimbly one side,
scaled the fence of the chute. "Now keep 'em coming, boys!" he urged.

The boys did their best, and half filled the car. Then some other
impulse seized the bewildered rudimentary brains; the cattle balked.
J.B. did it again, and yet again, until the cars were filled.

You have seen the cattle trains, rumbling slowly along, the crowded
animals staring stupidly through the bars. They are not having a
particularly hard time, considering the fact that they are undergoing
their first experience in travelling. Nowadays they are not allowed to
become thirsty; and they are too car sick to care about eating. Car
sick? Certainly; just as you or I are car sick, no worse; only we do not
need to travel unless we want to. At the end of the journey, often, they
are too wobbly to stand up. This is not weakness, but dizziness from the
unwonted motion. Once a fool S.P.C.A. officer ordered a number of the
Captain's steers shot on the ground that they were too weak to live.
That greenhorn got into fifty-seven varieties of trouble.

Arrived at their journey's end the steers were permitted to get their
sea legs off; and then were driven slowly to a cattle paradise--the
ranch.

For there was flowing water always near to the thirsty nose; and rich
grazing; and wonderful wagons from which the fodder was thrown
abundantly; and pleasant shade from a mild and beneficent sun. The thin,
wiry beasts of the desert lost their angles; they became fat, and curly
of hair, and sleek of coat, and much inclined to kink up their tails and
cavort off in clumsy buck jumps just from the sheer joy of living. For
now they were, in good truth, beef cattle, the aristocracy of fifty
thousand, the pick of wide ranges, the total tangible wealth of a great
principality. To see them would come red-faced men with broad hats and
linen dusters; and their transfer meant dollars and dollars.

I have told you these things lest you might have concluded that the
Captain did nothing but shoot ducks and quail and ride the polo ponies
around the enclosure. As a matter of fact, the Captain was always going
to Arizona, or coming back, or riding here or driving there. When we
went to the ranch, he looked upon our visit as a vacation, but even then
he could not shoot with us as often as we all would have liked. On the
Arizona range were the [JH] ranch, and the Circle I, and the Bar O, and
the Double R, and the Box Springs, and others whose picturesque names I
have forgotten. To manage them were cowpunchers; and appertaining
thereunto were Chinese cooks, and horses, and pump mules, and grub
lists, and many other things. The ranch itself was even more complicated
an affair; for, as I have indicated, it meant many activities besides
cattle. And then there was the buying and selling and shipping. The
Captain was a busy man.

And the ranch was a busy place. Its population swung through the
nations. Always the aristocracy was the cowboy. There were not many of
him, for the cattle here were fenced and fattened; but a few were
necessary to ride abroad in order that none of the precious beef be
mired down or tangled in barbed wire; and that all of it be moved hither
and yon as the pasture varied. And of course the driving, the loading
and unloading of fresh shipments in and out demanded expert handling.

Some of them came from the desert, lean, bronzed, steady-eyed men
addicted to "double-barrelled" (two cinch) saddles, ox-bow stirrups,
straight-shanked spurs, tall-crowned hats, and grass ropes. They were
plain "cowpunchers." Between them and the California "vaqueros," or
"buckeroos", was always much slow and drawling argument. For the latter
had been "raised different" in about every particular. They used the
single-cinch saddle; long _tapaderos_; or stirrup hoods; curve-shanked
spurs with jingling chains; low, wide-brimmed sombreros and rawhide
ropes. And you who have gauged the earnestness of what might be called
"equipment arguments" among those of a gentler calling, can well
appreciate that never did bunk-house conversation lack.

Next to these cow riders and horse riders came probably the mule
drivers. There were many teams of mules, and they were used for many
things: such as plowing, cultivating, harvesting, haying, the building
of irrigation checks and ditches, freighting, and the like. A team
comprised from six to twelve individuals. The man in charge had to know
mules--which is no slight degree of special wisdom; had to know loads;
had to understand conditioning. His lantern was the first to twinkle in
the morning as he doled out corn to his charges.

Then came the ruck of field hands of all types. The average field hand
in California is a cross between a hobo and a labourer. He works
probably about half the year. The other half he spends on the road,
tramping it from place to place. Like the common hobo, he begs his way
when he can; catches freight train rides; consorts in thickets with his
kind. Unlike the common hobo, however, he generally has money in his
pocket and always carries a bed-roll. The latter consists of a blanket
or so, or quilt, and a canvas strapped around the whole. You can see him
at any time plodding along the highways and railroads, the roll slung
across his back. He much appreciates a lift in your rig; and sometimes
proves worth the trouble. His labour raises him above the level
degradation of the ordinary tramp; the independence of his spirit gives
his point of view an originality; the nomadic stirring of his blood
keeps him going. In the course of years he has crossed the length and
breadth of the state a half dozen times. He has harvested apples in
Siskiyou and oranges in Riverside; he has chopped sugar pine in the
snows of the Sierras and manzanita on the blazing hillsides of San
Bernardino; he has garnered the wheat of the great Santa Clara Valley
and the alfalfa of San Fernando. And whenever the need for change or the
desire for a drink has struck him, he has drawn his pay, strapped his
bed roll, and cheerfully hiked away down the long and dusty trail.

That is his chief defect as a field hand--his unreliability. He seems
to have no great pride in finishing out a job, although he is a good
worker while he is at it. The Captain used to send in the wagon to bring
men out, but refused absolutely to let any man ride in anything going
the other way. Nevertheless the hand, when the wanderlust hit him,
trudged cheerfully the long distance to town. I am not sure that a new
type is not thus developing, a type as distinct in its way as the
riverman or the cowboy. It is not as high a type, of course, for it has
not the strength either of sustained and earnest purpose nor of class
loyalty; but still it makes for new species. The California field hand
has mother-wit, independence, a certain reckless, you-be-damned courage,
a wandering instinct. He quits work not because he wants to loaf, but
because he wants to go somewhere else. He is always on the road
travelling, travelling, travelling. It is not hope of gain that takes
him, for in the scarcity of labour wages are as high here as there. It
is not desire for dissipation that lures him from labour; he drinks hard
enough, but the liquor is as potent here as two hundred miles away. He
looks you steadily enough in the eye; and he begs his bread and commits
his depredations half humorously, as though all this were fooling that
both you and he understood. What his impelling motive is, I cannot say;
nor whether he himself understands it, this restlessness that turns his
feet ever to the pleasant California highways, an Ishmael of the road.

But this very unreliability forces the ranchman to the next element in
our consideration of the ranch's people--the Orientals. They are good
workers, these little brown and yellow men, and unobtrusive and
skilled. They do not quit until the job is done; they live frugally;
they are efficient. The only thing we have against them is that we are
afraid of them. They crowd our people out. Into a community they edge
themselves little by little. At the end of two years they have saved
enough capital to begin to buy land. At the end of ten years they have
taken up all the small farms from the whites who cannot or will not live
in competition with Oriental frugality. The valley, or cove, or flat has
become Japanese. They do not amalgamate. Their progeny are Japanese
unchanged; and their progeny born here are American citizens. In the
face of public sentiment, restriction, savage resentment they have made
head. They are continuing to make head. The effects are as yet small in
relation to the whole of the body politic; but more and more of the
fertile, beautiful little farm centres of California are becoming the
breeding grounds of Japanese colonies. As the pressure of population on
the other side increases, it is not difficult to foresee a result. We
are afraid of them.

The ranchmen know this. "We would use white labour," say they, "if we
could get it, and rely on it. But we cannot; and we _must_ have labour!"
The debt of California to the Orientals can hardly be computed. The
citrus crop is almost entirely moved by them; and all other produce
depends so largely on them that it would hardly be an exaggeration to
say that without them a large part of the state's produce would rot in
fields. We do not want the Oriental; and yet we must have him, must have
more of him if we are to reach our fullest development. It is a dilemma;
a paradox.

And yet, it seems to me, the paradox only exists because we will not
face facts in a commonsense manner. As I remember it, the original
anti-Oriental howl out here made much of the fact that the Chinaman and
Japanese saved his money and took it home with him. In the peculiar
circumstances we should not object to that. We cannot get our work done
by our own people; we are forced to hire in outsiders to do it; we
should expect, as a country, to pay a fair price for what we get. It is
undoubtedly more desirable to get our work done at home; but if we
cannot find the help, what more reasonable than that we should get it
outside, and pay for it? If we insist that the Oriental is a detriment
as a permanent resident, and if at the same time we need his labour,
what else is there to do but pay him and let him go when he has done his
job?

And he will go _if pay is all he gets_. Only when he is permitted to
settle down to his favourite agriculture in a fertile country does he
stay permanently. To be sure a certain number of him engages in various
other commercial callings, but that number bears always a very definite
proportion to the Oriental population in general. And it is harmless. It
is not absolute restriction of immigration we want--although I believe
immigration should be numerically restricted, but absolute prohibition
of the right to hold real estate. To many minds this may seem a denial
of the "equal rights of man." I doubt whether in some respects men have
equal rights. Certainly Brown has not an equal right with Jones to spank
Jones's small boy; nor do I believe the rights of any foreign nation
paramount to our own right to safeguard ourselves by proper legislation.

These economics have taken us a long distance from the ranch and its
Orientals. The Japanese contingent were mainly occupied with the fruit,
possessing a peculiar deftness in pruning and caring for the prunes and
apricots. The Chinese had to do with irrigation and with the vegetables.
Their broad, woven-straw hats and light denim clothes lent the
particular landscape they happened for the moment to adorn a peculiarly
foreign and picturesque air.

And outside of these were various special callings represented by one or
two men: such as the stable men, the bee keeper, the blacksmith and
wagon-wright, the various cooks and cookees, the gardeners, the "varmint
catcher," and the like.

Nor must be forgotten the animals, both wild and tame. Old Ben and Young
Ben and Linn, the bird dogs; the dachshunds; the mongrels of the men's
quarters; all the domestic fowls; the innumerable and blue-blooded hogs;
the polo ponies and brood mares, the stud horses and driving horses and
cow horses, colts, yearlings, the young and those enjoying a peaceful
and honourable old age; Pollymckittrick; Redmond's cat and fifty others,
half-wild creatures; vireos and orioles in the trees around the house;
thousands and thousands of blackbirds rising in huge swarms like gnats;
full-voiced meadowlarks on the fence posts; herons stalking solemnly, or
waiting like so many Japanese bronzes for a chance at a gopher;
red-tailed hawks circling slowly; pigeon hawks passing with their falcon
dart; little gaudy sparrow hawks on top the telephone poles; buzzards,
stately and wonderful in flight, repulsive when at rest; barn-owls
dwelling in the haystacks, and horned owls in the hollow trees; the
game in countless numbers; all the smaller animals and tiny birds in
species too numerous to catalogue, all these drew their full sustenance
of life from the ranch's smiling abundance.

And the mules; I must not forget them. I have the greatest respect for a
mule. He knows more than the horse; just as the goose or the duck knows
more than the chicken. Six days the mules on the ranch laboured; but on
the seventh they were turned out into the pastures to rest and roll and
stand around gossiping sociably, rubbing their long, ridiculous Roman
noses together, or switching the flies off one another with their
tasselled tails. Each evening at sunset all the various teams came in
from different directions, converging at the lane, and plodding dustily
up its length to the sheds and their night's rest. Five evenings thus
they come in silence. But on the sixth each and every mule lifted up his
voice in rejoicing over the morrow. The distant wayfarer--familiar with
ranch ways--hearing this strident, discordant, thankful chorus far
across the evening peace of the wide country, would thus have known this
was Saturday night, and that to-morrow was the Sabbath, the day of rest!




CHAPTER XIV

THE HEATHEN


This must be mainly discursive and anecdotal, for no one really knows
much more than externals concerning the Chinese. Some men there are,
generally reporters on the big dailies, who have been admitted to the
tongs; who can take you into the exclusive Chinese clubs; who are
everywhere in Chinatown greeted cordially, treated gratis to strange
food and drink, and patted on the back with every appearance of
affection. They can tell you of all sorts of queer, unknown customs and
facts, and can show you all sorts of strange and unusual things. Yet at
the last analysis these are also discursions and anecdotes. We gather
empirical knowledge: only rarely do we think we get a glimpse of how the
delicate machinery moves behind those twinkling eyes.

I am led to these remarks by the contemplation of Chinese Charley at the
ranch. He has been with Mrs. Kitty twenty-five years; he wears American
clothes; he speaks English with hardly a trace of either accent or
idiom; he has long since dropped the deceiving Oriental stolidity and
weeps out his violent Chinese rages unashamed. Yet even now Mrs. Kitty's
summing up is that Charley is a "queer old thing."

If you start out with a good Chinaman, you will always have good
Chinamen; if you draw a poor one, you will probably be cursed with a
succession of mediocrities. They pass you along from one to another of
the same "family"; and, short of the adoption of false whiskers and a
change of name, you can find no expedient to break the charm. When one
leaves of his own accord, he sends you another boy to take his place.
When he is discharged, he does identically that, although you may not
know it. Down through the list of Gins or Sings or Ungs you slide
comfortably or bump disagreeably according to your good fortune or
deserts.

Another feature to which you must become accustomed is that of the
Unexpected Departure. Everything is going smoothly, and you are engaged
in congratulating yourself. To you appears Ah Sing.

"I go San Flancisco two o'clock tlain," he remarks. And he does.

In vain do you point to the inconvenience of guests, the injustice thus
of leaving you in the lurch; in vain do you threaten detention of wages
due unless he gives you what your servant experience has taught you is a
customary "week's warning." He repeats his remark: and goes. At
two-fifteen another bland and smiling heathen appears at your door. He
may or may not tell you that Ah Sing sent him. Dinner is ready on time.
The household work goes on without a hitch or a tiniest jar.

"Ah Sing say you pay me his money," announces this new heathen.

If you are wise, you abandon your thoughts of fighting the outrage. You
pay over Ah Sing's arrears.

"By the way," you inquire of your new retainer, "what's your name?"

"My name Lum Sing," the newcomer replies.

That is about the way such changes happen. If by chance you are in the
good graces of heathendom, you will be given an involved and fancy
reason for the departure. These generally have to do with the mysterious
movements of relatives.

"My second-uncle, he come on ship to San Flancisco. I got to show him
what to do," explains Ah Sing.

If they like you very much, they tell you they will come back at the end
of a month. They never do, and by the end of the month the new man has
so endeared himself to you that Ah Sing is only a pleasant memory.

The reasons for these sudden departures are two-fold as near as I can
make out. Ah Sing may not entirely like the place; or he may have
received orders from his tong to move on--probably the latter. If both
Ah Sing and his tong approve of you and the situation, he will stay with
you for many years. Our present man once remained but two days at a
place. The situation is an easy one; Toy did his work well; the
relations were absolutely friendly. After we had become intimate with
Toy, he confided to us his reasons:

"I don' like stay at place where nobody laugh," said he.

As servants the Chinese are inconceivably quick, deft, and clean. One
good man will do the work of two white servants, and do it better. Toy
takes care of us absolutely. He cooks, serves, does the housework, and
with it all manages to get off the latter part of the afternoon and
nearly every evening. At first, with recollections of the rigidly
defined "days off" of the East, I was a little inclined to look into
this. I did look into it; but when I found all the work done, without
skimping, I concluded that if the man were clever enough to save his
time, he had certainly earned it for himself. Systematizing and no false
moves proved to be his method.

Since this is so, it follows, quite logically and justly, that the
Chinese servant resents the minute and detailed supervision some
housewives delight in. Show him what you want done; let him do it;
criticize the result--but do not stand around and make suggestions and
offer amendments. Some housekeepers, trained to make of housekeeping an
end rather than a means, can never keep Chinese. This does not mean that
you must let them go at their own sweet will: only that you must try as
far as possible to do your criticizing and suggesting before or after
the actual performance.

I remember once Billy came home from some afternoon tea where she had
been talking to a number of "conscientious" housekeepers of the old
school until she had been stricken with a guilty feeling that she had
been loafing on the job. To be sure the meals were good, and on time;
the house was clean; the beds were made; and the comforts of life seemed
to be always neatly on hand; but what of that? The fact remained that
Billy had time to go horseback riding, to go swimming, to see her
friends, and to shoot at a mark. Every other housekeeper was busy from
morning until night; and then complained that somehow or other she never
could get finished up! It was evident that somehow Billy was not doing
her full duty by the sphere to which woman was called, etc.

So home she came, resolved to do better. Toy was placidly finishing up
for the afternoon. Billy followed him around for a while, being a
housekeeper. Toy watched her with round, astonished eyes. Finally he
turned on her with vast indignation.

"Look here, Mis' White," said he. "What a matter with you? You talk just
like one old woman!"

Billy paused in her mad career and considered. That was just what she
was talking like. She laughed. Toy laughed. Billy went shooting.

After your Chinaman becomes well acquainted with you, he develops human
traits that are astonishing only in contrast to his former mask of
absolute stolidity. To the stranger the Oriental is as impassive and
inscrutable as a stone Buddha, so that at last we come to read his
attitude into his inner life, and to conclude him without emotion. This
is also largely true of the Indian. As a matter of fact, your heathen is
rather vividly alive inside. His enjoyment is keen, his curiosity
lively, his emotions near the surface. If you have or expect to have
visitors, you must tell Ah Sing all about them--their station in life,
their importance, and the like. He will listen, keenly interested,
gravely nodding his pig-tailed, shaven head. Then, if your visitors are
from the East, you inform them of what every Californian knows--that
each and every member of a household must say "good morning"
ceremoniously to Ah Sing. And Ah Sing will smile blandly and duck his
pig-tailed, shaven head, and wish each member "good morning" back
again. It is sometimes very funny to hear the matin chorus of a dozen
people crying out their volley of salute to ceremony; and to hear again
the Chinaman's conscientious reply to each in turn down the long
table--"_Good_ mo'ning, Mr. White; _good_ mo'ning, Mis' White; _good_
mo'ning, Mr. Lewis----" and so on, until each has been remembered. There
are some families that, either from ignorance or pride, omit this and
kindred little human ceremonials. The omission is accepted; but that
family is never "my family" to the servant within its gates.

For your Chinaman is absolutely faithful and loyal and trustworthy. He
can be allowed to handle any amount of money for you. We ourselves are
away from home a great deal. When we get ready to go, we simply pack our
trunks and depart. Toy then puts away the silver and valuables and
places them in the bank vaults, closes the house, and puts all in order.
A week or so before our return we write him. Thereupon he cleans things
up, reclaims the valuables, rearranges everything. His wonderful Chinese
memory enables him to replace every smallest item exactly as it was. If
I happen to have left seven cents and an empty .38 cartridge on the
southwestern corner of the bureau, there they will be. It is difficult
to believe that affairs have been at all disturbed. Yet probably, if our
stay away has been of any length, everything in the house has been moved
or laid away.

Furthermore, Toy reads and writes English, and enjoys greatly sending us
wonderful and involved reports. One of them ended as follows: "The
weather is doing nicely, the place is safely well, and the dogs are
happy all the while." It brings to mind a peculiarly cheerful picture.

One of the familiar and persistent beliefs as to Chinese traits is that
they are a race of automatons. "Tell your Chinaman exactly what you want
done, and how you want it done," say your advisors, "for you will never
be able to change them once they get started." And then they will adduce
a great many amusing and true incidents to illustrate the point.

The facts of the case are undoubted, but the conclusions as to the
invariability of the Chinese mind are, in my opinion, somewhat
exaggerated.

It must be remembered that almost all Chinese customs and manners of
thought are the direct inverse of our own. When announcing or receiving
a piece of bad news, for example, it is with them considered polite to
laugh; while intense enjoyment is apt to be expressed by tears. The
antithesis can be extended almost indefinitely by the student of
Oriental manners. Contemplate, now, the condition of the young Chinese
but recently arrived. He is engaged by some family to do its housework;
and, as he is well paid and conscientious, he desires to do his best.
But in this he is not permitted to follow his education. Each, move he
makes in initiative is stopped and corrected. To his mind there seems no
earthly sense or logic in nine tenths of what we want; but he is willing
to do his best.

"Oh, well," says he to himself, "these people do things crazily; and no
well-regulated Chinese mind could possibly either anticipate how they
desire things done, or figure out why they want them that way. I give
it up! I'll just follow things out exactly as I am told"--and he does
so!

This condition of affairs used to be more common than it is now. Under
the present exclusion law no fresh immigration is supposed to be
possible. Most of the Chinese servants are old timers, who have learned
white people's ways, and--what is more important--understand them. They
are quite capable of initiative; and much more intelligent than the
average white servant.

But a green Chinaman is certainly funny. He does things forever-after
just as you show him the first time; and a cataclysm of nature is
required to shake his purpose. Back in the middle 'eighties my father,
moving into a new house, dumped the ashes beside the kitchen steps
pending the completion of a suitable ash bin. When the latter had been
built, he had Gin Gwee move the ashes from the kitchen steps to the bin.
This happened to be of a Friday. Ever after Gin Gwee deposited the ashes
by the kitchen steps every day; and on Friday solemnly transferred them
to the ash bin! Nor could anything persuade him to desist.

Again he was given pail, soap, and brush, shown the front steps and walk
leading to the gate, and set to work. Gin Gwee disappeared. When we went
to hunt him up, we found him half way down the block, still scrubbing
away. I was in favour of letting him alone to see how far he would go,
but mother had other ideas as to his activities.

These stories could be multiplied indefinitely; and are detailed by the
dozen as proof of the "stupidity" of the Chinese. The Chinese are
anything but stupid; and, as I have said before, when once they have
grasped the logic of the situation, can figure out a case with the best
of them.

They are, however, great sticklers for formalism; and disapprove of any
short cuts in ceremony. As soon leave with the silver as without waiting
for the finger bowls. A friend of mine, training a new man by example,
as new men of this nationality are always trained, was showing him how
to receive a caller. Therefore she rang her own doorbell, presented a
card; in short, went through the whole performance. Tom understood
perfectly. That same afternoon Mrs. G----, a next-door neighbour and
intimate friend, ran over for a chat. She rang the bell. Tom appeared.

"Is Mrs. B---- at home?" inquired the friend.

Tom planted himself square in the doorway. He surveyed her with a cold
and glittering eye.

"You got ticket?" he demanded. "You no got ticket, you no come in!"

On another occasion two ladies came to call on Mrs. B---- but by mistake
blundered to the kitchen door. Mrs. B----'s house is a bungalow and on a
corner. Tom appeared.

"Is Mrs. B---- at home?" they asked.

"This kitchen door; you go front door," requested Tom, politely.

The callers walked around the house to the proper door, rang, and
waited. After a suitable interval Tom appeared again.

"Is Mrs. B---- at home?" repeated the visitors.

"No, Mrs. B---- she gone out," Tom informed them. The proper
ceremonials had been fulfilled.

To one who appreciates what he can do, and how well he does it; who can
value absolute faithfulness and honesty; who confesses a sneaking
fondness for the picturesque as nobly exemplified in a clean and
starched or brocaded heathen; who understands how to balance the
difficult poise, supervision, and interference, the Chinese servant is
the best on the continent. But to one who enjoys supervising every step
or who likes well-trained ceremony, "good form" in minutiæ, and the
deference of our kind of good training the heathen is likely to prove
disappointing. When you ring your friend's door-bell, you are quite apt
to be greeted by a cheerful and smiling "hullo!" I think most
Californians rather like the entirely respectful but freshly
unconventional relationship that exists between the master and his
Chinese servant. I do.[H]




CHAPTER XV

THE LAST HUNT


Of all ranch visits the last day neared. Always we forgot it until the
latest possible moment; for we did not like to think of it. Then, when
the realization could be no longer denied, we planned a grand day just
to finish up on. The telephone's tiny, thin voice returned acceptances
from distant neighbours; so bright and early we waited at the
cross-roads rendezvous.

And from the four directions they came, jogging along in carts or
spring-wagons, swaying swiftly in automobiles whose brass flashed back
the early sun. As each vehicle drew up, the greetings flew, charged
electrically with the dry, chaffing humour of the out of doors. When we
finally climbed the fence into the old cornfield we were almost a dozen.
There were the Captain, Uncle Jim, and myself from the ranch; and T and
his three sons and two guests from Stockdale ranch; the sporting parson
of the entire neighbourhood, and Dodge and his three beautiful dogs.

Spread out in a rough line we tramped away through the dried and
straggling ranks of the Egyptian corn. Quail buzzed all around us like
angry hornets. We did not fire a shot. Each had his limit of twenty-five
still before him, and each wanted to have all the fun he could out of
getting them. Shooting quail in Egyptian corn is, comparatively
speaking, not much fun. We joked each other, and whistled and sang, and
trudged manfully along, gun over shoulder. The pale sun was
strengthening; the mountains were turning darker as they threw aside the
filmy rose of early day; in treetops a row of buzzards sat, their wings
outspread like the heraldic devices of a foreign nation. Thousands of
doves whistled away; thousands of smaller birds rustled and darted
before our advancing lines; tens of thousands of blackbirds sprinkled
the bare branches of single trees, uttering the many-throated multitude
call; underneath all this light and joyous life the business-like little
quail darted away in their bullet flight.

Always they bore across our front to the left; for on that side,
paralleling our course, ran a long ravine or "dry slough." It was about
ten feet deep on the average, probably thirty feet wide, and was densely
grown with a tangle of willows, berry vines, creepers, wild grape, and
the like. Into this the quail pitched.

By the time we had covered the mile length of that cornfield we had
dumped an unguessable number of quail into that slough.

Then we walked back the entire distance--still with our guns over our
shoulders--but this time along the edge of the ravine. We shouted and
threw clods, and kicked on the trees, and rattled things, urging the
hidden quail once more to flight. The thicket seemed alive with them. We
caught glimpses as they ran before us, pacing away at a great rate,
their feathers sleek and trim; they buzzed away at bewildering pitches
and angles; they sprang into the tops of bushes, cocking their head
plumes forward. Their various clicking undercalls, chatterings, and
chirrings filled the thicket as full of sound as of motion. And in the
middle distance before and behind us they mocked us with their calls.

"You _can't_ shoot! You _can't_ shoot!"

Some of them flew ever ahead, some of them doubled-back and dropped into
the slough behind us; but a proportion broke through the thicket and
settled in the wide fields on the other side. After them we went, and
for the first time opened our guns and slipped the yellow shells into
the barrels.

For this field on the other side was the wide, open plain; and it was
grown over by tiny, half-knee high thickets of tumbleweed with here and
there a trifle of sagebrush. Between these miniature thickets wound
narrow strips of sandy soil, like streams and bays and estuaries in
shape. We knew that the quail would lie well here, for they hate to
cross bare openings.

Therefore, we threw out our skirmish line, and the real advance in force
began.

Every man retrieved his own birds, a matter of some difficulty in the
tumbleweed. While one was searching, the rest would get ahead of him.
The line became disorganized, broke into groups, finally disintegrated
entirely. Each man hunted for himself, circling the tumbleweed patches,
combing carefully their edges for the quail that sometimes burst into
the air fairly at his feet. When he had killed one, he walked directly
to the spot. On the way he would flush two or three more. They were
tempting; but we were old hands at the sport, and we knew only too well
that if we yielded so far as to shoot a second before we had picked up
the first, the probabilities were strong that the first would never be
found. In this respect such shooting requires good judgment. It is
generally useless to try to shoot a double, even though a dozen easy
shots are in the air at once; and yet, occasionally, on a day when
Koos-ey-oonek is busy elsewhere, it may happen that the birds flush
across a wide, bare space. It is well to keep a weather eye open for
such chances.

With a green crowd and in different cover such shooting might have been
dangerous; but with an abundance of birds, in this wide, open prairie,
cool heads knew enough to keep wide apart and to look before they shot.
The fun grew fast and furious; and the guns popped away like
firecrackers. In fact, the fun grew a little too fast and furious to
suit Dodge.

Dodge had beautiful and well-trained dogs. Ordinarily any one of us
would have esteemed it a high privilege to shoot over them. In fact, I
have often declared myself to the effect that of the three elements of
pleasure comprehended in field shooting that of working the dogs was the
chief. Just as it is better to catch one yellowtail on a nine-ounce rod
than twenty on a hand line, so it is better to kill one quail over a
well-trained dog than a half dozen "Walking 'em up." But this particular
case was different. We were out for a high old time; and part of a high
old time was a wild and reckless disregard of inhibitive sporting
conventions. The birds were here literally in thousands. Not a third had
left the slough for this open country; we could not shoot at a tenth of
those flushed, yet the guns were popping continuously. Everybody was
shooting and laughing and running about. The game was to pelt away,
retrieve your bird as quickly as you could, and pelt away again. The
dogs, working up to their points carefully and stylishly, as good dogs
should, were being constantly left in the rear. They drew down to their
points--and behold nobody but their devoted master would pay any
attention to their bird! Everybody else was engaged busily in popping
away at any one of the dozen-odd other birds to be had for the
selection!

Poor Dodge, being somewhat biased by the accident of ownership, looked
on us as a lot of barbarians--as, for the time being, we were; nice,
happy barbarians having a good time. He worked his dogs conscientiously,
and muttered in his beard. The climax came when, in the joyous
excitement of the occasion, someone threw out a chance remark on "those
---- dogs" being in the way. Then Dodge withdrew with dignity. Having a
fellow-feeling as a dog-handler I went over to console him. He was
inconsolable; and so remained until after lunch.

In this manner we made our way slowly down the length of the slough, and
then slowly back again. Of the birds originally flushed from the
Egyptian corn into the thicket but a small proportion had left that
thicket for the open country of the tumbleweed and sage; and of the
latter we had been able to shoot at a very, very small percentage.
Nevertheless, when we emptied our pockets, we found that each had made
his bag. We counted them out, throwing them into one pile.

"Twenty-four," counted the Captain.

"Twenty-four," Tom enumerated.

"Twenty-four," Uncle Jim followed him.

We each had twenty-four. And then it developed that every man had saved
just one bird of his limit until after lunch. No one wanted to be left
out of _all_ the shooting while the rest filled their bags; and no one
had believed that anybody but himself had come so close to the limit.

So we laughed, and shouldered our guns, and trudged across country to
the clump of cottonwood where already the girls had spread lunch.

That was a good lunch. We sat under shady trees, and the sunlit plains
stretched away and away to distant calm mountains. Near at hand the
sparse gray sagebrush reared its bonneted heads; far away it blurred
into a monochrome where the plains lifted and flowed molten into the
cañons and crevices of the foothills. Numberless crows, blackbirds, and
wildfowl crossed and recrossed the very blue sky. A gray jackrabbit,
thinking himself concealed by a very creditable imitation of a
_sacatone_ hummock, sat motionless not seventy yards away.

After lunch we moved out leisurely to get our one bird apiece. Some of
the girls followed us. We were now epicures of shooting, and each let
many birds pass before deciding to fire. Some waited for cross shots,
some for very easy shots, some for the most difficult shots possible.
Each suited his fancy.

"I'm all in," remarked each, as he pocketed his bird; and followed to
see the others finish.

       *       *       *       *       *

Next day, our baggage piled in most anywhere, our farewells all said, we
bowled away toward town in the brand-new machine. Redmond sat in the
front seat with the chauffeur. It was his first experience in an
automobile, and he sat very rigidly upright, eyes front, his moustaches
bristling.

Now at a certain point on the road lived a large black dog--just plain
ranch dog--who was accustomed to come bounding out to the road to run
alongside and bark for an appropriate interval. This was an unvarying
ceremony. He was a large and prancing dog; and, I suppose from his
appearance, must have been named Carlo. In the course of our many visits
to the ranch we grew quite fond of the dog, and always looked as hard
for him to come out as he did for us to come along.

This day also the dog came forth; but now he had no steady-trotting
ranch team to greet. The road was smooth and straight, and the car was
hitting thirty-five miles an hour. The dog bounded confidently down the
front walk, leaping playfully in the air, opened his mouth to bark--and,
behold! the vehicle was not within range any more, but thirty yards away
and rapidly departing. So Carlo shut his mouth and got down to business.
For three hundred yards he managed to keep pace alongside; but the
effort required all his forces; not once did he manage to gather wind
for even a single bark.

Redmond in the front seat sat straighter than ever. From his lordly
elevation he waved a lordly hand at the poor dog.

"Useless! Useless!" said he, loftily.

And looking back at the dog seated panting in a rapidly disappearing
distance, we saw that he also knew that the Old Order had changed.

THE END




FOOTNOTES:

     [Footnote A: Oiler = Greaser = Mexican.]

     [Footnote B: Saddle pockets that fit on the pommel.]

     [Footnote C: 3,350, to be exact. We later measured it.]

     [Footnote D: 3,350 feet--later measurement.]

     [Footnote E: 355 paces.]

     [Footnote F: Somewhere between 500 and 700 yards. I am very practised at pacing and guessing such distances.]

     [Footnote G: Ten years later sentence of death was passed and
     carried out after they had killed _one wheelbarrow_ load of
     broilers!]

     [Footnote H: This chapter was written in the--alas--vanished past!]