[TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: In many older texts, the character combination "oe"was tied together with a ligature. Such instances are represented inthis ASCII text by enclosing them in brackets. Hence in wordssuch as Oedipus, for example, when the 'O' and the 'e' are connected with aligature, they will be shown as [Oe]dipus. In addition, the text containsa ranch brand consisting of the characters J and H connected (no spacebetween). This brand is shown in the text as [JH]. ]

[Illustration: He had been shot through the body and was dead. Hisrifle lay across a rock trained carefully on the trail. ]

THE KILLER

BY

STEWART EDWARD WHITE

AUTHOR OFTHE BLAZED TRAIL, THE RIVERMAN, ARIZONA NIGHTS, ETC. 

GROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1919, 1920, BYDOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANYALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OFTRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATESATTHE 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 twentyyears after it happened solely because my wife and Señor Buck Johnsoninsist on it. Myself, I don't think it a good yarn. It hasn't any lovestory in it; and there isn't any plot. Things just happened, one thingafter the other. There ought to be a yarn in it somehow, and I supposeif a fellow wanted to lie a little he could make a tail-twister out ofit. Anyway, here goes; and if you don't like it, you know you can quitat any stage of the game. 

It happened when I was a kid and didn't know any better than to do suchthings. They dared me to go up to Hooper's ranch and stay all night; andas I had no information on either the ranch or its owner, I saddled upand went. It was only twelve miles from our Box Springs ranch--a niceeasy ride. I should explain that heretofore I had ridden the Gila end ofour range, which is so far away that only vague rumours of Hooper hadever reached me at all. He was reputed a tough old devil with horridhabits; but that meant little to me. The tougher and horrider they came, the better they suited me--so I thought. Just to make everythingentirely clear I will add that this was in the year of 1897 and the SodaSprings 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 patchesnot yet here. Still a few guns packed for business purposes; Mexicanborder handy; no railroad in to Tombstone yet; cattle rustlers lingeringin the Galiuros; train hold-ups and homicide yet prevalent but frownedupon; favourite tipple whiskey toddy with sugar; but the old fortifiedranches all gone; longhorns crowded out by shorthorn blaze-headHerefords or near-Herefords; some indignation against Alfred HenryLewis's _Wolfville_ as a base libel; and, also but, no gasoline wagonsor pumps, no white collars, no tourists pervading the desert, and theInjins still wearing blankets and overalls at their reservations insteadof bead work on the railway platforms when the Overland goes through. Inother 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 andleaned himself up against the snubbing post of the corral. He watched mefor a while, and I kept quiet, knowing well enough that he had somethingto say. 

"Know Hooper?" he asked. 

"I've seen him driving by, " said I. 

I had: a little humped, insignificant figure with close-cropped whitehair beneath a huge hat. He drove all hunched up. His buckboard was arattletrap, old, insulting challenge to every little stone in the road;but there was nothing the matter with the horses or their harness. Wenever held much with grooming in Arizona, but these beasts shone likebronze. Good sizeable horses, clean built--well, I better not getstarted talking horse! They're the reason I had never really sized upthe 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 myrope--"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, goingback 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 upwho was perfectly able to express himself. He was one of our outfit andwas known as Windy Bill. Nuff said!

"Hear you're goin' up to stay the night at Hooper's, " said he. "KnowHooper?"

"No, I don't, " said I, "are you another of these Sunbirds with gladnews?"

"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 eachother's strays water at our troughs in this country, and send 'em backto their own range at round up. "

"Brother, you interest me, " said I, "and would you mind informing mefurther how you tell the dear little cows apart?"

"Well, old Hooper don't, that's all, " went on Windy, without paying meany attention. "He built him a chute leading to the water corrals, andhalf way down the chute he built a gate that would swing across it andopen a hole into a dry corral. And he had a high platform with a handlethat ran the gate. When any cattle but those of his own brands camealong, he had a man swing the gate and they landed up into the drycorral. 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 theydied, 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 oftumbleweed, " said Windy, soberly; and then added, without apparentpassion, "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 doesno 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, andall he has to do is to lift one eye at a man he don't like and that manis 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. "Howis it he's lasted so long? Why hasn't someone shot him? Are you allafraid of him or his Mexicans?"

"No, it ain't that, exactly. I don't know. He drives by all alone, andhe don't pack no gun ever, and he's sort of runty--and--I do'no _why_ heain'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 fairlyconversant with the cowboy's sense of humour. Nothing would have tickledthem more than to bluff me out of a harmless excursion by means ofscareful tales. Shortly Windy Bill turned off to examine a distant bunchof cattle; and so I rode on alone. 

It was coming on toward evening. Against the eastern mountains werefloating tinted mists; and the cañons were a deep purple. The cattlewere moving slowly so that here and there a nimbus of dust caught andreflected the late sunlight into gamboge yellows and mauves. The magictime was near when the fierce, implacable day-genius of the desert wouldfall asleep and the soft, gentle, beautiful star-eyed night-genius ofthe desert would arise and move softly. My pony racked along in thedesert. The mass that represented Hooper's ranch drew imperceptiblynearer. I made out the green of trees and the white of walls andbuilding. 

CHAPTER II

Hooper's ranch proved to be entirely enclosed by a wall of adobe tenfeet high and whitewashed. To the outside it presented a blank face. Only corrals and an alfalfa patch were not included. A wide, highgateway, that could be closed by massive doors, let into a stable yard, and seemed to be the only entrance. The buildings within were allimmaculate also: evidently Old Man Hooper loved whitewash. Cottonwoodtrees showed their green heads; and to the right I saw the slopedshingled roof of a larger building. Not a living creature was in sight. I shook myself, saying that the undoubted sinister feeling of uttersilence and lifelessness was compounded of my expectations and the timeof day. But that did not satisfy me. My aroused mind, casting about, soon struck it: I was missing the swarms of blackbirds, linnets, purplefinches, and doves that made our own ranch trees vocal. Here were nobirds. Laughing at this simple explanation of my eerie feeling, I passedunder the gate and entered the courtyard. 

It, too, seemed empty. A stable occupied all one side; the other threewere formed by bunk houses and necessary out-buildings. Here, too, dweltabsolute solitude and absolute silence. It was uncanny, as though onewalked in a vacuum. Everything was neat and shut up and whitewashed andapparently dead. There were no sounds or signs of occupancy. I was asmuch alone as though I had been in the middle of an ocean. My mind, bynow abnormally sensitive and alert, leaped on this idea. For the samereason, 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: whyshould there be? I laughed aloud and hushed suddenly; and then nearlyjumped 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 theshadow, leaning against the building. The curl of smoke was from hiscigarette. He was wrapped in a _serape_ which blended well with the coolcolour of shadow. My eyes were dazzled with the whitewash--naturalenough--yet the impression of solitude had been so complete. It wasuncanny, as though he had materialized out of the shadow itself. Sillyidea! I ranged my eye along the row of houses, and I saw three otherfigures I had missed before, all broodingly immobile, all merged inshadow, all watching me, all with the insubstantial air of having as Ilooked taken body from thin air. 

This was too foolish! I dismounted, dropped my horse's reins over hishead, and sauntered to the nearest figure. He was lost in the dusk ofthe 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 ofthe enclosure. He said no word, nor made another motion; and the otherfigures sat as though graved from stone. 

After a moment's hesitation I pushed open the wicket gate, and so foundmyself in a smaller intimate courtyard of most surprising character. Itscentre was green grass, and about its border grew tall, bright flowers. A wide verandah ran about three sides. I could see that in the numerouswindows 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 Istood face to face with Old Man Hooper himself. 

He proved to be as small as I had thought, not taller than my ownshoulder, with a bent little figure dressed in wrinkled and baggy storeclothes of a snuff brown. His bullet head had been cropped so that hishair stood up like a short-bristled white brush. His rather round facewas brown and lined. His hands, which grasped the doorpostsuncompromisingly to bar the way, were lean and veined and old. But allthat I found in my recollections afterward to be utterly unimportant. His eyes were his predominant, his formidable, his compellingcharacteristic. They were round, the pupils very small, the irises largeand of a light flecked blue. From the pupils radiated fine lines. Theblank, cold, inscrutable stare of them bored me through to the back ofthe neck. I suppose the man winked occasionally, but I never got thatimpression. I've noticed that owls have this same intent, unwinkingstare--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 stareat 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 whileto say anything about Box Springs only a dozen miles away. He stared atme for some time more. 

"Come in, " he said, abruptly; and stood aside. 

This was a disconcerting surprise. All I had expected was permission tostop, and a direction as to how to find the bunk house. Then a more orless dull evening, and a return the following day to collect on my"dare. " I stepped into the dimness of the hallway; and immediately afterinto a room beyond. 

Again I must remind you that this was the Arizona of the 'nineties. Allthe ranch houses with which I was acquainted, and I knew about all ofthem, were very crudely done. They comprised generally a half dozenrooms with adobe walls and rough board floors, with only suchfurnishings as deal tables, benches, homemade chairs, perhaps a batteredold washstand or so, and bunks filled with straw. We had no such thingsas tablecloths and sheets, of course. Everything was on a like scale ofsimple 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 mysweat-stained garments, was a low-ceilinged, dim abode with faint, mustyaromas. Carpets covered the floors; an old-fashioned hat rack flankedthe door on one side, a tall clock on the other. I saw in passing framedsteel engravings. The room beyond contained easy chairs, a sofaupholstered with hair cloth, an upright piano, a marble fireplace with amantel, 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 anold maiden aunt of my childhood, who used to give me cookies on theSabbath. I felt now too large, and too noisy, and altogether mis-dressedand blundering and dirty. The little old man moved without a sound, andthe 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 theopportunity. "

I murmured my thanks, and a suggestion that I should look after myhorse. 

"Your horse, sir, has been attended to, and your _cantinas_[B] areundoubtedly by now in your room, where, I am sure, you are anxious torepair. "

He gave no signal, nor uttered any command, but at his last words agrave, elderly Mexican appeared noiselessly at my elbow. As a matter offact, he came through an unnoticed door at the back, but he might aswell 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 halfhour----"

He seized a small implement consisting of a bit of wire screen attachedto the end of a short stick, darted across the room with the mostextraordinary 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 wasof the baleful, dead, challenging stare of the man's wildcat eyes. 

The Mexican glided before me. We emerged into the court, walked alongthe verandah, and entered a bedroom. My guide slipped by me anddisappeared before I had the chance of a word with him. He may have beendumb 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 waspainted and waxed, its window--opening into the court, by the way--washung with chintz and net curtains, its bed was garnished with sheets andcounterpane, its chairs were upholstered and in perfect repair andpolish. It was not Arizona, emphatically not, but rather the sweet andgarnished and lavendered respectability of a Connecticut village. Mydirty old _cantinas_ lay stacked against the washstand. At sight of themI had to grin. Of course I travelled cowboy fashion. They contained atoothbrush, a comb, and a change of underwear. The latter item wassheer, rank pride of caste. 

It was all most incongruous and strange. But the strangest part, ofcourse, was the fact that I found myself where I was at that moment. Whywas 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 thatOld Man Hooper extended this sort of hospitality to every chancewayfarer. Arizona is a democratic country, Lord knows: none more so! Butowners are not likely to invite in strange cowboys unless theythemselves mess with their own men. I gave it up, and triedunsuccessfully to shrug it off my mind, and sought distraction inlooking about me. There was not much to see. The one door and onewindow opened into the court. The other side was blank except that nearthe ceiling ran a curious, long, narrow opening closed by a transom-likesash. I had never seen anything quite like it, but concluded that itmust be a sort of loop hole for musketry in the old days. Probably theyhad some kind of scaffold to stand on. 

I pulled off my shirt and took a good wash: shook the dust out of myclothes as well as I could; removed my spurs and _chaps_; knotted mysilk handkerchief necktie fashion; slicked down my wet hair, and triedto imagine myself decently turned out for company. I took off my gunbelt also; but after some hesitation thrust the revolver inside thewaistband of my drawers. Had no reason; simply the border instinct tostick to one's weapon. 

Then I sat down to wait. The friendly little noises of my own movementsleft me. I give you my word, never before nor since have I experiencedsuch stillness. In vain I told myself that with adobe walls two feetthick, a windless evening, and an hour after sunset, stillness was to beexpected. That did not satisfy. Silence is made up of a thousand littlenoises so accustomed that they pass over the consciousness. Somehowthese little noises seemed to lack. I sat in an aural vacuum. Thisanalysis has come to me since. At that time I only knew that mostuneasily 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 Hooperwas there waiting. A hanging lamp had been lighted. Out of the shadowscast 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 tediumof our evening with his company--his distinguished company. " Hepronounced the words suavely, without a trace of sarcastic emphasis, yetsomehow I felt my face flush. And all the time he was staring at meblankly with his wide, unblinking, wildcat eyes. 

The girl was very pale, with black hair and wide eyes under a fair, widebrow. She was simply dressed in some sort of white stuff. I thought shedrooped a little. She did not look at me, nor speak to me; only bowedslightly. 

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 straightdown on a table perfect in its appointments of napery, silver, andglass. I felt very awkward and dusty in my cowboy rig; and rather toolarge. The same Mexican served us, deftly. We had delightful food, wellcooked. I do not remember what it was. My attention was divided betweenthe old man and his daughter. He talked, urbanely, of a wide range oftopics, displaying a cosmopolitan taste, employing a choice of words andphrases that was astonishing. The girl, who turned out to be very prettyin 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 windowswung the curtains. From the blackness outside a single frog began tochirp. My host's flow of words eddied, ceased. He raised his headuneasily; then, without apology, slipped from his chair and glided fromthe room. The Mexican remained, standing bolt upright in the dimness. 

For the first time the girl spoke. Her voice was low and sweet, buteither 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'sdart the girl's hand came from beneath the table, reached across, andthrust into mine a small, folded paper. The next instant she was back inher place, staring down as before in apparent apathy. So amazed was Ithat I recovered barely soon enough to conceal the paper before Ramonturned back from his errand. 

The next five minutes were to me hours of strained and bewilderedwaiting. I addressed one or two remarks to my companion, but receivedalways monosyllabic answers. Twice I caught the flash of lanterns beyondthe darkened window; and a subdued, confused murmur as though severalpeople were walking about stealthily. Except for this the night hadagain fallen deathly still. Even the cheerful frog had hushed. 

At the end of a period my host returned, and without apology orexplanation resumed his seat and took up his remarks where he had leftthem. 

The girl disappeared somewhere between the table and the sitting room. Old Man Hooper offered me a cigar, and sat down deliberately toentertain me. I had an uncomfortable feeling that he was also amusinghimself, as though I were being played with and covertly sneered at. Hooper's politeness and suavity concealed, and well concealed, a bitterirony. His manner was detached and a little precise. Every few momentshe burst into a flurry of activity with the fly whacker, darting hereand there as his eyes fell upon one of the insects; but returning alwayscalmly to his discourse with an air of never having moved from hischair. He talked to me of Praxiteles, among other things. What should anArizona cowboy know of Praxiteles? and why should any one talk to him ofthat worthy Greek save as a subtle and hidden expression of contempt?That was my feeling. My senses and mental apperceptions were by now alittle on the raw. 

That, possibly, is why I noticed the very first chirp of another frogoutside. 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, heglided from the room. And at the same instant the old Mexican servitorcame and pretended to fuss with the lamps. 

My curiosity was now thoroughly aroused, but I could guess no means ofsatisfying it. Like the bedroom, this parlour gave out only on theinterior court. The flash of lanterns against the ceiling above reachedme. All I could do was to wander about looking at the objects in thecabinet and the pictures on the walls. There was, I remember, a set ofcarved ivory chessmen and an engraving of the legal trial of someEnglish worthy of the seventeenth century. But my hearing was alert, andI thought to hear footsteps outside. At any rate, the chirp of the frogcame to an abrupt end. 

Shortly my host returned and took up his monologue. It amounted tothat. He seemed to delight in choosing unusual subjects and then backingme into a corner with an array of well-considered phrases that allowedme no opening for reply nor even comment. In one of my desperateattempts to gain even a momentary initiative I asked him, apropos of thepiano, whether his daughter played. 

"Do you like music?" he added, and without waiting for a reply seatedhimself at the instrument. 

He played to me for half an hour. I do not know much about music; but Iknow he played well and that he played good things. Also that, for thefirst time, he came out of himself, abandoned himself to feeling. Hisclose-cropped head swayed from side to side; his staring, wildcat eyeshalf 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 wouldhave you take to your room for perusal. Good-night. "

He tendered me a small, folded paper which I thrust into the breastpocket of my shirt along with the note handed me earlier in the eveningby the girl. Thus dismissed I was only too delighted to repair to mybedroom. 

There I first carefully drew together the curtains; then examined thefirst of the papers I drew from my pocket. It proved to be the one fromthe 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 inappearance 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 paperand then at the other, and for a half hour I thought all the thoughtsappropriate to the occasion. They led me nowhere, and would not interestyou. 

CHAPTER IV

After a time I went to bed, but not to sleep. I placed my gun under mypillow, locked and bolted the door, and arranged a string cunninglyacross the open window so that an intruder--unless he had extraordinaryluck--could not have failed to kick up a devil of a clatter. I wasyoung, bold, without nerves; so that I think I can truthfully say I wasnot in the least frightened. But I cannot deny I was nervous--or ratherthe whole situation was on my nerves. I lay on my back staring straightat the ceiling. I caught myself gripping the sheets and listening. Onlythere was nothing to listen to. The night was absolutely still. Therewere no frogs, no owls, no crickets even. The firm old adobe walls gaveoff no creak nor snap of timbers. The world was muffled--I almost saidsmothered. The psychological effect was that of blank darkness, theblack darkness of far underground, although the moon was sailing theheavens. 

How long that lasted I could not tell you. But at last the silence wasbroken by the cheerful chirp of a frog. Never was sound more grateful tothe ear! I lay drinking it in as thirstily as water after a day on thedesert. It seemed that the world breathed again, was coming alive aftersyncope. And then beneath that loud and cheerful singing I became awareof duller half-heard movements; and a moment or so later yellow lightsbegan to flicker through the transom high at the blank wall of theroom, and to reflect in wavering patches on the ceiling. Evidentlysomebody was afoot outside with a lantern. 

I crept from the bed, moved the table beneath the transom, and climbedatop. 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 Icould look--until my muscles gave out!

I saw four men with lanterns moving here and there among some willowsthat bordered what seemed to be an irrigating ditch with water. Theywere armed with long clubs. Old Man Hooper, in an overcoat, stood in acommanding position. They seemed to be searching. Suddenly from a clumpof bushes one of the men uttered an exclamation of triumph. I saw hislong club rise and fall. At that instant my tired fingers slipped fromthe ledge and I had to let myself drop to the table. When a moment laterI regained my vantage point, I found that the whole crew haddisappeared. 

Nothing more happened that night. At times I dozed in a broken sort offashion, but never actually fell into sound sleep. The nearest I came toslumber was just at dawn. I really lost all consciousness of mysurroundings and circumstances, and was only slowly brought to myself bythe sweet singing of innumerable birds in the willows outside the blankwall. I lay in a half stupor enjoying them. Abruptly their music ceased. I heard the soft, flat _spat_ of a miniature rifle. The sound wasrepeated. I climbed back on my table and drew myself again to a positionof observation. 

Old Man Hooper, armed with a . 22 calibre rifle, was prowling along thewillows in which fluttered a small band of migratory birds. He was justdrawing bead on a robin. At the report the bird fell. The old man dartedforward with the impetuosity of a boy, although the bird was dead. Animpulse of contempt curled my lips. The old man was childish! Why shouldhe find pleasure in hunting such harmless creatures? and why should hetake on triumph over retrieving such petty game? But when he reached thefallen bird he did not pick it up for a possible pot-pie as I thought hewould 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 onhuman countenance such an expression of satisfied malignity!

I went to my door and looked out. You may be sure that the message I hadreceived from the unfortunate young lady had not been forgotten; but OldMan Hooper's cynical delivery of the second paper had rendered me toocautious to undertake anything without proper reconnaissance. The leftwing about the courtyard seemed to contain two apartments--at leastthere were two doors, each with its accompanying window. The windowfarthest out was heavily barred. My thrill at this discovery was, however, slightly dashed by the further observation that also all theother windows into the courtyard were barred. Still, that was peculiarin itself, and not attributable--as were the walls and remarkabletransoms--to former necessities of defence. My first thought was tostroll idly around the courtyard, thus obtaining a closer inspection. But the moment I stepped into the open a Mexican sauntered into viewand began to water the flowers. I can say no more than that in his handsthat watering pot looked fairly silly. So I turned to the right andpassed through the wicket gate and into the stable yard. It was naturalenough that I should go to look after my own horse. 

The stable yard was for the moment empty; but as I walked across it oneof its doors opened and a very little, wizened old man emerged leading ahorse. He tied the animal to a ring in the wall and proceeded at once tocurrying. 

I had been in Arizona for ten years. During that time I had seen a greatmany very fine native horses, for the stock of that country is directlydescended from the barbs of the _conquistadores_. But, though often wellformed 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 numerousmounts. They went shaggy or smooth according to the season; and not oneof 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_ horseblanket was none of these. He stood a good sixteen hands; his head wassmall and clean cut with large, intelligent eyes and little, well-setears; his long, muscular shoulders sloped forward as shoulders should;his barrel was long and deep and well ribbed up; his back was flat andstraight; his legs were clean and--what was rarely seen in the cowcountry--well proportioned--the cannon bone shorter than the leg bone, the ankle sloping and long and elastic--in short, a magnificent creaturewhose 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, noteven a blemish could I discover. The animal was fairly a perfectspecimen of horseflesh. And I could not help speculating as to its use. Old Man Hooper had certainly never appeared with it in public; the fameof such a beast would have spread the breadth of the country. 

During my inspection the wizened little man continued his work withouteven a glance in my direction. He had on riding breeches and leathergaiters, a plaid waistcoat and a peaked cap; which, when you think ofit, was to Arizona about as incongruous as the horse. I made severalconventional remarks of admiration, to which he paid not the slightestattention. 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. "Asixty-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 straightin the pasterns, " said I, uttering sheer, rank, wild heresy. 

After that we talked; at first heatedly, then argumentatively, then withentire, enthusiastic agreement. I saw to that. Allowing yourself to beconverted from an absurd opinion is always a sure way to favour. Weended with antiphonies of praise for this descendant of Justin Morgan. 

"You're the only man in all this God-forsaken country that has thesense of a Shanghai rooster!" cried the little man in a glow. "They ridehorses and they know naught of them; and they laugh at a horseman! Yourhand, sir!" He shook it. "And is that your horse in number four? Iwondered! He's the first animal I've seen here properly shod. They usethe rasp, sir, on the outside the hoof, and on the clinches, sir; andthey burn a seat for the shoe; and they pare out the sole and trim thefrog--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 facilitiesuntil the little man led me to a corner of the corral and showed me acontraption with a close-fitting lid to be lifted. 

"It's along of the flies, " he explained to me. "They must drink, and westarve 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 wereliterally quarts of dead insects, not only flies, but bees, hornets, andother sorts as well. I now understood the deadly silence that had soimpressed me the evening before. This was certainly most ingenious; andI said so. 

But at my first remark the old man became obstinately silent, and fellagain to grooming the Morgan horse. Then I became aware that he wasaddressing me in low tones out of the corner of his mouth. 

"Go on; look at the horse; say something, " he muttered, busilypolishing down the animal's hind legs. "You're a man who _saveys_ ahorse--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; eatyour breakfast; then _get out_!"

And not another word did I extract. I watered my horse at the coveredtrough, and rather thoughtfully returned to the courtyard. 

I found there Old Man Hooper waiting. He looked as bland and innocentand harmless as the sunlight on his own flagstones--until he gazed up atme, and then I was as usual disconcerted by the blank, veiled, unwinkingstare of his eyes. 

"Remarkably fine Morgan stallion you have, sir, " I greeted him. "Ididn'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. Thecurtains were still down. At the table I ventured to ask after MissHooper. The old man stared at me up to the point of embarrassment, thenreplied drily that she always breakfasted in her room. The rest of ourconversation was on general topics. I am bound to say it wasunexpectedly easy. The old man was a good talker, and possessed socialease and a certain charm, which he seemed to be trying to exert. Amongother things, I remember, he told me of the Indian councils he used tohold in the old days. 

"They were held on the willow flat, outside the east wall, " he said. "Inever allowed any of them inside the walls. " The suavity of his mannerbroke fiercely and suddenly. "Everything inside the walls is mine!" hedeclared with heat. "Mine! mine! mine! Understand? I will not toleratein here anything that is not mine; that does not obey my will; that doesnot come when I say come; go when I say go; and fall silent when I saybe 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 dowhat you will with your own? And if they did deny that right what morenatural than that they should be made to perish--or take theirbreakfasts in their rooms?"

I was never more aware of the absolute stillness of the house than whenI uttered these foolish words. My hand was on the gun in mytrouser-band; but even as I spoke a sickening realization came over methat if the old man opposite so willed, I would have no slightest chanceto use it. The air behind me seemed full of menace, and the hair crawledon the back of my neck. Hooper stared at me without sign for tenseconds; his right hand hovered above the polished table. Then he let itfall without giving what I am convinced would have been a signal. 

"Will you have more coffee--my guest?" he inquired. And he stressedsubtly the last word in a manner that somehow made me just a trifleashamed. 

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 bewishing to start before the heat of the day. Your _cantinas_ are readyon the saddle. "

He clapped on his hat and we walked together to the corral. Thereawaited us not only my own horse, but another. The equipment of thelatter was magnificently reminiscent of the old Californiadays--gaily-coloured braided hair bridle and reins; silver _conchas_;stock saddle of carved leather with silver horn and cantle; silvered bitbars; gay Navajo blanket as corona; silver corners to skirts, silver_conchas_ on the long _tapaderos_. Old Man Hooper, strangely incongruousin 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 myattention to the buildings of Fort Shafter glimmering part way up theslopes of the distant mountains, and talked entertainingly of the Indiandays, and how the young officers used to ride down to his ranch formusic. 

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 theopen range was his real pasture; but every ranch enclosed a thousandacres or so somewhere near the home station to be used for horses inactive service. Before I could anticipate him, he had sidled his horseskillfully alongside the gate and was holding it open for me to pass. Irode through the opening murmuring thanks and an apology. The old manfollowed me through, and halted me by placing his horse square acrossthe path of mine. 

"You are now, sir, outside my land and therefore no longer my guest, " hesaid, 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. Youspoke the truth a short time since. You were right. I tolerate nothingin my place that is not my own--no man, no animal, no bird, no insectnor reptile even--that will not obey my lightest order. And thesecreatures, great or small, who will not--_or even cannot_--obey myorders must go--or die. Understand me clearly?

"You have come here, actuated, I believe, by idle curiosity, but withoutknowledge. You made yourself--ignorantly--my guest; and a guest issacred. But now you know my customs and ideas. I am telling you. Neveragain can you come here in ignorance; therefore never again can you comehere as a guest; and never again will you pass freely. "

He delivered this drily, precisely, with frost in his tones, staringbalefully into my eyes. So taken aback was I by this unleashed hostilitythat for a moment I had nothing to say. 

"Now, if you please, I will take both notes from that poor idiot: theone I handed you and the one she handed you. "

I realized suddenly that the two lay together in the breast pocket of myshirt; that though alike in tenor, they differed in phrasing; and that Ihad no means of telling one from the other. 

"The paper you gave me I read and threw away, " I stated, boldly. "Itmeant nothing to me. As to any other, I do not know what you are talkingabout. "

"You are lying, " he said, calmly, as merely stating a fact. "It does notmatter. It is my fancy to collect them. I should have liked to addyours. 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 beencomplete and generous. You have pointed out the fact that I am no longeryour guest. I can, therefore, with propriety, tell you that your ideasand prejudices are noted with interest; your wishes are placed on filefor future reference; I don't give a damn for your orders; and you cango 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 ortalking or criticizing----"

"Well?" I challenged. 

"I'll have you killed, " he said, simply; so simply that I knew he meantit. 

"You are foolish to make threats, " I rejoined. "Two can play at thatgame. You drive much alone. "

"I do not work alone, " he hinted, darkly. "The day my body is found deadof violence, that day marks the doom of a long list of men whom Iconsider inimical to me--like, perhaps, yourself. " He stared me downwith his unwinking gaze. 

CHAPTER V

I returned to Box Springs at a slow jog trot, thinking things over. OldMan Hooper's warning sobered, but did not act as a deterrent of myintention to continue with the adventure. But how? I could hardly stormthe fort single handed and carry off the damsel in distress. On theevidence I possessed I could not even get together a storming party. Thecowboy is chivalrous enough, but human. He would not uprisespontaneously to the point of war on the mere statement of incarceratedbeauty--especially as ill-treatment was not apparent. I would hardlylast long enough to carry out the necessary proselyting campaign. Itnever occurred to me to doubt that Hooper would fulfill his threat ofhaving me killed, or his ability to do so. 

So when the men drifted in two by two at dusk, I said nothing of my realadventures, and answered their chaff in kind. 

"He played the piano for me, " I told them the literal truth, "and had mein to the parlour and dining room. He gave me a room to myself with abed and sheets; and he rode out to his pasture gate with me to saygood-bye, " and thereby I was branded a delicious liar. 

"They took me into the bunk house and fed me, all right, " said WindyBill, "and fed my horse. And next morning that old Mexican Joe of hisjust 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 placewas unhealthy to visit more'n once. And somehow I seen he meant it; andI 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 ofHooper's ranch, tied my horse, and scouted carefully forward afoot. Forone thing I wanted to find out whether the system of high transomsextended to all the rooms, including that in the left wing: for anotherI wanted to determine the "lay of the land" on that blank side of thehouse. I found my surmise correct as to the transoms. As to the blankside of the house, that looked down on a wide, green, moist patch andthe irrigating ditch with its stunted willows. Then painstakingly I wentover every inch of the terrain about the ranch; and might just as wellhave investigated the external economy of a mud turtle. Realizing thatnothing was to be gained in this manner, I withdrew to my strategic basewhere I rolled down and slept until daylight. Then I saddled andreturned toward the ranch. 

I had not ridden two miles, however, before in the boulder-strewn washof Arroyo Seco I met Jim Starr, one of our men. 

"Look here, " he said to me. "Jed sent me up to look at the ElderSprings, 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 nobreakfast. But you can have my horse. "

So we traded horses and separated, each our own way. They sent me out byCoyote Wells with two other men, and we did not get back until thefollowing 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 anight 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 gooddetective work of its kind, and had determined--by the direction of thebullet's flight as evidenced by the wound--that it had been fired from apoint above. The only point above was the low "rim" that ran for milesdown the Soda Springs Valley. It was of black lava and showed no tracks. The men, with a true sense of values, had contented themselves withcovering Jim Starr with a blanket, and then had ridden the rim for somemiles in both directions looking for a trail. None could be discovered. By this they deduced that the murder was not the result of chanceencounter, but had been so carefully planned that no trace would be leftof the murderer or murderers. 

No theory could be imagined save the rather vague one of personalenmity. Jim Starr was comparatively a newcomer with us. Nobody knewanything much about him or his relations. Nobody questioned the only manwho could have told anything; and that man did not volunteer to tellwhat he knew. 

I refer to myself. The thing was sickeningly clear to me. Jim Starr hadnothing to do with it. I was the man for whom that bullet from the rimhad been intended. I was the unthinking, shortsighted fool who had doneJim Starr to his death. It had never occurred to me that my midnightreconnoitring would leave tracks, that Old Man Hooper's suspiciousvigilance would even look for tracks. But given that vigilance, the restfollowed plainly enough. A skillful trailer would have found his way towhere I had mounted; he would have followed my horse to Arroyo Secowhere I had met with Jim Starr. There he would have visualized a rideron a horse without one shoe coming as far as the Arroyo, meeting me, andreturning whence he had come; and me at once turning off at rightangles. His natural conclusion would be that a messenger had brought meorders and had returned. The fact that we had shifted mounts he couldnot have read, for the reason--as I only too distinctly remembered--thatwe had made the change in the boulder and rock stream bed which wouldshow no clear traces. 

The thought that poor Jim Starr, whom I had well liked, had beensacrificed for me, rendered my ride home with the convoy more deeplythoughtful than even the tragic circumstances warranted. We laid hisbody in the small office, pending Buck Johnson's return from town, andate our belated meal in silence. Then we gathered around the cornerfireplace in the bunk house, lit our smokes, and talked it over. JedParker joined us. Usually he sat with our owner in the office. 

Hardly had we settled ourselves to discussion when the door opened andBuck Johnson came in. We had been so absorbed that no one had heard himride up. He leaned his forearm against the doorway at the height of hishead and surveyed the silenced group rather ironically. 

"Lucky I'm not nervous and jumpy by nature, " he observed. "I've seendead men before. Still, next time you want to leave one in my officeafter dark, I wish you'd put a light with him, or tack up a sign, oreven leave somebody to tell me about it. I'm sorry it's Starr and notthat thoughtful old horned toad in the corner. "

Jed looked foolish, but said nothing. Buck came in, closed the door, andtook a chair square in front of the fireplace. The glow of the leapingflames was full upon him. His strong face and bulky figure wererevealed, while the other men sat in half shadow. He at once took chargeof 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 tolisten to any of the various deductions and surmises. 

"Deliberate murder and not a chance quarrel, " he concluded. "He wasn'teven within hollering distance of that rim-rock. Anybody know anythingabout Starr?"

"He's been with us about five weeks, " proffered Jed, as foreman. "Saidhe came from Texas. "

"He was a Texican, " corroborated one of the other men. "I rode with himconsiderable. "

"What enemies did he have?" asked Buck. 

But it developed that, as far as these men knew, Jim Starr had had noenemies. He was a quiet sort of a fellow. He had been to town once ortwice. Of course he might have made an enemy, but it was not likely; hehad 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 Starrever met up with Old Man Hooper or Hooper's men?"

But here was another impasse. Starr had been over on the Slick Rock eversince 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, amongthem mine. 

"I don't see why you stand for this old _hombre_ if he's as bad as yousay, " I broke in. "Why don't some of you brave young warriors justnaturally pot him?"

And that started a new line of discussion that left me even morethoughtful than before. I knew these men intimately. There was not acoward among them. They had been tried and hardened and tempered in thefierceness of the desert. Any one of them would have twisted the tail ofthe devil himself; but they were off Old Man Hooper. They did not makethat admission in so many words; far from it. And I valued my hideenough to refrain from pointing the fact. But that fact remained: theywere off Old Man Hooper. Furthermore, by the time they had finishedrecounting in intimate detail some scores of anecdotes dealing with whathappened when Old Man Hooper winked his wildcat eye, I began in spiteof myself to share some of their sentiments. For no matter how flagrantthe killing, nor how certain morally the origin, never had the mostbrilliant nor the most painstaking effort been able to connect with theslayers nor their instigator. He worked in the dark by hidden hands; butthe death from the hands was as certain as the rattlesnake's. Certain ofhis victims, by luck or cleverness, seemed to have escaped sometimes asmany as three or four attempts but in the end the old man's Killers gotthem. 

A Jew drummer who had grossly insulted Hooper in the Lone Star Emporiumhad, on learning the enormity of his crime, fled to San Francisco. Threemonths later Soda Springs awoke to find pasted by an unknown hand on thewindow of the Emporium a newspaper account of that Jew drummer's takingoff. The newspaper could offer no theory and merely recited the factthat the man suffered from a heavy-calibred bullet. But always the talkturned back at last to that crowning atrocity, the Boomerang, with itswindrows of little calves, starved for water, lying against the fence. 

"Yes, " someone unexpectedly answered my first question at last, "someonecould just naturally pot him easy enough. But I got a hunch that hecouldn't get fur enough away to feel safe afterward. The fellow with ahankering 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 yerereptile. "

"Me?" said Windy with vast surprise, "me mournful? Why, I sing at mywork like a little dicky bird. I'm so plumb cheerful bull frogs ain'tin it. You ain't talking to me!"

But I wanted one more point of information before the conversationveered. 

"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 anysign 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 moonlightfrom the window moved slowly across the floor. One of the men wassnoring, but with regularity, so he did not annoy me. The outsidesilence was softly musical with all the little voices that at Hooper'shad so disconcertingly lacked. There were crickets--I had forgottenabout them--and frogs, and a hoot owl, and various such matters, beneathwhose influence customarily my consciousness merged into sleep sosweetly that I never knew when I had lost them. But I was never widerawake than now, and never had I done more concentrated thinking. 

For the moment, and for the moment, only, I was safe. Old Man Hooperthought he had put me out of the way. How long would he continue tothink so? How long before his men would bring true word of the mistakethat had been made? Perhaps the following day would inform him that JimStarr and not myself had been reached by his killer's bullet. Then, Ihad 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 otherswhose fates I have not detailed. But why should he particularly desiremy extinction? What had I done or what knowledge did I possess that hadnot been equally done and known by any chance visitor to the ranch? Iremembered the notes in my shirt pocket; and, at the risk of awakeningsome of my comrades, I lit a candle and studied them. They wereundoubtedly written by the same hand. To whom had the other beensmuggled? and by what means had it come into Old Man Hooper'spossession? The answer hit me so suddenly, and seemed intrinsically soabsurd, 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 lightof reason, but by the feeling of pure intuition. I knew it as sanely asI knew that the moon made that patch of light through the window. Theman to whom that other note had been surreptitiously conveyed by thesad-eyed, beautiful girl of the iron-barred chamber was dead; and he wasdead because Old Man Hooper had so willed. And the former owners of theother notes of the "Collection" concerning which the old man had spokenwere dead, too--dead for the same reason and by the same hidden hands. 

Why? Because they knew about the girl? Unlikely. Without doubt Hooperhad, as in my case, himself made possible that knowledge. But Iremembered many things; and I knew that my flash of intuition, absurd asit might seem at first sight, was true. I recalled the swift, dartingonslaughts with the fly whackers, the fierce, vindictive slaughter ofthe 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 willnot tolerate anything that is not mine; that does not obey my will; thatdoes not come when I say come; go when I say go; and fall silent when Isay be still!"

My crime, the crime of these men from whose dead hands the girl'sappeals had been taken for the "Collection, " was that of curiosity! Theold man would within his own domain reign supreme, in the mental as inthe physical world. The chance cowboy, genuinely desirous only of aresting place for the night, rode away unscathed; but he whom the oldman convicted of a prying spirit committed a lese-majesty that could notbe forgiven. And I had made many tracks during my night reconnaissance. 

And the same flash of insight showed me that I would be followedwherever I went; and the thing that convinced my intuitions--not myreason--of this was the recollection of the old man stamping the remainsof the poor little bird into the mud by the willows. I saw again theinsane rage of his face; and I felt cold fingers touching my spine. 

On this I went abruptly and unexpectedly to sleep, after the fashion ofyouth, 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 Singwas a person of fixed habits. I plunged my head into the face of thedawn 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 theoriesand my forebodings of the night. Life was clean and clear and simple. Jim Starr had probably some personal enemy. Old Man Hooper wasundoubtedly a mean old lunatic, and dangerous; very likely he wouldattempt to do me harm, as he said, if I bothered him again, but as forfollowing me to the ends of the earth----

The girl was a different matter. She required thought. So, as I washungry 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 itwas three o'clock of the afternoon. As I only occasionally managed SodaSprings I felt no inclination to hurry on the return journey. Myintention was to watch the Overland through, to make some smallpurchases 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 simplein 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 myselfchaperoning a visitor to our midst. By sheer accident the visitor hadsingled 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 foran instant. Further to set him apart he wore a hard-boiled hat, aflaming tie, a checked vest, a coat cut too tight for even his emaciatedlittle figure, and long toothpick shoes of patent leather. A fairer markfor cowboy humour would be difficult to find; but I had a personalinterest and a determined character so the gang took a look at me andbided their time. 

But immediately I discovered I was going to have my hands full. Itseemed that the little, shifty, rat-faced man had been possessed of asmall handbag which the negro porter had failed to put off the train;and which was of tremendous importance. At the discovery it was lackingmy new friend went into hysterics. He ran a few feet after thedisappearing train; he called upon high heaven to destroy utterly therace of negro porters; he threatened terrible reprisals against adelinquent railroad company; he seized upon a bewildered station agentover whom he poured his troubles in one gush; and he lifted up his voiceand 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. " "Thelittle son-of-a-gun's just remembered that he give the nigger porter twobits, " were some of the replies he got. 

On the general principle of "never start anything you can't finish, " Imanaged to quell the disturbance; I got a description of the bag, andarranged to have it wired for at the next station. On receiving the newsthat it could not possibly be returned before the following morning, myprotégé showed signs of another outburst. To prevent it I took himfirmly by the arm and led him across to McGrue's. He was shivering asthough from a violent chill. 

The multitude trailed interestedly after; but I took my man into one ofMcGrue's private rooms and firmly closed the door. 

"Put that under your belt, " I invited, pouring him a half tumbler ofMcGrue'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 pouredhimself another. In spite of his scepticism I thought his nervousnessbecame less marked. 

"Now, " said I, "if you don't mind, why do you descend on a peacefulcommunity and stir it all up because of the derelictions of an absentcoon? And why do you set such store by your travelling bag? And why doyou weep in the face of high heaven and outraged manhood? And why do youwant to find Hooper's ranch? And why are you and your vaudeville makeup?"

But he proved singularly embarrassed and nervous and uncommunicative, darting his glance here and there about him, twisting his hands, neverby any chance meeting my eye. I leaned back and surveyed him inconsiderable 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 behindfootlights--and there ain't any footlights. All I got to do is to throwopen yonder door and withdraw my beneficent protection and you will beset 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 thingthat 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 adoctor around here?"

"No, " said I, looking at him closely, "not this side of Tucson. Are yousick?"

"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 mybag! How far is it to the next station where they're going to put itoff? 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 StarEmporium----" I started to tell him. I never had a chance to finish mysentence. He darted around the table, grabbed me by the arm, and urgedme to my feet. 

"Show me!" he panted. 

We sailed through the bar room under full head of steam, leaving thegang staring after us open-mouthed. I could feel we were excitingconsiderable public interest. At the Lone Star Emporium the little freaklooked wildly about him until his eyes fell on the bottle shelves. Thenhe rushed right in behind the counter and began to paw them over. Iheaded 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 hesnatched up one bottle after the other, read the labels, and thrustthem 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 ofsoothing 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 ranout, with me after him, forgetting his change and to shut the doorbehind us. 

Back through McGrue's bar we trailed like one of these moving-picturechases 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 youhear Sol tell you the dose is a spoonful?"

But he didn't pay me any attention. His hand was shaking so he couldhardly connect with his own mouth, and he was panting as though he'd runa race. 

"Well, no accounting for tastes, " I said. "Where do you want me to shipyour remains?"

He drank her down, shut his eyes a few minutes, and held still. He hadquit 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 hitthe hop before?"

He stared at me so truculently that I was moved to righteous wrath; andI answered him back. I told him what I thought of him and his clothesand his conduct at quite some length. When I had finished he seemed tohave gained a new attitude of aggravating wise superiority. 

"That's all right, kid; that's all right, " he assured me; "keep yourhair on. I ain't such a bad scout; but you gotta get used to me. Give memy 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 fairquestion. "

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 mea clipping. It was from the Want column of a newspaper, and read asfollows:

 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, " heexplained. "And that lil' piece of paper means that's he's caved, comeoff, war's over. Means I'm rich, that I can have my own ponies if I wantto, 'stead of touting somebody else's old dogs. It means that I got oldH. H. --Henry Hooper--where the hair is short, and he's got to come myway!"

His eyes were glittering restlessly, and the pupils seemed to be undulydilated. The whiskey and opium together--probably an unaccustomedcombination--were too much for his ill-balanced control. Everyindication 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 advantageof 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 PacificCoast. That's how I got onto old H. H. I rode for him. He knows a goodhorse 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 himat 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 withthat 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 togive 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 lastof a certain jockey. "

"No, he won't do no such trick. I've fixed that; and he knows it. If hekills 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 plainhave 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 getcertain papers and give 'em to a certain lawyer--and then where's oldH. H. ? And he knows it, damn well. And he's going to be good to Artie andgive him what he wants. We'll get along fine. Took him a long time tocome to it; but I didn't take no chances while he was making up hismind; 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 whatdon'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 wellsin California. The cattle. Not a damn thing. That was the agreement withhis pardner when they split. And I've got the agreement! Now what yougot 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 inthe 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 overme. But his mood was passing. His earlier exhilaration had died, andwith it was dying the expansiveness of his confidence. The triumph ofhis last speech savoured he slipped again into his normal self. Helooked at me suspiciously, and raised his whiskey to cover hisconfusion. 

"What's it to yuh, anyway?" he muttered into his glass darkly. His eyeswere again shifting here and there; and his lips were snarled backmalevolently to show his teeth. 

At this precise moment the lords of chance willed Windy Bill and othersto intrude on our privacy by opening the door and hurling severalwhiskey-flavoured sarcasms at the pair of us. The jockey seemed toexplode after the fashion of an over-inflated ball. He squeaked like arat, leaped to his feet, hurled the chair on which he had been sittingcrash against the door from which Windy Bill _et al_ had withdrawnhastily, and ended by producing a small wicked-looking automatic--then anew and strange weapon--and rushing out into the main saloon. There heannounced that he was known to the cognoscenti as Art the Blood and wasa city gunman in comparison with which these plain, so-called bad menwere as sucking doves to the untamed eagle. Thence he glanced briefly attheir ancestry as far as known; and ended by rushing forth in thegeneral 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 atthe 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 Iproceeded to prove it in a fashion that even now fills me withsatisfaction. I annexed the remainder of that bottle of soothing syrup;I went to Sol Levi and easily procured delivery of the other five. ThenI strolled peacefully to supper over at McCloud's hotel. Pathologicalknowledge of dope fiends was outside my ken--I could not guess how soonmy man would need another dose of his "hop, " but I was positively surethat another would be needed. Inquiry of McCloud elicited the fact thatthe ex-jockey had swallowed a hasty meal and had immediately retired toRoom 4. I found Room 4 unlocked, and Brower lying fully clothed soundasleep across the bed. I did not disturb him, except that I robbed himof his pistol. All looked safe for awhile; but just to be certain I tookRoom 6, across the narrow hall, and left both doors open. McCloud'shotel never did much of a room business. By midnight the cowboys wouldbe on their way for the ranches. Brower and myself were the onlyoccupants 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 alarmclock, so that the slightest move from the other room would have fetchedme broad awake. City-bred people may not know that this can be done bymost outdoor men. I have listened subconsciously to horsebells for somany nights, for example, that even on stormy nights the cessation ofthat faint twinkle will awaken me, while the crash of the elements oreven the fall of a tree would not in the slightest disturb my tiredslumbers. So now, although the songs and stamping and racket of therevellers below stairs in McCloud's bar did not for one second preventmy falling into deep and dreamless sleep, Brower's softest tread wouldhave reached my consciousness. 

However, he slept right through the night, and was still dead to theworld 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 thebaggageman. I had no great difficulty in getting it from my friend, thestation agent. Had he not seen me herding the locoed stranger? Isecreted 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 McCloudwhile awaiting results. 

Got them very promptly. About eight o'clock Brower came downstairs. Hepassed through the office, nodding curtly to McCloud and me, and intothe dining room where he drank several cups of coffee. Thence he passeddown the street toward Sol Levi's. He emerged rather hurriedly andslanted across to the station. 

"In about two minutes, " I observed to McCloud, "you're going to observeyon butterfly turn into a stinging lizard. He's going to head in thisdirection; 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 supervisingsomething in some remote corner of the premises. "

"Sure, " said McCloud, "I'll go twist that Chink washee-man. Beenintending 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 wasBrower at high speed and tension; and its tail was the light alkali dustof Arizona mingled with the station agent. No irresistible force andimmovable body proposition in mine; I gave to the impact. 

"Why, sure, I got 'em for you, " I answered. "You left your dope lyingaround loose so I took care of it for you. As for your bag; you seemedto set such store by it that I got that for you, too. "

Which deflated that particular enterprise for the moment, anyway. Thestation agent, too mad to spit, departed before he should be temptedbeyond his strength to resist homicide. 

"I suppose you're taking care of my gun for me, too, " said Brower; buthis 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 youwere excited, and I've got your dope, " I repeated, "in a safe place. " Iadded, "and you'll not see any of it again until you answer me a fewquestions, and answer them straight. "

"If you think you can roll me for blackmail, " he came back with somedecision, "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 howmuch 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 custodianof this dope, and you'll get your regular ration as long as you stickwith me. "

"I can always hop a train. This ain't the only hamlet on the map, " hereminded 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'reup against. I don't know how much you know about Old Man Hooper, butI'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 abrick church, and your plans may be water-tight, and old Hooper maykill the fatted four-year-old, for all I know. But if I were you, Iwouldn'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 tobe recorded, " he pointed out. "Old Hooper knows that. "

"Oh, sure!" I replied, "just like that! But one day your trustworthyfriend back yonder will get a letter in your well-known hand-write thatwill say that all is well and the goose hangs high, that the old man isa prince and has come through, and that in accordance with the nice, friendly agreement you have reached he--your friend--will hand over thecontract to a very respectable lawyer herein named, and so forth and soon, 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 outof it just one good swift kick, and that is all. "

"I shouldn't write any such letter. Not 'till I felt the feel of thedough. "

"Not at first you wouldn't, " I said, softly. "Certainly not at first. But after a while you would. These renegade Mexicans--like Hooper'sRamon, for example--know a lot of rotten little tricks. They drivepitch-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 powdersquibs 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 Ramonknows about such things, you'll write most any kind of a letter. "

"My God!" he muttered, thrusting the ridiculous derby to the back of hishead. 

"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 respectablelawyer wrote that the contract had been delivered, do you know whatwould happen to you?"

The ex-jockey shuddered. 

"But you've only told me part of what I want to know, " I pursued. "Yougot me side-tracked. This daughter of the dead pardner--this girl, whatabout 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 drivingat?"

"I think I've seen her. I believe she's not in Europe at all. I believeshe's a prisoner at the ranch. "

"My aunt!" ejaculated Brower. His nervousness was increasing--thesymptoms I was to recognize so well. "Why the hell don't you just shoothim 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. "Hishold on these Mexicans is remarkable. I don't doubt that fifty of thebest killers in the southwest have lists of the men Old Man Hooperthinks might lay him out. And every man on that list would get hiswithin a year--without any doubt. I don't doubt that partner's daughterwould 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 badcombination. He ought to be tramped out like a rattlesnake. But this isa new country, and it's near the border. I expect he's got me marked. IfI have to I'll kill him just like I would a rattlesnake; but thatwouldn't do me a whole lot of good and would probably get a bunchassassinated. I'd like to figure something different. So you see you'dbetter come on in while the coming is good. "

"I see, " said the ex-jockey, very much subdued. "What's your idea? Whatdo 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, " Isuggested. "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. Aboutmid-afternoon we went on down to the livery corral. I knew the keeperpretty well, of course, so I borrowed a horse and saddle for Brower. Thelatter looked with extreme disfavour on both. 

"This is no race meet, " I reminded him. "This is a means oftransportation. "

"Sorry I ain't got nothing better, " apologized Meigs, to whom I hadconfided my companion's profession--I had to account for such a figuresomehow. "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 toBrower, "but when you first get on him this bronc of mine is arip-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 tryhim?"

"I got a headache, " replied Brower, grouchily. "Bring out your old dog. "

When I came back from roping and blindfolding the twisted dynamite I wasengaged in "gentling, " I found that Brower was saddling the mournfulcreature with my saddle. My expostulation found him very snappy andvery arbitrary. His opium-irritated nerves were beginning to react. Irealized that he was not far short of explosive obstinacy. So I concededthe point; although, as every rider knows, a cowboy's saddle and acowboy's gun are like unto a toothbrush when it comes to lending. Alsoit involved changing the stirrup length on the livery saddle. I neededthings just right to ride Tiger through the first five minutes. 

When I had completed this latter operation, Brower had just finisheddrawing tight the cinch. His horse stood dejectedly. When Brower hadmade fast the latigo, the horse--as such dispirited animals oftendo--heaved a deep sigh. Something snapped beneath the slight strain ofthe 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 Tigerwith that outfit you could just naturally have begun pickin' out thelikely-looking she-angels. "

I dropped the stirrup and went over to examine the damage. Both of thequarter straps on the off side had given way. I found that they had beencut nearly through with a sharp knife. My eye strayed to Ramon'schestnut horse standing under the shed. 

CHAPTER IX

We jogged out to Box Springs by way of the lower alkali flats. It isabout three miles farther that way; but one can see for miles in everydirection. I did not one bit fancy the cañons, the mesquite patches, andthe open ground of the usual route. 

I beguiled the distance watching Brower. The animal he rode was ahammer-headed, ewe-necked beast with a disconsolate eye and a half-shedwinter coat. The ex-jockey was not accustomed to a stock saddle. He hadshortened his stirrups beyond all reason so that his knees and hispointed shoes and his elbows stuck out at all angles. He had thrust hisderby hat far down over his ears, and buttoned his inadequate coattightly. In addition, he was nourishing a very considerable grouch, attributable, I suppose, to the fact that his customary dose was justabout due. Tiger could not be blamed for dancing wide. Evening wasfalling, the evening of the desert when mysterious things seem to swelland draw imminent out of unguessed distances. I could not help wonderingwhat these gods of the desert could be thinking of us. 

However, as we drew imperceptibly nearer the tiny patch of cottonwoodsthat marked Box Springs, I began to realize that it would be more to thepoint to wonder what that gang of hoodlums in the bunk house was goingto think of us. The matter had been fairly well carried off up to thatmoment, but I could not hope for a successful repetition. No man couldcontinue to lug around with him so delicious a vaudeville sketch withoutsome concession to curiosity. Nor could any mortal for long wear suchclothes in the face of Arizona without being required to show cause. Hehad got away with it last night, by surprise; but that would be aboutall. 

At my fiftieth attempt to enter into conversation with him, Iunexpectedly succeeded. I believe I was indicating the points ofinterest. You can see farther in Arizona than any place I know, so therewas no difficulty about that. I'd pointed out the range of theChiracahuas, and Cochise's Stronghold, and the peaks of the Galiuros andother natural sceneries; I had showed him mesquite and yucca, and mescaland soapweed, and sage, and sacatone and niggerheads and all the otherknown vegetables of the region. Also I'd indicated prairie dogs andsquinch owls and Gambel's quail and road runners and a couple of coyotesand lizards and other miscellaneous fauna. Not to speak of namingpainstakingly the ranches indicated by the clumps of trees that youcould just make out as little spots in the distance--Box Springs, theO. T. , the Double H, Fort Shafter, and Hooper's. He waked up and paid alittle attention at this; and I thought I might get a little friendlytalk out of him. A cowboy rides around alone so much he sort of likes tojosh when he has anybody with him. This "strong silent" stuff doesn't gountil 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 withtopography or natural history. Unless you call the skate he was ridingnatural history. That was the burden of his song. He didn't like thathorse, and he didn't care who knew it. It was an uncomfortable horse toride on, it required exertion to keep in motion, and it hurt hisfeelings. Especially the last. He was a horseman, a jockey, he'd riddenthe best blood in the equine world; and here he was condemned through nofault of his own to straddle a cross between a llama and a woolly toysheep. It hurt his pride. He felt bitterly about it. Indeed, he fairlyharped 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 tasteof 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'tlike fumbling in getting aboard. "

He grunted scornfully. 

"Those stirrups are longer than the ones you've been using. Want toshorten them?"

He did not bother to answer, but mounted in a decisive manner thatproved he was indeed a horseman, and a good one. I climbed old crow baitand let my legs hang. 

The jockey gathered the reins and touched Tiger with his heels. I kickedmy animal with my stock spurs and managed to extract a lumbering sort ofgallop. 

"Hey, slow up!" I called after a few moments. "I can't keep up withyou. "

Brower did not turn his head, nor did Tiger slow up. After twentyseconds I realized that he intended to do neither. I ceased urging on myanimal, there was no use tiring us both; evidently the jockey wasenjoying to the full the exhilaration of a good horse, and we wouldcatch up at Box Springs. I only hoped the boys wouldn't do anythingdrastic to him before my arrival. 

So I jogged along at the little running walk possessed by even the mosthumble cattle horse, and enjoyed the evening. It was going on towarddusk and pools of twilight were in the bottomlands. For the moment theworld had grown smaller, more intimate, as the skies expanded. The dustfrom Brower's going did not so much recede as grow littler, moretoy-like. I watched idly his progress. 

At a point perhaps a mile this side the Box Springs ranch the roaddivides: the right-hand fork leading to the ranch house, the left on upthe valley. After a moment I noticed that the dust was on the left-handfork. I swore aloud. 

"The damn fool has taken the wrong road!" and then after a moment, withdismay: "He's headed straight for Hooper's ranch!"

I envisaged the full joy and rapture of this thought for perhaps half aminute. It sure complicated matters, what with old Hooper gunning on mytrail, and this partner's daughter shut up behind bars. Me, I expectedto last about two days unless I did something mighty sudden. Brower Iexpected might last approximately half that time, depending on how soonRamon _et al_ got busy. The girl I didn't know anything about, nor did Iwant to at that moment. I was plenty worried about my own precious hidejust then. And if you think you are going to get a love story out ofthis, 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 fatfly. And he was going to land without even the aid and comfort of hisown particular brand of Dutch courage. For safety's sake, and because ofTiger's playful tendencies when first mounted, we had tied the famousblack bag--which now for convenience contained also the soothingsyrup--behind the cantle of Meigs's old nag. Which said nag I nowpossessed together with all appurtenances and attachments thereuntoappertaining 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 wasgetting tired thinking about all these complicated things, anyhow. I wasaccustomed to nice, simple jobs with my head, like figuring on theshrinkage of beef cattle, or the inner running of a two-card draw. Allthis annoyed me. I began to get mad. When I got mad enough I cussed andcame to a decision: which was to go after Old Man Hooper and all hisworks that very night. Next day wouldn't do; I wanted action right offquick. Naturally I had no plans, nor even a glimmering of what I wasgoing to do about it; but you bet you I was going to do something! Assoon as it was dark I was going right on up there. Frontal attack, youunderstand. As to details, those would take care of themselves as theaffair developed. Having come to which sapient decision I shoved thewhole 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 tothe 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 theshank end of it to stoke up for the rest. So I turned at the right-handfork and jogged slowly toward our own ranch. 

Of course I had the rotten luck to find most of the boys still at thewater corral. When they saw who was the lone horseman approachingthrough the dusk of the spring twilight, and got a good fair look at theensemble, they dropped everything and came over to see about it, headednaturally by those mournful blights, Windy Bill and Wooden. In solemnsilence they examined my outfit, paying not the slightest attention tome. 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 aTexican. "But my first examination inclines me to the belief that it isa hoss. "

"Yo're wrong, Sam, " denied Windy, sadly; "yo're judgment is confused bythe fact that the critter carries a saddle. Look at the animile itself. "

"I have done it, " continued Sam Wooden; "at first glance I should agreewith 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 examinationI probably am wrong. But if it ain't a hoss, then what is it? Do youknow?"

"It's a genuine royal gyasticutus, " esserted Windy Bill, positively. "Iseen one once. It has one peculiarity that you can't never fail toidentify it by. "

"What's that?"

"It invariably travels around with a congenital idiot. "

Wooden promptly conceded that, but claimed the identification notcomplete as he doubted whether, strictly speaking, I could be classifiedas a congenital idiot. Windy pointed out that evidently I had tradedTiger 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 othermen were hanging about relishing the situation, but without a symptom ofmirth. I was unsaddling methodically, paying no attention to anybody, and apparently deaf to all that was being said. If the two old fools hadsucceeded in eliciting a word from me they would have been entirelyhappy; 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 towater 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 horsewithout a burden. 

We nodded and resumed our occupation. A stray horse coming in to waterwas 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 tocarry out my complicated plan; which was, it will be remembered, to eatsupper and then to go and see about it in person. I performed the firstpart of this to my entire satisfaction but not to that of the rest. Theyaccused 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 Ipicked out a good horse, one that I had brought from the Gila, thatwould stay tied indefinitely without impatience. Then I lighted me acigarette and jogged up the road. I carried with me a little grub, mysix-gun, the famous black bag, and an entirely empty head. 

The night was only moderately dark, for while there was no moon therewere plenty of those candle-like desert stars. The little twinklinglights of the Box Springs dropped astern like lamps on a shore. By andby I turned off the road and made a wide détour down the sacatonebottoms, for I had still some sense; and roads were a little tooobvious. The reception committee that had taken charge of my littlefriend might be expecting another visitor--me. This brought my approachto the blank side of the ranch where were the willow trees and theirrigating ditch. I rode up as close as I thought I ought to. Then Itied my horse to a prominent lone Joshua-tree that would be easy tofind, unstrapped the black bag, and started off. The black bag, however, bothered me; so after some thought I broke the lock with a stone andinvestigated the contents, mainly by feel. There were a lot of clothesand toilet articles and such junk, and a number of undetermined hardthings like round wooden boxes. Finally I withdrew to the shelter of a_barranca_ where I could light matches. Then I had no difficulty inidentifying a nice compact little hypodermic outfit, which I slippedinto a pocket. I then deposited the bag in a safe place where I couldfind 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 ideawas to get some sort of decisive action before morning. Once through thewillows I crept up close to the walls. They were twelve or fifteen feethigh, absolutely smooth; and with one exception broken only by the long, narrow loopholes or transoms I have mentioned before. The one exceptionwas a small wicket gate or door. I remembered the various sorties withtorches after the chirping frogs, and knew that by this opening thehunting party had emerged. This and the big main gate were the onlyentrances to the enclosure. 

I retired to the vicinity of the willows and uttered the cry of thebarred owl. After ten seconds I repeated it, and so continued. My onlyregret was that I could not chirp convincingly like a frog. I saw ashadow shift suddenly through one of the transoms, and at once glided tothe wall near the little door. After a moment or so it opened to emitOld Man Hooper and another bulkier figure which I imagined to be thatof Ramon. Both were armed with shotguns. Suddenly it came to me that Iwas lucky not to have been able to chirp convincingly like a frog. Theyhunted frogs with torches and in a crowd. Those two carried no light andthey were so intent on making a sneak on the willows and thesupposititious owl that I, flattened in the shadow of the wall, easilyescaped their notice. I slipped inside the doorway. 

This brought me into a narrow passage between two buildings. The otherend looked into the interior court. A careful reconnaissance showed noone in sight, so I walked boldly along the verandah in the direction ofthe girl's room. Her note had said she was constantly guarded; but Icould see no one in sight, and I had to take a chance somewhere. Twoseconds' talk would do me: I wanted to know in which of the numerousrooms the old man slept. I had a hunch it would be a good idea to sharethat 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 doorslammed shut. The owl hunters had returned more quickly than I hadanticipated. Running as lightly as possible I darted down the verandahand around the corner of the left wing. This brought me into a narrowlittle garden strip between the main house and the wall dividing thecourt from the corrals and stable yards. Footsteps followed me butstopped. A hand tried the door knob to the corner room. 

"Nothing, " I heard Hooper's voice replying to a question. "Nothing atall. Go to sleep. "

The fragrant smell of Mexican tobacco reached my nostrils. After amoment Ramon--it was he--resumed a conversation in Spanish:

"I do not know, señor, who the man was. I could but listen; it was notwell 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'sharsher 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 brownthat bucks badly, so I cut the quarter straps of his saddle. It might bethat 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 inraces 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 thisSanborn 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 atrusty man for him to-morrow with the buckboard. He comes to see me, inanswer 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 untilI 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 hisfigure against the sky and the dim white of the walls. 

The night was very still, as always at this ranch. There was not even abreeze to create a rustle in the leaves. I was obliged to hold rigidlymotionless, almost to hush my breathing, while the figure bulked largeagainst the whitewashed wall. But my eyes, wide to the dimness, took inevery detail of my surroundings. Near me stood a water barrel. If Icould get a spring from that water barrel I could catch one of the heavyprojecting beams of the roof. 

After an apparently interminable interval the sound of footsteps becameaudible, and a moment later Ramon moved to meet his relief. I seized theopportunity of their conversation and ascended to the roof. It provedto be easy, although the dried-out old beam to which for a moment Iswung creaked outrageously. Probably it sounded louder to me than theactual fact. I took off my boots and moved cautiously to where I couldlook down into the court. Ramon and his companion were still talkingunder the verandah, so I could not see them; but I waited until I heardone of them move away. Then I went to seat myself on the low parapet andthink things over. 

The man below me had the key to the girl's room. If I could get the keyI could accomplish the first step of my plan--indeed the only step I haddetermined upon. The exact method of getting the key would have todevelop. In the meantime, I gave passing wonder to the fact, asdeveloped by the conversation between Hooper and Ramon, that Brower wasnot at the ranch and had not been heard of at the ranch. Where had Tigerdumped him, and where now was he lying? I keenly regretted the loss of apossible ally; and, much to my astonishment, I found within myself alittle regret for the man himself. 

The thought of the transom occurred to me. I tiptoed over to that sideand 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 theend of my silk bandana and lowered it at arm's length. By swinging itgently back and forth I determined that the transom was open. With thestub of the pencil every cowboy carried to tally with I scribbled a fewwords on an envelope which I wrapped about the bit of coping. Somethingto the effect that I was there, and expected to gain entrance to herroom later, and to be prepared. Then I lowered my contraption, causedit to tap gently a dozen times on the edge of the transom, and finallyswung it with a rather nice accuracy to fly, bandana and all, throughthe opening. After a short interval of suspense I saw the reflection ofa light and so knew my message had been received. 

There was nothing to do now but return to a point of observation. On myway I stubbed my stockinged foot against a stone _metate_ or mortar inwhich Indians and Mexicans make their flour. The heavy pestle was there. I annexed it. Dropped accurately from the height of the roof it wouldmake 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 aquarter hour the sentry emerged from under the verandah, looked up atthe sky, yawned, stretched, and finally sat down with his back againstthe wall of the building opposite. Inside of ten minutes he was soundasleep and snoring gently. 

I wanted nothing better than that. The descent was a little difficult toaccomplish noiselessly, as I had to drop some feet, but I managed it. After crouching for a moment to see if the slight sounds had arousedhim, 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 heavybarrel of my gun, and I was going to take no chances. I had nocompunctions 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 thatinstant 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 wascaught in a grip so skillful that the smallest move gave me the mostexquisite pain. At that time I had not even heard the words _jiu jitsu_, but I have looked them up since. Cortinez, the sleepy sentry, withoutchanging 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 oldman's face was twisted in a sardonic half-snarl that might pass for agrin; but there was no smile in his unblinking wildcat eyes. Thereseemed to be trace neither of the girl nor the girl's occupation. 

"Thank you for your warning of your intended visit, " said Hooper insilky tones, indicating my bandana which lay on the table. "And now mayI inquire to what I owe the honour of this call? Or it may be that thevisit was not intended for me at all. Mistake in the rooms, perhaps. Ioften shift and change my quarters, and those of my household;especially if I suspect I have some reason for doing so. It addsinterest to an otherwise uneventful life. "

He was eying me sardonically, evidently gloating over the situation ashe found it. 

"How did you get on that roof? Who let you inside the walls?" hedemanded, 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. Theold man was separated from me by a table, and he held my own revolverready for instant use. So I stood tight and waited. 

The room was an almost exact replica of the one in which I had spent thenight so short a time before; the same long narrow transom near theceiling, the same barred windows opening on the court, the same closetagainst the blank wall. Hooper had evidently inhabited it for some days, for it was filled with his personal belongings. Indeed he must havemoved in _en bloc_ when his ward had been moved out, for none of thefurnishings showed the feminine touch, and several articles could havebelonged only to the old man personally. Of such was a small iron safein one corner and a tall old-fashioned desk crammed with papers. 

But if I decided overt action unwise at this moment, I decidedly wentinto action the next. Hooper whistled and four Mexicans appeared withropes. Somehow I knew if they once hog-tied me I would never get anotherchance. Better dead now than helpless in the morning, for what that oldbuzzard 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 lickany four Mexicans. Now I had to take that back. I could not. But I gavethe man argument, and by the time they had my elbows lashed behind meand my legs tied to the legs of one of those big solid chairs they liketo name as "Mission style, " I had marked them up and torn their prettyclothes and smashed a lot of junk around the place and generally gotthem so mad they would have knifed me in a holy second if it had notbeen for Old Man Hooper. The latter held up the lamp where it wouldn'tget smashed and admonished them in no uncertain terms that he wanted mealive and comparatively undamaged. Oh, sure! they mussed me up, too. Iwasn't very pretty, either. 

The bravos withdrew muttering curses, as the story books say; and afterHooper had righted the table and stuck the lamp on it, and taken a goodlook at my bonds, he withdrew also. 

Most of my time until the next thing occurred was occupied in figuringon all the things that might happen to me. One thing I acknowledged tomyself right off the reel: the Mexicans had sure trussed me up forfurther orders! I could move my hands, but I knew enough of ropes andties to realize that my chances of getting free were exactly nothing. Myplans had gone perfectly up to this moment. I had schemed to get insidethe ranch and into Old Man Hooper's room; and here I was! What morecould a man ask?

The next thing occurred so soon, however, that I hadn't had time tothink 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 stoodaside 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 hastaken so much trouble, so very much trouble to see you that I think it agreat pity his wish should not be fulfilled. Won't you sit down here, mydear?"

She was staring at me, her eyes gone wide with wonder and horror. Halfthinking she took her seat as indicated. Instantly the old man had boundher elbows at the back and had lashed her to the chair. After the firststart of surprise she made no resistance. 

"There, " said Hooper, straightening up after the accomplishment of thistask; "now I'm going to leave you to your visit. You can talk it allover. Tell him all you please, my dear. And you, sir, tell her all youknow. 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 girlsaid nothing, but she stared at him with level, blazing eyes. Also forthe 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 handsto my mouth. "

The old man transferred his baleful eyes on me. Then without saying aword he placed in my hands a box of tailor-made cigarettes and a dozenmatches. 

"Until morning, " he observed, his hand on the door knob. He inclined ina 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 himaddressing Cortinez outside. The girl started to speak, but I waved myshackled hand at her for silence. By straining my ears I could just makeout 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 girlopposite me and looked her over carefully. My first impression ofmeekness I revised. She did not look to be one bit meek. Her lips werecompressed, her nostrils wide, her level eyes unsubdued. A person ofsense, I said to myself, well balanced, who has learned when it isuseless to kick against the pricks, but who has not necessarily on thataccount forever renounced all kicking. It occurred to me that she musthave had to be pretty thoroughly convinced before she had come to thisframe of mind. When she saw that I had heard all I wanted of themovements outside, she spoke hurriedly in her low, sweet voice:

"Oh, I am so distressed! This is all my doing! I should have knownbetter----"

"Now, " I interrupted her, decisively, "let's get down to cases. You hadnothing to do with this; nothing whatever. I visited this ranch thefirst time out of curiosity, and to-night because I knew that I'd haveto hit first to save my own life. You had no influence on me in eithercase. "

"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 getat Hooper. This is all my fault; and we're going to cut out theself-accusations and get down to cases. "

I afterward realized that all this was somewhat inconsiderate andungallant and slightly humiliating; I should have taken the part of theknight-errant rescuing the damsel in distress, but at that moment onlythe 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 somebodylistening?"

"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, justthe 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 thefirst 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 wayout, that is the only method by which it may be found. "

"True, " I agreed, my admiration growing. "And yourself; will he killyou, too?"

"He will not. He does not dare!" she cried, proudly, with a flash ofthe 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?" Iasked. 

"You will understand better if I tell you who I am. "

"You are his deceased partner's daughter; and everybody thinks you arein Europe, " I stated. 

"How in the world did you know that? But no matter; it is true. Iembarked three months ago on the Limited for New York intending, as yousay, to go on a long trip to Europe. My father and I had been alone inthe world. We were very fond of each other. I took no companion, nor didI intend to. I felt quite independent and able to take care of myself. At the last moment Mr. Hooper boarded the train. That was quiteunexpected. He was on his way to the ranch. He persuaded me to stop overfor a few days to decide some matters. You know, since my father's deathI 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 thetailor-mades and settled back. Even my inexperienced youth recognizedthe necessity of relief this long-continued stubborn repression mustfeel. My companion had as yet told me nothing I did not already know orguess; but I knew it would do her good to talk, and I might learnsomething valuable. 

"We came out to the ranch, and talked matters over quite normally; butwhen it came time for my departure, I was not permitted to leave. Forsome unexplained reason I was a prisoner, confined absolutely to thefour walls of this enclosure. I was guarded night and day; and I soonfound I was to be permitted conversation with two men only, Mexicansnamed 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 Ihad to. Then I made up my mind that the only possible thing to do was toacquiesce, 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 haveracked my brains, but I can find no motive. He has not asked me for athing; he has not even asked me a question. Unless he's stark crazy, Icannot 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. Hewill not tolerate a living thing about the place that will not or cannottake orders from him. He kills the flies, the bees, the birds, thefrogs, because they are not his. I believe he would kill a man asquickly who stood out even for a second against him here. To that extentI believe he is crazy: a sort of monomania. But not otherwise. That iswhy 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. Justlet me alone a few moments while I work it out. "

I lighted a second cigarette from the butt of the first and fell into astudy. Cortinez breathed heavily outside. Otherwise the silence was asdead as the blackness of the night. The smoke from my cigarettes floatedlazily until it reached the influence of the hot air from the lamp; thenit shot upward toward the ceiling. The girl watched me from under herlevel brows, always with that air of controlled restraint I found soadmirable. 

"I've got it, " I said at last, "--or at least I think I have. Now listento me, and believe what I've got to say. Here are the facts: first, yourfather and Hooper split partnership a while back. Hooper took his shareentirely in cash; your father took his probably part in cash, butcertainly all of the ranch and cattle. Get that clear? Hooper owns nopart of the ranch and cattle. All right. Your father dies before thepapers relating to this agreement are recorded. Nobody knew of thosepapers except your father and Hooper. So if Hooper were to destroy thosepapers, he'd still have the cash that had been paid him, and an equalshare 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--anex-jockey of Hooper's. Brower held them for blackmail. Unless Hoopercame 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 incase 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 propertywould 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. Alot of these old Arizona partnerships were made just that way. Life wasuncertain out here. I'll bet the old original partnership between yourfather 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 newcountry like this. You can see for yourself it's a sensible thing toprovide. "

"You may be right, " she commented. "Go on. "

"You told me a while ago it was best to face any situation squarely. Nowbrace up and face this. You said a while ago that Hooper would not darekill you. That is true for the moment. But there is no doubt in my mindthat he has intended from the first to kill you, because by that hewould 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. Shegathered herself as after a shock. "Why hasn't he done so? Why has hewaited?"

I told her of the situation as it concerned Brower. While thedissolution of partnership papers still existed and might still berecorded, such a murder would be useless. For naturally the dissolutionabrogated the old partnership agreement. The girl's share of theproperty 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 hasdestroyed all evidence. "

"Then everything seems to depend on this Brower, " she said, knitting herbrows anxiously. "Where is he?"

I did not answer this last question. My eyes were riveted on the doorknob which was slowly, almost imperceptibly, turning. Cortinez continuedto breathe heavily in sleep outside. The intruder was evidently at greatpains not to awaken the guard. A fraction of an inch at a time the dooropened. A wild-haired, wild-eyed head inserted itself cautiously throughthe crack. The girl's eyes widened in surprise and, I imagine, a littlein 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 lookof inquiry. "Miss Emory, allow me to present Mr. Artie Brower!"

CHAPTER XII

Brower entered the room quickly but very quietly, and at once came tome. His eyes were staring, his eyelids twitched, his hands shook. Irecognized 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 andimpatiently for effectiveness. I was trying to stoop over far enough tosee what he was doing when my eye caught the shadow of a moving figureoutside. An instant later Tim Westmore, the English groom attached tothe Morgan stallion, came cautiously through the door, which he closedbehind him. I attempted unobtrusively to warn Brower, but he only lookedup, nodded vaguely, and continued his fumbling efforts to free me. Westmore glanced at us all curiously, but went at once to the bigwindows, which he proceeded to swing shut. Then he came over to us, pushed Brower one side, and most expeditiously untied the knots. I stoodup stretching in the luxury of freedom, then turned to perform a likeoffice for Miss Emory. But Brower was by now frantic. He seized my armand fairly shook me, big as I was, in the urgence of his desire. He wasrapidly losing all control and caution. 

"Let him have it, sir, " urged Westmore in a whisper. "I'll free theyoung 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 underhis breath. When the needle had sunk home he lay back in a chair andclosed 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 knowhow he got in without being seen. They'd have found his tracks anyway inthe morning. I don't think he knew quite what he wanted to do. Him andme were old pals, and he wanted to ask me about things. He didn't expectto stay, I fancy. He told me he had left his horse tied a mile or sodown 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 hewas a hop fiend. I've seen them before, and I got uneasy, too. If hecame 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, " heconfessed. 

"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 aminute. I had to hide Artie in a box-stall and hope to God he keptquiet. He wasn't as bad as he is now. Ramon told me about you beingcaught, and went on. After that nothing must do but find you. He thoughtyou 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 herslippers 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 thisplace 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'tdelivered him yet. "

"Well, I don't blame you. Now you'd better quietly sneak back to yourquarters. 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'tassassinated from behind a bush is because in that case his killers arein 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 getaction on an uncertainty. "

She nodded. "I can understand that. "

"If we could get proof positive it would be no trick at all to raise thecountry. "

"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 ofsome sort. He wouldn't trust to memory. "

"And he wouldn't trust it to Ramon until after he was dead!" said thegirl 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 runthrough the innumerable bundles and loose papers in the desk, tossingthem aside as they proved unimportant or not germane to the issue. I hadnot the slightest knowledge of the constructions of safes but whirledthe knob hopelessly in one direction or another trying to listen forclicks, 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 chagrinat last. 

"There is nothing here but ranch bills and accounts and businessletters, " she confessed. 

I merely shook my head. 

At this moment Brower, whom I had supposed to be sound asleep, openedhis eyes. 

"Want that safe open?" he asked, drowsily. 

He arose, stretched, and took his place beside me on the floor. His headcocked one side, he slowly turned the dials with the tips of fingers Ifor the first time noticed were long and slim and sensitive. Twice afterextended, delicate manipulations he whirled the knob impatiently andtook a fresh start. On the proverbial third trial he turned the handleand the door swung open. He arose rather stiffly from his knees, resumedhis place in the armchair, and again closed his eyes. 

It was a small safe, with few pigeon holes. A number of blue-coveredcontracts took small time for examination. There were the usual numberof mine certificates not valuable enough for a safe deposit, someconfidential memoranda and accounts having to do with the ranch. 

"Ah, here is something!" I breathed to the eager audience over myshoulder. 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 beexecutor, " I commented. 

I tore open the envelope and extracted from it another of theblue-covered documents. 

"It's a copy, unsigned, of that last agreement with your father, " Isaid, after a disappointed glance. "It's worth keeping, " and I thrust itinside my shirt. 

But this particular pigeon hole proved to be a mine. In it were severalmore 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 asDirections. This last had a further warning that it was to be openedonly by the one addressed. I determined by hasty examination that thefirst two were only what they purported to be, and turned hopefully to aperusal of the last. It was in Spanish, and dealt at great length withthe disposition and management of Hooper's extensive interests. I appenda translation of the portion of this remarkable document, having to dowith our case. 

"These are my directions, " it began, "as to the matter of which we havemany times spoken together. I have many enemies, and many who think theyhave cause to wish my death. They are cowards and soft and I do notthink 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 doa deed against me. In that case I shall be content, for neither do Ifear the devil. But I shall be content only if you follow my orders. Iadd here a list of my enemies and of those who have cause to wish meill. If I am killed, it is probable that some one of these will havedone the deed. Therefore they must all die. You must see to it, following them if necessary to the ends of the earth. You will knowhow; and what means to employ. When all these are gone, then go you tothe highest rock on the southerly pinnacle of Cochise's Stronghold. Tenpaces northwest is a gray, flat slab. If you lift this slab there willbe found a copper box. In the box is the name of a man. You will go tothis man and give him the copper box and in return he will give to youone hundred thousand dollars. I know well, my Ramon, that your honestywould not permit you to seek the copper box before the last of myenemies is dead. Nevertheless, that you may admire my recourse, I havemade an arrangement. If the gray slab on Cochise's Stronghold is everdisturbed before the whole toll is paid, you will die very suddenly andunpleasantly. I know well that you, my Ramon, would not disturb it; andI hope for your sake that nobody else will do so. It is not likely. Noone is fool enough to climb Cochise's Stronghold for pleasure; and thisgray slab is one among many. "

At this time I did not read carefully the above cheerful document. MySpanish was good enough, but took time in the translating. I dipped intoit enough to determine that it was what we wanted, and flipped the pagesto come to the list of prospective victims. It covered two sheets, and aglance down the columns showed me that about every permanent inhabitantof the Soda Springs Valley was included. I found my own name in quitefresh ink toward the last. 

"This is what we want, " I said in satisfaction, rising to my feet. Isketched 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 overher 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, " saidWestmore, 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 abouthim. "

"He'll sleep like a log until morning, " Miss Emory reassured me. "I'veoften stepped right over him where he has been on guard and walked allaround 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 foundhimself face to face with Cortinez. 

CHAPTER XIII

I had not thought of the English groom as a man of resource, but hisaction in this emergency proved him. He cast a fleeting glance over hisshoulder. Artie Brower was huddled down in his armchair practically outof sight; Miss Emory and I had reseated ourselves in the only other twochairs in the room, so that we were in the same relative positions aswhen we had been bound and left. Only the confusion of the papers on thefloor and the open safe would have struck an observant eye. 

"It is well that you come, " said Tim to Cortinez in Spanish. "The señorsent me to conduct these two to the East Room and I like not the jobalone. Enter. "

He held the door with one hand and fairly dragged Cortinez through withthe other. Instantly he closed the door and cast himself on Cortinez'sback. I had already launched myself at the Mexican's throat. 

The struggle was violent but brief. Fortunately I had not missed myspring at our enemy's windpipe, so he had been unable to shout. Thenoise 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. "Youcan lay him outside and if anybody comes along they'll think he'sasleep--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 thegun and knife taken from Cortinez and the miserable little automaticbelonging to Brower. That was all. It was perfectly evident that wecould not get out through the regular doorways, as, by Tim's statement, they were all closed and guarded. On my representation it was decided totry the roof. 

We therefore knotted together the cord that had bound me and two sheetsfrom the bed, and sneaked cautiously out on the verandah, around thecorner 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. Itseemed that the air would snap and crackle were some little resolvingelement to be dropped into its suspended hush. Not a sound was to beheard except a slow drip of water from somewhere in the courtyard. 

It was agreed that I, as the heaviest, should descend first. I landedeasily enough and steadied the rope for Miss Emory who came next. WhileI was waiting I distinctly heard, from the direction of the willows, thehooting of an owl. Furthermore, it was a great horned owl, and he seemedto have a lot to say. You remember what I told you about setting yourmind so that only one sort of noise will arouse it, but that oneinstantly? I knew perfectly well that Old Man Hooper's mind was set toall these smaller harmless noises that most people never notice at all, waking or sleeping--frogs, crickets, owls. And therefore I was convincedthat sooner or later that old man and his foolish ideas and his shotgunwould come projecting right across our well-planned getaway. Which wasjust what happened, and almost at once. Probably that great horned owlhad been hooting for some time, but we had been too busy to notice. Iheard the wicket door turning on its hinges, and ventured a warning hissto Brower and Tim Westmore, who had not yet descended. An instant laterI could make out shadowy forms stealing toward the willows. Evidentlythose who served Old Man Hooper were accustomed to broken rest. 

We kept very quiet, straining our eyes at the willows. After an intervala long stab of light pierced the dusk and the round detonation ofold-fashioned black powder shook the silence. There came to us thebabbling of voices released. At the same instant the newly risen moonplastered us against that whitewashed wall like insects pinned in acork-lined case. The moonlight must have been visibly creeping down tous for some few minutes, but so absorbed had I been in the doings of theparty 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 remainedthat ridiculous, plainly visible rope; and anyway a shout relieved me ofany doubt as to whether we had been seen. Brower came tumbling down onus, and with one accord we three doubled to the right around the wallsof the ranch. A revolver shot sang by us, but we were not immediatelypursued. Our antagonists were too few and too uncertain of our numbersand arms. 

It was up to us to utilize the few minutes before the ranch should bearoused. We doubled back through the willows and across the mesquiteflat toward the lone Joshua-tree where I had left my horse. I held thegirl's hand to help her when she stumbled, while Brower scuttled alongwith surprising endurance for a dope wreck. Nobody said anything, butsaved 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 somebitterness. 

It was, nevertheless, the wisest thing he could have done. He had notbeen identified with this outfit except by Cortinez, and Cortinez wassafe for twelve hours. 

We found the Joshua-tree without difficulty. 

"Now, " said I, "here is the plan. You are to take these papers to SeñorBuck Johnson, at the Box Springs ranch. That's the next ranch on thefork of the road. Do you remember it?"

"Yes, " said Brower, who had waked up and seemed quite sober andresponsible. "I can get to it. "

"Wake him up. Show him these papers. Make him read them. Tell him thatMiss 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. "Ifanybody 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 yourshirt. 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 horsesand saddle up. At any moment I expected to see the massive doors swingopen to let loose the wolf pack. 

Brower ran to my horse--a fool proceeding, especially for an experiencedhorseman--and jerked loose the tie rope. Badger is a good reliable cowhorse, but he's not a million years old, and he's got some naturalequine suspicions. I kind of lay a good deal of it to that foolhard-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 onuntil 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 withnervous 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 tothe 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 countryagainst the probabilities of search. The proportion was small. Most ofmy riding experience had been farther north and to the west. Suchobvious hole-ups as the one I had suggested--the Bat-eye Tunnel--were ofcourse 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; andafoot we could not much better ourselves as against mounted men. We musthide. "

"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 neverguess 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 alight--probably a locomotive headlight--poured out. Mounted figuresgalloped forth and swerved to right or left, spreading in a circle aboutthe enclosure. The horsemen reined to a trot and began methodically toquarter the ground, weaving back and forth. Four detached themselves androde off at a swift gallop to the points of the compass. The mounted menwere working fast for fear, I suppose, that we may have possessedhorses. Another contingent, afoot and with lanterns, followed moreslowly, going over the ground for indications. I could not but admirethe 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 beable to follow the _barranca_ down. Any of those big rocks will do. Laylow, and after a rider has gone over a spot, try to get to that spotwithout being seen. "

We were not to be kept long in suspense. Out of all the three hundredand sixty degrees of the circle one of the swift outriders selectedprecisely our direction! Straight as an arrow he came for us, at fullgallop. I could see the toss of his horse's mane against the light fromthe opened door. There was no time to move. All we could do was to cowerbeneath our rock, muscles tense, and hope to be able to glide around theshadow as he passed. 

But he did not pass. Down into the shallow _barranca_ he slid with atinkle 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 ourhearts. I managed to get into a position to steal a glimpse. It wasdifficult, but at length I made out the statuesque lines of the horse, and the rider himself, standing in his stirrups and leaning slightlyforward, peering intently about him. The figures were in silhouetteagainst the sky, but nobody ever fooled me as to a horse. It was theMorgan stallion, and the rider was Tim Westmore. Just as the realizationcame to me, Tim uttered a low, impatient whistle. 

It's always a good idea to take a chance. I arose into view--but I keptmy gun handy. 

"Thank God!" cried Tim, fervently, under his breath. "I remembered you'dleft 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 previouslygiven 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 alkaliflat. 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 wasobstinate. 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 hisforehead a very solid blow against a projection of the conglomerateboulder. The girl screamed slightly. 

"Hush!" warned Tim in a fierce whisper. He raised his hand toward theapproaching horsemen, who were now very near. Without attention to theblood streaming from his brow he bent his head to listen to the faintclinking of steel against rock that marked the stallion's progresstoward the alkali flat. The searchers were by now dangerously close, andTim uttered a smothered oath of impatience. But at last we distinctlyheard the faint, soft thud of galloping hoofs. 

The searchers heard it, too, and reined up to listen. Tim thrust into myhand the 30-30 Winchester he was carrying together with a box ofcartridges. Then with a leap like a tiger he gained the rim of the_barranca_. Once there, however, his forces seemed to desert him. Hestaggered forward calling in a weak voice. I could hear the volley ofrapid questions shot at him by the men who immediately surrounded him;and his replies. Then somebody fired a revolver thrice in rapidsuccession and the whole cavalcade swept away with a mighty crackling ofbrush. Immediately after Tim rejoined us. I had not expected this. 

Relieved for the moment we hurried Miss Emory rapidly up the bed of theshallow wash. The tunnel mentioned was part of an old mine operation, undertaken at some remote period before the cattle days. It entered thebase of one of those isolated conical hills, lying like islands in theplain, so common in Arizona. From where we had hidden it lay about threemiles to the northeast. It was a natural and obvious hide out, and Ihad no expectation of remaining unmolested. My hope lay in rescue. 

We picked our way under cover of the ravine as long as we could, thenstruck boldly across the plain. Nobody seemed to be following us. A wildhope entered my heart that perhaps they might believe we had all madeour escape to Box Springs. 

As we proceeded the conviction was borne in on me that the stratagem hadat least saved us from immediate capture. Like most men who ride I hadvery sketchy ideas of what three miles afoot is like--at night--in highheels. 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 rollingvolcanic 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 caughtas sure as God made little green apples. He seemed as lively as acricket, in spite of the dried blood across his face. 

The moon was now sailing well above the horizon, throwing the world intosilver and black velvet. When we moved in the open we showed up like atrain of cars; but, on the other hand, the shadow was a cloak. It was bynow 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. Timand I had discussed the procedure as we walked. I was for lying in waitoutside; but Tim pointed out that the tunnel entrance was well down inthe boulders, that even the sharpest outlook could not be sure ofdetecting an approach through the shadows, and that from the shelter ofthe roof props and against the light we should be able to hold off alarge force almost indefinitely. In any case, we would have to gamble onBrewer's winning through, and having sense enough in his opium-saturatedmind 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 thetimbers down from the White Mountains. Indeed a number of unused beams, both trunks of trees and squared, still lay around outside. From time totime, since the original operations, some locoed prospector comesprojecting along and does a little work in hopes he may find somethingthe other fellow had missed. So the passage was crazy with props andsupports, new and old, placed to brace the ageing overhead timbers. Going in they were a confounded nuisance against the bumped head; butlooking back toward the square of light they made fine protectionsbehind which to crouch. In this part of the country any tunnel would bedry. It ran straight for about a hundred and fifty feet. 

We groped our way about seventy-five feet, which was as far as we couldmake out the opening distinctly, and sat down to wait. I still had therest of the tailor-made cigarettes, which I shared with Tim. We did nottalk, for we wished to listen for sounds outside. To judge by herbreathing, I think Miss Emory dozed, or even went to sleep. 

About an hour later I thought to hear a single tinkle of shale. Timheard it, too, for he nudged me. Our straining ears caught nothingfurther, however; and I, for one, had relaxed from my tension when thesquare of light was darkened by a figure. I was nearest, so I raisedCortinez's gun and fired. The girl uttered a scream, and the figuredisappeared. I don't know yet whether I hit him or not; we never foundany blood. 

We made Miss Emory lie down behind a little slide of rock, and disposedourselves 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 andfreely. 

Now ensued a long waiting interim. We could hear various sounds outsideas of moving to and fro. The enemy had likewise no reason for furtherconcealment. 

"Look!" suddenly cried Tim. "Something crawling. "

He raised the 30-30 and fired. Before the flash and the fumes hadblinded me I, too, had seen indistinctly something low and prone glidingaround 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 thingglided steadily, untouched or unmindful of the shots we threw at it. When it came to the first of the crazy uprights supporting the rooftimbers it seemed to hesitate gropingly. Then it drew slowly back a footor so, and darted forward. The ensuing thud enlightened us. The thingwas one of the long, squared timbers we had noted outside; and it wasbeing used as a battering ram. 

"They'll bring the whole mountain down on us!" cried Tim, springingforward. 

But even as he spoke, and before he had moved two feet, that catastropheseemed at least to have begun. The prop gave way: the light at theentrance was at once blotted out; the air was filled with terrifyingroaring echoes. There followed a succession of crashes, the rolling ofrocks over each other, the grinding slide of avalanches great and small. We could scarcely breathe for the dust. Our danger was that now thething was started it would not stop: that the antique and inadequatesupports would all give way, one bringing down the other in successionuntil we were buried. Would the forces of equilibrium establishthemselves through the successive slight resistances of these rotted, worm-eaten old timbers before the constricted space in which we crouchedshould be entirely eaten away?

After the first great crash there ensued a moment's hesitation. Then asecond span succumbed. There followed a series of minor chutes withshort intervening silences. At last so long an interval of calm ensuedthat we plucked up courage to believe it all over. A single stone rolleda few feet and hit the rock floor with a bang. Then, immediately after, the first-deafening thunder was repeated as evidently another span gaveway. It sounded as though the whole mountain had moved. I was almostafraid to stretch out my hand for fear it would encounter the wall ofdébris. The roar ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Followed then along silence. Then a little cascading tinkle of shale. And another deadsilence. 

"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 waywith my feet. Foot after foot I went, encountering nothing but theprops. Expecting as I did to meet an obstruction within a few paces atmost, I soon lost my sense of distance; after a few moments it seemed tome that I must have gone much farther than the original length of thetunnel. At last I stumbled over a fragment, and so found my fingersagainst a rough mass of débris. 

"Why, this is fine!" I cried to the others, "I don't believe more than aspan or so has gone!"

I struck one of my few remaining matches to make sure. While of course Ihad no very accurate mental image of the original state of things, stillit seemed to me there was an awful lot of tunnel left. As the wholesignificance 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 asa 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 fourlegs 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 towait with what patience I might the march of events. Sleep was thefarthest thing from my thoughts. When I came to I found myself doubledon my side with a short piece of ore sticking in my ribs and eighteen ortwenty assorted cramp-pains in various parts of me. This was all myconsciousness had room to attend to for a few moments. Then I becamedully aware of faint tinkling sounds and muffled shoutings from theouter end of the tunnel. I shouted in return and made my way as rapidlyas possible toward the late entrance. 

A half hour later we crawled cautiously through a precarious opening andstood blinking at the sunlight. 

CHAPTER XIV

A group of about twenty men greeted our appearance with a wild cowboyyell. Some of the men of our outfit were there, but not all; and Irecognized others from as far south as the Chiracahuas. Windy Bill wasthere with Jed Parker; but Señor Johnson's bulky figure was nowhere tobe seen. The other men were all riders--nobody of any particularstanding or authority. The sun made it about three o'clock of theafternoon. Our adventures had certainly brought us a good sleep!

After we had satisfied our thirst from a canteen we began to ask andanswer questions. Artie Brower had made the ranch without mishap, hadtold his story, and had promptly fallen asleep. Buck Johnson, in hisusual deliberate manner, read all the papers through twice; pondered forsome time while the more excited Jed and Windy fidgeted impatiently; andthen, his mind made up, acted with his customary decision. Three men hesent to reconnoitre in the direction of the Bat-eye Tunnel withinstructions to keep out of trouble and to report promptly. His otherriders he dispatched with an insistent summons to all the leadingcattlemen as far south as the Chiracahua Range, as far east as Grant'sPass, as far west as Madrona. Such was Buck Johnson's reputation forlevel-headedness that without hesitation these men saddled and rode attheir best speed. By noon the weightiest of the Soda Spring Valley hadgathered in conclave. 

"That's where we faded out, " said Jed Parker. "They sent us up to seeabout you-all. The scouts from up here come back with their little WildWest story about knocking down this yere mountain on top of you. We hadto believe them because they brought back a little proof with them. Mexguns and spurs and such plunder looted off'n the deceased on the fieldof battle. Bill here can tell you. "

"They was only two of them, " said Windy Bill, diffident for the firsttime in his life, "and we managed to catch one of 'em foul. We beendigging here for too long. We ain't no prairie dogs to go delving intothe bosom of the earth. We thought you must be plumb deceased anyhow: wecouldn't get a peep out of you. I was in favour of leavin' you laymyself. This yere butte seemed like a first-rate imposing tomb; and Iwas willing myself to carve a few choice sentiments on some selectedrock. Sure I can carve! But Jed here allowed that you owed him tendollars 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 Ireckon that's about right. I don't mean nothing. And we'd have dug allthrough this butte before----"

"I know that. It isn't your talk, " interrupted Miss Emory, "but the sunis 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 senseenough 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 mighthave considered a rescue party's probable needs. 

We mounted and started for the Box Springs ranch. They had at leastknown enough to bring extra horses. 

"Old Hooper knows the cat is out of the bag now, " I suggested as we rodealong. 

"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 betsomething's going to pop. There's a bunch of 'em on that sweet littlelist you-all dug up. "

We rode slowly. It was near five o'clock when we pulled down the lanetoward the big corrals. The latter were full of riding horses, and thefences were topped with neatly arranged saddles. Men were everywhere, seated in rows on top rails, gathered in groups, leaning idly againstthe ranch buildings. There was a feeling of waiting. 

We were discovered and acclaimed with a wild yell that brought everybodyrunning. Immediately we were surrounded. Escorted by a clamouringmultitude we moved slowly down the lane and into the enclosure. 

There awaited us a dozen men headed by Buck Johnson. They emerged fromthe office as we drew up. At sight of them the cowboys stopped, and wemoved forward alone. For here were the substantial men of this part ofthe territory, the old timers, who had come in the early days and whohad persisted through the Indian wars, the border forays, the cattlerustlings, through drought and enmity and bad years. A grim, elderly, four-square, unsmiling little band of granite-faced pioneers, their veryappearance carried a conviction of direct and, if necessary, ruthlessaction. At sight of them my heart leaped. Twenty-four hours previous mycase had seemed none too joyful. Now, mainly by my own efforts, afterall, I was no longer alone. 

They did not waste time in vain congratulations or query. The occasionwas too grave for such side issues. Buck Johnson said something verybrief 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, " Iinterposed. 

The señor bent on me his grave look. 

"Thank you, " said he. "Sing!" he roared, and then to the Chinaman whoshowed up in a nervous hover: "Give this lady grub, savvy? If you'll gowith 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 shemerely bowed and followed the cook. 

CHAPTER XV

They had no tender feelings about me, however. Nobody cared whether Iever ate or not. I was led into the little ranch office and catechizedto a fare-ye-well. They sat and roosted and squatted about, emittingsolemn puffs of smoke and speaking never a word; and the sun went downin shafts of light through the murk, and the old shadows of former dayscrept 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; andpresently loomed in the doorway the gigantic figure of Tom Thorne, thesheriff. 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 forunlawful purposes. If so, I call on you in the name of the law to keepthe 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 trespasserwho must be put off from property that is not his. "

"You men are after Hooper, and I know it. Now you can't run yourneighbours' quarrels with a gun, not anymore. This is a country of lawnow. "

"Tom, " repeated Buck in a reasoning tone, "come in. Strike a light ifyou 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 MarcusMalley, and Dan Watkins. "

At this slow telling of the most prominent names in the southwest cattleindustry Tom Thorne took a step into the room and lighted a match. Thelittle flame, held high above his head, burned down to his fingers whilehe stared at the impassive faces surrounding him. Probably he hadthought to interfere dutifully in a local affair of considerableseriousness; and there is no doubt that Tom Thorne was never afraid ofhis 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 desperatecriminal headed for Grant's Pass, and I figure you can just about catchup with him if you start right now and keep on riding. Only you'd bettermake me your deputy first. It'll sort of leave things in good legalresponsible hands, as you can always easy point out if asked. "

Tom gulped. 

"Raise your right hand, " he commanded, curtly, and administered theoath. "Now I leave it in your hands to preserve the peace, " heconcluded. "I call you all to witness. "

"That's all right, Tom, " said Buck, still in his crooning tones, takingthe 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 littlebit of a runt about six foot three tall; heavy set, weight about ahundred and ten; light complected with black hair and eyes. You can'thelp but find him. Tom's a good sort, " he observed, coming back, "buthe's young. He don't realize yet that when things get real serious thissheriff foolishness just nat'rally bogs down. Now I reckon we'd bettertalk to the girl. "

I made a beeline for the cook house while they did that and filled upfor three. By the time I had finished, the conference was raised, andmen were catching and saddling their mounts. I did not intend to getleft out, you may be sure, so I rustled around and borrowed me a saddleand a horse, and was ready to start with the rest. 

We jogged up the road in a rough sort of column, the old timers ridingahead in a group of their own. No injunction had been laid as to keepingquiet; nevertheless, conversation was sparse and low voiced. The menmostly rode in silence smoking their cigarettes. About half way theleaders summoned me, and I trotted up to join them. 

They wanted to know about the situation of the ranch as I had observedit. I could not encourage them much. My recollection made of the place athoroughly protected walled fortress, capable of resisting aconsiderable 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 headedfor the troops at Fort Huachuca, " interposed Macomber. "He ain't foolenough to take chances on a local sheriff. "

"You're tooting he ain't, " approved Buck Johnson. "It's got to be quickwork. "

"Burn him out, " said Watkins. 

"It's the young lady's property, " hesitated my boss. "I kind of hate todestroy it unless we have to. "

At this moment the Morgan stallion, which I had not noticed before, wasreined back to join our little group. Atop him rode the diminutive formof Artie Brower whom I had thought down and out. He had evidently hadhis evening's dose of hop and under the excitation of the first effecthad 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, butto myself. He was carrying that precious black bag. 

"Blow a hole in his old walls!" he suggested, cheerfully. "That old fortwas built against Injins. A man could sneak up in the shadow and set heroff. It wouldn't take but a dash of soup to stick a hole you could ridethrough 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 thereall the time I've been carrying it around?"

"It's packed good: it can't go off, " Artie reassured us. "I know mybiz. "

"What in God's name do you want such stuff for!" cried Judson. 

"Oh, just emergencies, " answered Brower, vaguely, but I remembered hisuncanny skill in opening the combination of the safe. Possibly thatcontract between Emory and Hooper had come into his hands throughprofessional activities. However, that did not matter. 

"I can make a drop of soup go farther than other men a pint, " boastedArtie. "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 solong. 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 shotaway like an arrow. 

"Hold on! Stop! Oh, damn!" ejaculated the señor. "He'll gum the wholegame!" He spurred forward in pursuit, realized the hopelessness oftrying to catch the Morgan, and reined down again to a brisk travellingcanter. We surmounted the long, slow rise this side of Hooper's in timeto see a man stand out in the brush, evidently for the purpose ofchallenging the horseman. Artie paid him not the slightest attention, but swept by magnificently, the great stallion leaping high in hisrestrained vitality. The outpost promptly levelled his rifle. We saw thevivid 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, andran straight as an arrow for the great doors of the ranch. 

We uttered a simultaneous groan of dismay. Then with one accord westruck spurs and charged at full speed, grimly and silently. Against thegathering hush of evening rose only the drum-roll of our horses' hoofsand the dust cloud of their going. Except that Buck Johnson, rising inhis stirrups, let off three shots in the air; and at the signal from allpoints around the beleagured ranch men arose from the brush and mountedconcealed horses, and rode out into the open with rifles poised. 

The stallion thundered on; and the little jockey managed to cling to thesaddle, though how he did it none of us could tell. In the bottomlandnear 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. Thenwe could see that he was not only holding his seat, but was trying to dosomething, 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, asthough at command, the firing ceased. Probably the condition of affairshad 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 andmystery flows into the bottomlands, has always a panoramic quality thatthrows small any human-sized activities. The ranch houses and theirattendant trees look like toys; the bands of cattle and the men workingthem are as though viewed through the reverse lenses of a glass; and thevery details of mesquite or _sacatone_ flats, of alkali shallow or ofoak grove are blended into broad washes of tone. But now the distant, galloping horse with its swaying mannikin charging on the ranch seemedto fill our world. The great forces of portent that hover aloof in thedusk of the desert stooped as with a rush of wings. The peaceful, widespaces and the veiled hills and the brooding skies were swept clear. Crisis filled our souls: crisis laid her hand on every living movingthing in the world, stopping it in its tracks so that the veryinfinities for a brief, weird period seemed poised over the runninghorse and the swaying, fumbling man. 

At least that is the way it affected me; and subsequent talk leads me tobelieve that that it is how it affected every man jack of us. We all haddifferent ways of expressing it. Windy Bill subsequently remarked: "Ifelt like some old Injun He-God had just told me to crawl in my hole andgive them that knew how a chanct. "

But I know we all stopped short, frozen in our tracks, and stared, and Idon't believe man, _or_ horse, drew a deep breath. 

Nearer and nearer the stallion drew to the ranch. Now he was within afew yards. In another moment he would crash head on, at tremendousspeed, into the closed massive doors. The rider seemed to have regainedsomewhat of his strength. He was sitting straight in the saddle, was nolonger clinging. But apparently he was making no effort to regaincontrol. His head was bent and he was still fumbling at something. Thedistance was too great for us to make out what, but that much we couldsee. 

On flew the stallion at undiminished speed. He was running blind; andseemingly nothing could save him from a crash. But at almost the lastmoment the great doors swung back. Those within had indeed realized thesituation and were meeting it. At the same instant Brower rose in hisstirrups and brought his arm forward in a wide, free swing. A blindingglare flashed across the world. We felt the thud and heave of atremendous 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 breachinto the courtyard, encountering only terror-stricken wretches whocowered still dazed by the unexpectedness and force of the explosion. Inthe excitement order and command were temporarily lost. The men swarmedthrough the ranch buildings like locusts. Señor Buck Johnson and theother old timers let them go; but I noticed they themselves scatteredhere and there keeping a restraining eye on activities. There was to beno looting: and that was early made plain. 

But before matters had a chance to go very far we were brought up allstanding by the sound of shots outside. A rush started in thatdirection: but immediately Buck Johnson asserted his authority and tookcommand. He did not intend to have his men shot unnecessarily. 

By now it was pitch dark. A reconnaissance disclosed a little battlegoing on down toward the water corrals. Two of our men, straying in thatdirection, had been fired upon. They had promptly gone down on theirbellies and were shooting back. 

"I think they've got down behind the water troughs, " one of these mentold me as I crawled up alongside. "Cain't say how many there is. Theyshore do spit fire considerable. I'm just cuttin' loose where I see theflash. When I shoot, you prepare to move and move lively. One of thosehorned toads can sure shoot some; and it ain't healthy to linger nonebehind your own flash. "

The boys, when I crawled back with my report, were eager to pile in andrush the enemy. 

"Just put us a hoss-back, señor, " pleaded Windy Bill, "and we'll runright over them like a Shanghai rooster over a little green snake. Theycan't hit nothing moving fast in the dark. "

"You'll do just what I say, " rejoined Buck Johnson, fiercely. "Cow handsare 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 shotgood and dead; or he'll wish he had been. That goes! There can't be buta 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 aroundcautious. Fill up the place full of lead. Work your men around throughthe brush until you get them surrounded, and then just squat and shootand wait for morning. "

Watkins sent out a dozen of the nearest men to circle the water troughsin order to cut off further retreat, if that were projected. Then hewent about methodically selecting others to whom he assigned variousstations. 

"Now you get a-plenty of catteridges, " he told them, "and you lay lowand shoot 'em off. And if any of you gets shot I'll sure skin himalive!"

In the meantime, the locomotive lantern had been lit so that theinterior of the courtyard was thrown into brilliant light. Needless tosay the opening blown in the walls did _not_ face toward the watercorrals. Of Artie Brower and the Morgan stallion we found hardly atrace. They had been literally blown to pieces. Not one of us who hadknown him but felt in his heart a kindly sorrow for the strange littleman. 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, " heexplained. "What else was I to do? How was I to know he didn't belong tothat 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 forhim? And it is probable that his death saved many lives. 

The prisoners were brought in--some forty of them, for Old Man Hoopermaintained only the home ranch and all his cow hands as well as hispersonal bravos were gathered here. Buck Johnson separated apart sevenof them, and ordered the others into the stables under guard. 

"Bad _hombres_, all of them, " he observed to Jed Parker. "We'll justnat'rally ship them across the line very _pronto_. But these seven areworse than bad _hombres_. We'll have to see about them. "

But neither Andreas, Ramon, nor Old Man Hooper himself were among thosepresent. 

"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, andfinally died to an occasioned burst, mainly from our own side. Under ourleader's direction the men fed their horses and made themselvescomfortable. I was summoned to the living quarters to explain on thespot the events that had gone before. Here we examined more carefullyand in detail the various documents--the extraordinary directions toRamon; the list of prospective victims to be offered at the tomb, so tospeak, of Old Man Hooper; and the copy of the agreement between Emoryand Hooper. The latter, as I had surmised, stated in so many words thatit superceded and nullified an old partnership agreement. This startedus on a further search which was at last rewarded by the discovery ofthat original partnership. It contained, again as I had surmised, thenot-uncommon clause that in case of the death of one or the other of thepartners without direct heirs the common property should revert to theother. I felt very stuck on myself for a good guesser. The only troublewas that the original of the second agreement was lacking: we had only acopy, and of course without signatures. It will be remembered thatBrower said he had deposited it with a third party, and that third partywas to us unknown. We could not even guess in what city he lived. Ofcourse we could advertise. But Windy Bill who--leaning his long figureagainst the wall--had been listening in silence--a pretty fair youngmiracle in itself--had a good idea, which was the real miracle, in myestimation. 

"Look here, " he broke in, "if I've been following the plot of this yeredime novel correctly, it's plumb easy. Just catch Jud--Jud--you know, the editor of the _Cochise Branding Iron_, and get him to telegraph apiece to the other papers that Artie Brower, celebrated jockey etceterer, has met a violent death at Hooper's ranch, details as yetunknown. That's the catch-word, as I _savey_ it. When this yere thirdparty sees that, he goes and records the paper, and there you are!"

Windy leaned back dramatically and looked exceedingly pleased withhimself. 

"Yes, that's it, " approved Buck, briefly, which disappointed Windy, whowas looking for high encomium. 

At this moment a messenger came in from the firing party to report thatapparently all opposition had ceased. At least there had been for sometime no shooting from the direction of the water troughs; a factconcealed from us by the thickness of the ranch walls. Buck Johnsonimmediately went out to confer with Watkins. 

"I kind of think we've got 'em all, " was the latter's opinion. "Wehaven't had a sound out of 'em for a half hour. It may be a trick, ofcourse. "

"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 andlonger continued excitement than I was used to. 

I was afoot with the first stirrings of dawn, you may be sure, and outto join the party that moved with infinite precaution on the watertroughs as soon as it was light enough to see clearly. We found themriddled with bullets and the water all run out. Gleaming brasscartridges scattered, catching the first rays of the sun, attested thevigour of the defence. Four bodies lay huddled on the ground under thepartial shelter of the troughs. I saw Ramon, his face frowning andsinister even in death, his right hand still grasping tenaciously thestock of his Winchester; and Andreas flat on his face; and two otherswhom I did not recognize. Ramon had been hit at least four times. But ofHooper himself was no hide nor hair! So certain had we been that he hadescaped to this spot with his familiars that we were completely takenaback at his absence. 

"We got just about as much sense as a bunch of sheepmen!" cried BuckJohnson, exasperated. "He's probably been hiding out somewhere about theplace. God knows where he is by now!"

But just as we were about to return to the ranch house we were arrestedby a shout from one of the cowboys who had been projecting around theneighbourhood. 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 ofthe 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 outthe 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 theedge of the two-foot jump-off we grouped ourselves waiting while Curley, his brows knit tensely, quartered here and there like a setter dog. Hewas 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. Ishould never have noticed anything--merely another tiny black spot amongother 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 hecould 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 thebroad wash. "

He mounted one of the horses that had now arrived and rode at a lope toa point nearly half a mile west. There he dismounted and tied his horseto the ground. After rather a prolonged search he raised his hand overhis head and described several small horizontal circles in the air. 

"Been in the army, have you?" muttered Buck; "well, I will say you're ahandy 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 nottrouble 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 directioncontinued to be toward Cockeye. Sometimes we could all see plainfootprints; again the trail was, at least as far as I was concerned, atotal loss. Three times we found blood, once in quite a splash. Occasionally even Curley was at fault for a few moments; but in generalhe moved forward at a rapid walk. 

"This Curley person is all right, " observed Windy Bill after a while, "Iwas brung up to find my way about, and I can puzzle out most anywhere acritter has gone and left a sign; but this yere Curley can track ahumming 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, " hesaid. "There ain't no other place for him to go out this way. I reckon Ican pick up enough of this trail just riding along. If we don't find nosign at Cockeye, we can just naturally back track and pick up where heturned off. We'll save time that-away, and he's had plenty of time toget thar and back again. "

So Curley mounted and we rode on at a walk on the horse trail that ledup the broad, shallow wash that came out of Cockeye. 

Curley led, of course. Then rode Buck Johnson and Watkins and myself. Ihad horned in on general principles, and nobody kicked. I suppose theythought my general entanglement with this extraordinary series of eventsentitled me to more than was coming to me as ordinary cow hand. For along time we proceeded in silence. Then, as we neared the hills, Buckbegan to lay out his plan. 

"When we come up on Cockeye, " he was explaining, "I want you to take ahalf dozen men or so and throw around the other side on the Cochisetrail----"

His speech was cut short by the sound of a rifle shot. The country wasstill flat, unsuited for concealment or defence. We were ridingcarelessly. A shivering shock ran through my frame and my horse plungedwildly. For an instant I thought I must be hit, then I saw that thebullet had cut off cleanly the horn of my saddle--within two inches ofmy stomach!

Surprise paralyzed us for the fraction of a second. Then we charged therock pile from which the shot had come. 

We found there Old Man Hooper seated in a pool of his own blood. He hadbeen 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 thevindictive spark of his vitality nobody will ever know--certainly forsome hours. And the shot delivered had taken from him the last flickerof 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 rodeback to Box Springs. The seven men who had been segregated from the restby Buck Johnson were not among them. I never found out what had becomeof them nor who had executed whatever decrees had been pronouncedagainst them. There at the home ranch we found Miss Emory very anxious, excited, and interested. Buck and the others in authority left me toinform her of what had taken place. 

I told you some time back that this is no love story; but I may as welllet you in on the whole sequel to it, and get it off my chest. Windy'sscheme brought immediate results. The partnership agreement wasrecorded, and after the usual legal red-tape Miss Emory came into theproperty. She had to have a foreman for the ranch, and hanged if shedidn't pick on me! Think of that; me an ordinary, forty-dollar cowpuncher! I tried to tell her that it was all plumb foolishness, thatrunning a big cattle ranch was a man-sized job and took experience, butshe wouldn't listen. Women are like that. She'd seen me blunder in andout of a series of adventures and she thought that settled it, that Iwas a great man. After arguing with her quite some time about it, I hadto give in; so I spit on my hands and sailed in to do my littledarndest. I expected the men who realized fully how little I knew aboutit all would call me a brash damn fool or anyway give me the horselaugh; but I fooled myself. They were mightily decent. Jed Parker or SamWooden or Windy Bill were always just happening by and roosting on thecorral rails. Then if I listened to them--and I always did--I learned aheap about what I ought to do. Why, even Buck Johnson himself came andstayed at the ranch with me for more than a week at the time of the fallround-up: and he never went near the riding, but just projected aroundhere and there looking over my works and ways. And in the evenings hewould smoke and utter grave words of executive wisdom which I treasuredand 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 totalk that or nothing. Inside of three years I had that ranch paying, andpaying big. It was due to my friends whom I had been afraid of, and I'mnot ashamed to say so. There's Herefords on our range now instead ofthat lot of heady long-horns Old Man Hooper used to run; and we'regrowing alfalfa and hay in quantity for fattening when they come in offthe ranges. Got considerable hogs, too, and hogs are high--nothing butpure blood Poland. I figure I've added fully fifty per cent. , if notmore, 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 myself-respect. I'd have married her anyhow. We've been together nowfifteen 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 alfalfaand sunsets and sonatas and Poland hogs--but I said this was no lovestory, and it isn't!

The day following the taking of the ranch and the death of Old ManHooper we put our prisoners on horses and started along with them towardthe Mexican border. Just outside of Soda Springs whom should we meet upwith 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, " saidBuck. 

"And what are you up to with them?" asked Thorne. 

"We're protecting them out of Christian charity from the dangers of theroad until they reach the Promised Land. "

"I see, " said Thorne, reflectively. "Whereabouts lays this PromisedLand?"

"About sixty mile due south. "

"You sure to get them all there safe and sound--I suppose you'd bewilling 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 thehorn 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 quietand serene. "

THE ROAD AGENT

CHAPTER I

The Sierra Nevadas of California are very wide and very high. Kingdomscould be lost among the defiles of their ranges. Kingdoms have beenfound there. One of them was Bright's Cove. 

It happened back in the seventies. Old Man Bright was prospecting. Hehad come up from the foothills accompanied by a new but stolid Indianwife. After he had grubbed around a while on old Italian bar and hadsucceeded in washing out a little colour, she woke up and took a slightinterest in the proceedings. 

"You like catch dat?" she grunted, contemptuously. "Heap much overdere!"

She waved an arm. Old Man Bright girded his loins and packed hisjackass. After incredible scramblings the two succeeded in surmountingthe ranges and in dropping sheer to the mile-wide round valley throughwhich flowed the river--the broad, swift mountain river, with thesnow-white rapids and the swirling translucent green of very thickgrass. They were very glad to reach the grass at the bottom, but alittle doubtful on how to get out. The big mountains took root at thevery edge of the tiny round valley; the river flowed out of a gorge atone end and into a gorge at the other. 

"Guess the sun don't rise here 'til next morning, " commented Old ManBright. The squaw was too busy even to grunt. 

In six years Old Man Bright was worth six million dollars, all takenfrom the ledges of Bright's Cove. Of this amount he had been forced tolet go of a small proportion for mill machinery and labour. He had alsoinvested 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, andhairpins, dropping down the face of the mountain in unheard-of gradesand turns. Nothing was ever hauled up it, save yellow bars ofbullion--so that did not matter. Down it, with a shriek of brakes, acloud of dust, a clank of harness and a rumble of oaths, came diversmatters, such as machinery, glassware, whiskey, mirrors, ammunition, andpianos. From any one of a dozen bold points on this road one could seefar down and far up its entire white, thread-like length. The tinycrawling teams each with its puff of dust crawling with it; the greattumbled peaks of the Sierras; the river so far below as to resemble alittle stream, the round Cove with its toy houses and its distantant-like industry--all these were plainly to be seized by a glance ofwhatever eye cared to look. 

As time went on a great many teams and pack trains and saddle animalsclimbed up and down that road. Bright's Cove became quite a town. OldMan Bright made six millions; other men aggregated nearly four millionsmore; still others acquired deep holes and a deficit. It might beremarked in passing that the squaw acquired experience, a calico dressor so, and a final honourable discharge. Being an Indian she quitecheerfully 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. Theyretained the mules; and, it is to be presumed, at least a portion of theinnocence. 

The thousand dollars went to the purchase of the Lost Dog from BarneyFallan. The Lost Dog consisted quite simply of a hole in the groundguarded by an excellent five stamp-mill. The latter's existence couldonly be explained by the incurable optimism of Barney Fallan--certainlynot by the contents of the hole in the ground. To the older men of thecamp 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 ofvernacular exceedingly heart-warming. California John, then a man in hisforties, tried to head off the deal. 

"Look here, son, " said he to Gaynes. "Don't do it. There's nothin' init. Take my word. "

"But Fallan's got a good stamp-mill all ready for business, and theledge----"

"Son, " said California John, "every once in a while the Lord gets toexperimentin' makin' brains for a new species of jackass, and when heruns 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 theimposing but ridiculous stamp-mill. There they set cheerfully to work. After a week's desperate and clanking experiment they got the machineryunder way and began to run rock through the crushers. 

"It ain't even ore!" expostulated California John. "Why, son, it's onlycountry 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 atthe 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 sayonce that they thought they'd never find gold in hornblende. But theydid. "

California John stumped home in indignant disgust. 

"Damn little ijits!" he exploded. "Pigheaded! Stubborn as a pair ofmules!" The recollection of the scrubbed red cheeks, the clear, puppy-dog, frank brown eyes, the close-curling brown hair, forced hislips to a wry grin. "Just like I was at that age, " he admitted. Hesighed. "Well, they'll drop their little pile, of course. The only rayof hope's the experience that old Bible fellow had with them turkeybuzzards--or was it ravens?"

The Babes pecked away for about a month, full of tribulation andquestions. They seemed to depend almost equally on optimism and chance, in both of which they had supreme faith. A huge horseshoe was tackedover the door of the stamp-mill. Jimmy Gaynes always spat over his rightshoulder before doing a day's work. They never walked under the shortladders leading to the hoppers. Neither would they permit visitors totheir shafts. To California John and his friend Tibbetts they interposedscandalized objections. 

"It's bad luck to let another man in your shaft!" cried George. "I'm nohigh-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 couldon credit; they harrowed the feelings of the community--and then, in avery mild way, they struck it. Together they drifted down the singlestreet of the camp, arm in arm, an elaborate nonchalance steadying theirsteps. 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. Toit they exhibited yellow dust to the value of an hundred dollars. "Andmore where that came from, " said they. 

"What kind of rock did you find it in?" demanded Tibbetts, after he hadrecovered 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 slapjust when he's decided to buy a corner lot in the Gaynes Addition? Noton 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 departedagain feverishly to the Lost Dog whence rose smoke and clankings. Andnext day, sure enough, they left their work just long enough to exhibitanother 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 rejoicedexceedingly and genuinely. They liked the Babes. The little strike ofthe Lost Dog quite overshadowed in importance the fact that old manBright's "Clarice" had run into a fabulously rich pocket. 

The end of the month drew near. The Lost Dog had produced nearly eighthundred dollars. The Babes waxed important and talked largely of theirmoneyed interests. 

"I think, " said Jimmy, importantly, "that we will decide to keep threehundred dollars to boost the game; and nail down the rest where mothswon't corrupt. Where do you fellows salt your surplus, anyway?"

"There's an express goes out pretty soon, " someone explained, "with theclean-up of the Clarice. We send our dust out with that; and I reckonyou can fix it with Bright. "

They saw Bright, but ran up against an unexpected difficulty. Old ManBright received them with considerable surliness. He considered himselfas the originator, discoverer, inventor, and almost the proprietor ofBright's Cove and all it contained. Therefore, when he first heard ofthe 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. Hesurveyed 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 outto some suffering bank! I suppose I'll have to cache it in a tomato canfor Johnson's old billy goat to chew up. "

"Bring it over and I'll shove it in with mine, " suggested CaliforniaJohn. 

So it was done. The express, carrying nearly four hundred pounds of golddust, set forth over the steep road. In two hours the driver andmessenger sailed in, bung-eyed with excitement. They had been held up bya single road agent. 

"He come out right on that point of rocks where you can see the wholevalley, " said the driver in answer to many questions, "right where theheavy grade is and the thick chaparral. We was busy climbing; and he hadus before we could wink. Made us drop off the dust and 'bout face. Hewas a big, tall feller; and had a sawed-off Winchester. Once, when westopped, he dropped a bullet right behind us. He must have watched usall the way to camp. "

The camp turned out. As the men passed the Lost Dog someone yelled tothe Babes. George, covered with mud, came to the door of the mill. 

"Gee!" said he. "Lucky we saved out that three hundred. I'm powerfulsorry for that suffering bank. I'll join you as soon as I can get Jimmyup out of the shaft. " Before the party had gone a mile they were joinedby the brothers boyishly eager over this new excitement. 

The men toiled up the road to where the robbery had taken place. Plainlyto be seen were the marks of the man's boots. The tracks of a singlehorse, 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 thesheet of rock stretched the dusty road unbroken by anything more recentthan the wheel-tracks of the day before. It was as though man and horsehad taken unto themselves wings. 

Immediately Bright took active charge of the posse. 

"Stand here, on this rock, " he commanded. "This road's been tracked uptoo much already. You, John, and Tibbetts and Simmins, there, come 'longwith me to see what you can make out. "

The old mountaineers retraced their steps, examining carefully everyinch of the ground. They returned vastly puzzled. 

"No sabe, " California John summed up their investigations. "There's theman's track leadin' his hoss. The hoss had on new shoes, and the robberdid 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 tackedon ready-made shoes. A blacksmith shapes 'em different. Those tracksleads right up to this rock: and here they quit. If you can figger how ahorse, a man, and nigh four hundredweight of gold dust got off thisrock, I'll be obleeged. "

The men looked up at the perpendicular cliff to their right; over thesheer precipice at their left; and upon the untracked deep, white dustahead. 

"Furthermore, " California John went on, impressively, after a moment, "where did that man and that hoss come from in the beginning? Not fromup this way. They's no fresh tracks comin' down the road no more thanthey's fresh tracks goin' up. Not from camp. They's no trackswhatsomever 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 nochances on that. "

"Then he must have come into the road from up the mountain or down themountain. "

"Where?" demanded California John. "A man afoot might scramble down inone or two places; but not a hoss. They ain't no tracks either side themuss-up where the express was stopped. And at that p'int the mountain isstraight up and down, like it is here. "

They talked it over, and argued it, and reexamined the evidence, butwithout avail. The stubborn facts remained: Between the hold-up and thesheet 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 ahundred and fifty thousand dollars, the little community at Bright'sCove might almost have come to doubt the evidence of their senses andthe accuracy of their memories, so fantastic on sober reflection did allthe circumstances become. Even the indisputable four hundred pounds ofgold could not quite avert an unconfessed suspicion of the uncanny. Miners are superstitious folk. Old Man Bright remembered the parting andinvolved curses of his squaw before she went back to her acorns and pinenuts. To Tibbetts alone he imparted a vague hint of the imaginings intowhich he had fallen. But he brooded much, seeking a plausible theorythat would not force him back on the powers of darkness. This he did notfind. 

Nor did any other man. It remained a mystery, a single bizarre anomalyin the life of the camp. For some time thereafter the express wentheavily guarded. The road was patrolled. Jimmy or George Gaynes inperson accompanied each shipment of dust. Their pay streak held out, increased steadily in value. They would hire no assistance for theactual mining in the shaft, although they had several hands to work atthe 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 littlecompared to what Bright and you fellows are sending. It's a heap sightto 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 ghostwould want with cash assets, but they seemed to use George's and mylittle old five hundred, all right. "

Twelve months went by. Two expresses a month toiled up the road. Nothinghappened. Finally Jimmy decided that four good working days a month werea good deal to pay for apparently useless supervision. Three mencomprised the shot-gun guard. They, with the driver, were consideredample. 

"You'll have to get on without me, " said Jimmy to them in farewell. "Begood 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 theexpress drew sorrowfully into camp. The driver appeared to be alone. Inthe bottom of the wagon were the three guards weak and sick. The goldsacks were very much absent. 

"Done it again, " said the driver. "Ain't more than got started afore thewhole 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 tripsure. 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 adamn good shot or a damn poor one. I hung up both hands and yelled wewas down and out. What could I do? This outfit couldn't a fit a bumblebee. And I couldn't git away, or git hold of no gun, or see anything toshoot, if I did. He was behind that big rock. "

The men nodded. They were many of them hard hit, but they had lived toolong in the West not to recognize the justice of the driver's impliedcontention 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 lastyear?"

"I never seen him, " said the driver. "He hung behind his rock. He wasorganized for shoot, and if the messengers hadn't happened to' a' beenout 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'arto 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 timeone of 'em didn't go 'long. "

"I'm glad they didn't, " said Tibbetts. "That agent would have killed 'emshore!"

They called out the Gaynes brothers and broke the news. For once thejovial youngsters had no joke to make. 

"This is getting serious, " said Jimmy, seriously. "We can't afford tolose 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 outthe trail of the express ascending and descending. Plain also were thesigns 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 ofrock. 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 inthat express? A half million! There's nary earthly hoss can carry overhalf a ton! And this one treads as light as a saddler. "

They looked at each other blankly. Several even glanced in apprehensionat the sky. 

In a perfunctory manner, for the sake of doing something, those skilledin trail-reading went back over the ground. Nothing was added to thefirst experience. At the point of robbery magically had appeared a manand--if the stage driver's solemn assertion that at the time of thehold-up no animal was in sight could be believed--subsequently, whenneeded, a large horse. Whence had they come? Not along the road ineither direction: the unbroken, deep dust assured that. Not down themountain from above, for the cliff rose sheer for at least three hundredfeet. Jimmy Gaynes, following unconsciously the general train ofconjecture, craned his neck over the edge of the road. The broken jaggedrock and shale dropped off an hundred feet to a tangle of manzanita andsnowbrush. 

California John looked over, too. 

"Couldn't even get sheep up that, " said he, "let alone a sixteen-handhorse. "

Old Man Bright was sunk in a superstitious torpor. He had lost hundredsof thousands where he would have hated to spend pennies; yet thefinancial part of the loss hardly touched him. He mumbled fearfully tohimself, and took not the slightest interest in the half-heartedattempts 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 andthe man had apparently materialized from thin air exactly at the pointof 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 physicalimpossibility of anything without wings getting up or down the flankingprecipices--these were the incontestable facts. 

After this second robbery a gloom descended on Bright's Cove whichlasted through many months. Old Man Bright hunted out the squaw withwhom he had first discovered the diggings, and set her up in anestablishment with gay curtains, glass danglers and red doileys. Eachmonth he paid for her provisions and sent to her a sum of money. In thismanner, at least, the phantom road agent had furthered the ends ofjustice. The sop to the powers of darkness appeared to be effective inthis respect: no more hold-ups occurred; no more mysterious tracksappeared in the dust; gradually men's minds swung back to the balancedand normal, and the life of the camp went forward on its appointed way. 

Nevertheless, certain effects remained. Each express went out heavilyguarded, and preceded and followed by men on horseback. Strangely enoughthe gamblers left camp. In a little more than a year Old Man Bright fellinto a settled melancholia from which his millions never helped him tothe very day of his death a little more than a year later. 

In the meantime, however varied the fortunes of the other mines andprospects, the Lost Dog continued to work toward a steadily increasingpaying basis. It never reached the proportions of the Clarice, butturned out an increasing value of dust at each clean-up. The Gaynes boystwo years before had been in debt for their groceries. Now they weresaid to have shipped out something like three or four hundred thousanddollars' worth of gold. Their friends used to wander down for theregular clean-up, just to rejoice over the youngsters' deserved goodluck. The little five stamp-mill crunched away steadily; the waterflowed; 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 getbusy?" they were asked. 

"I'll tell you, " replied George, "it's because we know a heap sight moreabout mining than we did when we came here. We have just one claim, andfrom all indications it's only a pocket. The Clarice is on a genuinelode; but we're likely to run into a 'horse' or pinch out most anyminute. When we do, it's all over but a few faint cries of fraud. And wecan empty that pocket just as well with a little jerkwater outfit likethis as we could with a big crew and a real mill. It'll take a littlelonger; but we're pulling it and quick enough. "

"Those Babes have more sense than we gave 'em credit for, " commentedCalifornia John. "Their heads are level. They're dead right about it'sbein' 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 toannounce that the expected pinch had come. 

"We're going, " said Jimmy. "We have a heap plenty dust salted away; andthere's not a colour left in the Lost Dog. The mill machinery is forsale cheap. Any one can have the Lost Dog who wants it. We're going outto see what makes the wheels go 'round. You boys have a first claim onus wherever you find us. You've sure been good to us. If you catch thatspook, send us one of his tail feathers. It would be worth just twelvethousand five hundred to us. "

They sold the stamp-mill for almost nothing; packed eight animals withheavy 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. Thecamp went on prospering. Old Man Bright died. The heavily guardedexpress continued to drag out yellow gold by the hundredweight. 

About six weeks after the departure of the Babes, California Johnsaddled up his best horse, put on his best overalls, strapped about himhis shiny worn Colt's . 45 and departed for his semi-annual visit to thevalleys and the towns. A week later he returned. It was about dusk. Atthe 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 toldof his experience. 

CHAPTER III

California John was discursive and interested and disinclined to behurried. 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. Itook the advice. Wasn't nothin' else to do. All I could see was a rockand a gun barrel. That was enough. So I histed my hands as per commandsand waited for the next move. " He chuckled. "I wasn't worryin'. Had tosqueeze 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 andlaughed 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 ofvoice, so I straightened up again. 

"'Well, Jimmy, ' said I, 'she lays if you say so. But where'd you comefrom: 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 youfor ten minutes. As for where I come from, that's neither here northere. '

"'Of course, ' said I, 'I'm one of these exclusive guys that needs a gunthrowed 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 onthat rock, and you'll see in a minute why I _pre_ferred to corner thegatling market. '

"Well, I set down and lit up, and Jimmy done likewise, about ten feetaway. 

"'I've come back a long ways to talk to one of you boys, and I've shorehung around this road some few hours waitin' for some of you terrapinsto 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 toldhim. 'If that's your general line of talkee-talkee I don't wonder youdon't want me to have no gun. '

"'Never_the_less, ' he insists, 'I done it. And I'll tell you just how itwas done. Here's yore old express crawlin' up the road. Here I am behindthis little old rock. You know what happened next I reckon--fromexperience. '

"'I reckon I know that, ' says I, 'but how did you get behind that rockwithout leavin' no tracks?'

"I climbed up the cliff out of the cañon, and I just walked up the cañonfrom the Lost Dog through the brush. '

"'Yes, ' says I, 'that might be: a man could make out to shinny up. Buthow----'

"'One thing to a time. Then I ordered them dust sacks throwed out, andthe driver to 'bout-face and retreat. '

"'Sure, ' says I, 'simple as a wart on a kid's nose. There was you with ahalf ton of gold to fly off with! Come again. '

"'I then dropped them sacks off the edge of the cliff where they rolledinto the brush. After a while I climbed down after them, and was on handwhen your posse started out. Then I carried them home at leisure. '

"'What did you do with your hoss?' I asked him, mighty sarcastic. 'Seemsto 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 thedust up to that flat rock. Then I clamped a big pair of horseshoes onhind-side before and walked back again. '"

California John's audience had been listening intently. Now it could nolonger contain itself, but broke forth into exclamations indicative ofvarious emotions. 

"That's why them front and back tracks was the same size!" someonecried. 

"Gee, you're bright!" said California John. "That's what I told him. Ialso told him he was a wonder, but how did he manage to slip out near aton of dust up that road without our knowing it?

"'You did know it, ' says he. 'Did you fellows really think there was anygold-bearing ore in the Lost Dog? We just run that dust through the millalong with a lot of worthless rock, and shipped it out open and aboveboard as our own mill run. There never was an ounce of dust come out ofthe Lost Dog, and there never will. ' Then he give me back mygun--emptied--we shook hands, and here I be. "

After the next burst of astonishment had ebbed, and had been succeededby a rather general feeling of admiration, somebody asked CaliforniaJohn if Jimmy had come back solely for the purpose of clearing up themystery. 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 theabandoned Lost Dog. Into the tunnel he led them, to the very end. Therehe 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. Hekept about six hundred thousand or so that belonged to Bright: but hedidn'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 hisconscience 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 ofsophomores, should deal with but a single episode. That dictum isprobably true; but it admits of wider interpretation than is generallygiven it. The teller of tales, anxious to escape from restriction butnot avid of being cast into the outer darkness of the taboo, can inself-justification become as technical as any lawyer. The phrase "asingle episode" is loosely worded. The rule does not specify an episodein one man's life; it might be in the life of a family, or a state, oreven 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 itwithin, but who do not wish to embroil themselves too seriously with theaugust Makers of the Rules. 

CHAPTER I

The time was 1850, the place that long, soft, hot dry stretch of blasteddesolation known as the Humboldt Sink. The sun stared, the heat rose inwaves, the mirage shimmered, the dust devils of choking alkali whirledaloft or sank in suffocation on the hot earth. Thus it had been since inremote 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 thedesert. It had sunk deep into the alkali, and the soft edges had closedover it like snow, so that the wheel marks and the hoof marks and theprints of men's feet looked old. Almost in a straight line it led to thewest. Its perspective, dwindling to nothingness, corrected the deceit ofthe clear air. Without it the cool, tall mountains looked very near. Butwhen the eye followed the trail to its vanishing, then, as though bymagic, the Ranges drew back, and before them denied dreadful forces oftoil, thirst, exhaustion, and despair. For the trail was marked. If thewheel ruts had been obliterated, it could still have been easilyfollowed. Abandoned goods, furniture, stores, broken-down wagons, bloated carcasses of oxen or horses, bones bleached white, rattlingmummies of dried skin, and an almost unbroken line of marked andunmarked graves--like the rout of an army, like the spent wash of a wavethat had rolled westward--these in double rank defined the road. 

The buzzards sailing aloft looked down on the Humboldt Sink as we wouldlook upon a relief map. Near the centre of the map a tiny cloud of whitedust crawled slowly forward. The buzzards stooped to poise above it. 

Two ox wagons plodded along. A squirrel--were such a creaturepossible--would have stirred disproportionately the light alkali dust;the two heavy wagons and the shuffling feet of the beasts raised acloud. The fitful furnace draught carried this along at the slow pace ofthe caravan, which could be seen only dimly, as through a dense fog. 

The oxen were in distress. Evidently weakened by starvation, they wereproceeding only with the greatest difficulty. Their tongues were out, their legs spread, spasmodically their eyes rolled back to show thewhites, from time to time one or another of them uttered a strangled, moaning bellow. They were white with the powdery dust, as were theiryokes, 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 inthe scanty shade alongside the first wagon. Both men were so powderedand caked with alkali that their features were indistinguishable. Theirred-rimmed, inflamed eyes looked out as though from masks. 

The one who had been bringing up the rear looked despairingly toward themountains. 

"We'll never get there!" he cried. 

"Not the way we are now, " replied the other. "But I intend to getthere. "

"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'vegot near a keg of water yet! We can make it! The oxen are pulling allright!"

His companion turned away with a shrug, then thought better of it andturned 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 thebeasts can still pull. "

"But I refuse!" cried the other. "I won't do it. Go ahead with yourwagon. 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 andcarefully swabbed out their mouths, permitted them each a few swallows, rubbed them pityingly between the horns. Then he proceeded to unyoke thefour beasts from the other man's wagon and yoked them to his own. Jimstarted to say something. Gates faced him. Nothing was said. 

"Get your kit, " Gates commanded, briefly, after a few moments. He partedthe hanging canvas and looked into the wagon. Built to transport muchfreight it was nearly empty. A young woman lay on a bed spread along thewagon 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 letsome 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. Theoxen stopped. Gates lifted the man by the shoulders. So exhausted was hethat he had not the strength nor energy to spit forth the alkali withwhich his fall had caked his open mouth. Gates had recourse to thewater keg. After a little he hoisted his companion to the front seat. 

At intervals thereafter the lone human figure spoke the single word thatbrought his team to an instantaneous dead stop. His first care was thenthe 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 furtherreduced the meagre contents of the wagon, appraising each article longand doubtfully before discarding it. About mid-afternoon he saidabruptly:

"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 tothe tail of the wagon. "

Yet an hour later Jim, for the fourth time, fell face downward, but nowdid not rise. Gates, going to him, laid his hand on his head, pushedback one of his eyelids, then knelt for a full half minute, staringstraight ahead. Once he made a tentative motion toward the nearly emptywater keg, once he started to raise the man's shoulders. The movementswere inhibited. A brief agony cracked the mask of alkali on hiscountenance. Then stolidly, wearily, he arose. The wagon lurchedforward. After it had gone a hundred yards and was well under way in itspainful forward crawl, Gates, his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes fixed andglazed, 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 bitout strips of hide. It was characteristic of the man that thoughheretofore he had not in all this day inflicted a single blow on thesuffering animals, though his nostrils widened and his terrible red eyeslooked for pity toward the skies, yet now he swung mercilessly with allhis strength. 

Dusk fell, but the hot earth still radiated, the powder dust rose andchoked. The desert dragged at their feet; and in the twilight John Gatesthought to hear mutterings and the soft sound of wings overhead as thedread spirits of the wastes stooped low. He had not stopped for nearlytwo 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 hehad again to rouse his drained energies. By the brake, by directing thewagon into an obstruction, by voice and whip he fought the franticbeasts back to a moaning standstill. Then pail by pail he fed them thewater until the danger of overdrinking was past. He parted the curtains. In spite of the noise outside the woman, soothed by the breath of coolerair, had fallen asleep. 

Some time later he again parted the curtains. 

"We're here, honey, " he said, "good water, good grass, shade. The desertis 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 backher 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 thecañon clefts begin to spread into foothills. On a flat near--toonear--the stream-bed was a typical placer-mining camp of the day. Thatis, three or four large, rough buildings in a row, twenty or thirty logcabins 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, ofwhom the majority were young men. A year ago the percentage would havebeen nearer one hundred, but now a certain small coterie of women haddrifted in, most of them with a keen eye for prosperity. The red or blueshirt, the nondescript hat, and the high, mud-caked boots of the minerpreponderated. Here and there in the crowd, however, stood a man dressedin the height of fashion. There seemed no middle ground. These latterwere either the professional gamblers, the lawyers, or the promoters. 

A trial was in progress, to which all paid deep attention. Two mendisputed the ownership of a certain claim. Their causes were representedby ornate individuals whose evident zest in the legal battle was notmeasured by prospective fees. Nowhere in the domain and at no time inthe history of the law has technicality been so valued, has the game ofthe courts possessed such intellectual interest, has substantialjustice 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 hisposition leaning against the rail of the jury box. That he was astranger was evident from the glances of curiosity, cast in hisdirection. He was tall, strong, young, bearded, with a roving, humorousbold 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 wantedinformation. Both lawyers supplied it in abundance. The foreman, whohappened 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 thatair?"

The other shook his head. 

"I'm plumb distracted to know what to do; and dear knows we all want togit 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 youcome to. Cain't miss her. "

"If I were you, " said the stranger after a pause, "I'd just declare theclaim vacant. Then neither side would win. "

At this moment the jury rose to retire again. The stranger unobtrusivelygained 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 andshorter 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 toneither and be declared vacant. "

At the words the stranger in the doorway disappeared. Two minutes laterthe advance guard of the rush that had comprehended the true meaning ofthe verdict found the white oak tree in possession of a competentindividual with a Colt's revolving pistol and a humorous eye. 

"My location notice, gentlemen, " he said, calling attention to a paperfreshly attached by wooden pegs. 

"Honey-bug claim', " they read, "'John Gates', " and the usualphraseology. 

"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. "Iam within my rights, and I propose to defend them. "

Thus John Gates and his wife, now strong and hearty, became members ofthis community. His intention had been to proceed to Sacramento. Anincident stopped him here. 

The Honey-bug claim might or might not be a good placer mine--time wouldshow--but it was certainly a wonderful location. Below the sloping benchon which it stood the country fell away into the brown heat haze of thelowlands, a curtain that could lift before a north wind to reveal alandscape magnificent as a kingdom. Spreading white oaks gave shade, aspring sang from the side hill on which grew lofty pines, and back tothe east rose the dark or glittering Sierras. The meadow at the back wasgay with mariposa lilies, melodious with bees and birds, aromatic withthe mingled essences of tarweed, lads-love, and the pines. At this happyelevation 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 thetrees, while the oxen recuperated and grew fat on the abundant grasses. Then in spare moments John Gates began the construction of a house. Hewas a man of tremendous energy, but also of many activities. The dayswere not long enough for him. In him was the true ferment ofconstructive civilization. Instinctively he reached out to modify hissurroundings. 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 ofa home--these absorbed his surplus. As a matter of business he workedwith pick and shovel until he had proved the Honey-bug hopeless, then hestarted a store on credit. Therein he sold everything from hats to 42calibre whiskey. To it he brought the same overflowing play-spirit thathad fashioned his home. 

"I'm making a very good living, " he answered a question; "that is, ifI'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 thishigh office fundamentally, of course, by reason of his courage anddecision of character; but the immediate and visible causes were theEpisode of the Frazzled Mule, and the Episode of the Frying Pan. The oneinspired respect; the other amusement. 

The freight company used many pack and draught animals. One day one ofits mules died. The _mozo_ in charge of the corrals dragged the carcassto the superintendent's office. That individual cursed twice; once atthe mule for dying, and once at the _mozo_ for being a fool. Atnightfall another mule died. This time the _mozo_, mindful of hisberating, did not deliver the body, but conducted the superintendent tosee 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. Thiscarcass also was ordered buried. And at noon a fourth. Thesuperintendent, 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 superintendentafter a while. 

John Gates said nothing for some time. Then suddenly he snatched hispistol and levelled it at the shrinking _mozo_. 

"Produce those three mules!" he roared, "_mucho pronto_, too!" To thebewildered superintendent he explained. "Don't you see? this is the sameold original mule. He ain't never been buried at all. They've beenstealing your animals pretending they died, and using this one over andover as proof!"

This proved to be the case; but John Gates was clever enough never totell 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 bringinghome a new frying pan. At the proper point in the discussion he used hisgreat strength to smash the implement over his opponent's head sovigorously that it came down around his neck like a jagged collar! Gatesclung to the handle, however, and by it led his man all around camp, tothe huge delight of the populace. 

As sheriff he was effective, but at times peculiar in hisadministration. No man could have been more zealous in performing hisduty; yet he never would mix in the affairs of foreigners. Invariably insuch cases he made out the warrants in blank, swore in the complainingparties themselves as deputies, and told them blandly to do their ownarresting! Nor at times did he fail to temper his duty with a littlesubstantial justice of his own. Thus he was once called upon to executea judgment for $30 against a poor family. Gates went down to thepremises, looked over the situation, talked to the man--apoverty-stricken, discouraged, ague-shaken creature--and marched back tothe offices of the plaintiffs in the case. 

"Here, " said he, calmly, laying a paper and a small bag of gold dust ontheir 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 hadbeen sanded, "there's your $30. It's yours legally; and you can take itif you want to. But I want to warn you that a thousand-dollar lickinggoes with it!"

The money--from Gates's own pocket--eventually found its way to the poorfamily!

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 moreenergetic of the miners dropped away. The nature of the communitychanged. Small hill ranches or fruit farms took the place of the mines. The camp became a country village. Old time excitement calmed, the paceof life slowed, the horizon narrowed. 

John Gates, clear-eyed, energetic, keen brained, saw this tendencybefore it became a fact. 

"This camp is busted, " he told himself. 

It was the hour to fulfill the purpose of the long, terrible journeyacross the plains, to carry out the original intention to descend fromthe 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 fouryears of his life into making this farm out of nothing, four years ofincredible toil, energy, and young enthusiasm. He had a good dwellingand spacious corrals, an orchard started, a truck garden, a barleyfield, a pasture, cattle, sheep, chickens, his horses--all his creationfrom nothing. One evening at sundown he found his wife in the gardenweeping 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 picketfence, the cool verandah, the shady fig tree already of some size. Everything was neat and trim, just as he liked it. And the tinkle ofpleasant waters, the song of a meadow lark, the distant mellow lowing ofcows came to his ears; the smell of tarweed and of pines mingled in hisnostrils. 

"It's a good place for children, " he said, vaguely. 

Neither knew it, but that little speech marked the ebb of the wave thathad lifted him from his eastern home, had urged him across the plains, had flung him in the almost insolent triumph of his youth high towardthe sun. Now the wash receded. 

CHAPTER II

It was indeed a good place for children. Charley and Alice Gates grewtall and strong, big boned, magnificent, typical California products. They went to the district school, rode in the mountains, helped handlethe wild cattle. At the age of twelve Charley began to accompany thesummer incursions into the High Sierras in search of feed. At the age ofsixteen he was entrusted with a bunch of cattle. In these summers helearned the wonder of the high, glittering peaks, the blueness of theskies in high altitudes, the multitude of the stars, the flower-gemmedsecret meadows, the dark, murmuring forests. He fished in the streams, and hunted on the ridges. His camp was pitched within a corral of heavylogs. It was very simple. Utensils depending from trees, beds beneathcanvas tarpaulins on pine needles, saddlery, riatas, branding ironsscattered about. No shelter but the sky. A wonderful roving life. 

It developed taciturnity and individualism. Charley Gates felt nonecessity for expression as yet; and as his work required littlecoöperation from his fellow creatures he acknowledged as littleresponsibility toward them. Thus far he was the typical mountaineer. 

But other influences came to him; as, indeed, they come to all. Butyoung Charley was more susceptible than most, and this--on the impulseof the next tide resurgent--saved him from his type. He liked to read;he did not scorn utterly and boisterously the unfortunate young man whotaught the school; and, better than all, he possessed just thequestioning mind that refuses to accept on their own asseveration onlythe conventions of life or the opinions of neighbours. If he were todrink, it would be because he wanted to; not because his companionsconsidered it manly. If he were to enter the sheep war, it would bebecause he really considered sheep harmful to the range; not because ofthe overwhelming--and contagious--prejudice. 

In one thing only did he follow blindly his sense of loyalty: He hatedthe Hydraulic Company. 

Years after the placers failed someone discovered that the wholesale useof hydraulic "giants" produced gold in paying quantities. Huge streamsof water under high pressure were directed against the hills, whichmelted like snow under the spring sun. The earth in suspension was runover artificial riffles against which the heavier gold collected. Onesuch stream could accomplish in a few hours what would have cost handminers the better part of a season. 

But the débris must go somewhere. A rushing mud and boulder-filledtorrent tore down stream beds adapted to a tenth of their volume. Itwrecked much of the country below, ripping out the good soil, coveringthe bottomlands many feet deep with coarse rubble, clay, mud, and evenbig rocks and boulders. The farmers situated below such operationssuffered cruelly. Even to this day the devastating results may be seenabove Colfax or Sacramento. 

John Gates suffered with the rest. His was not the nature to submittamely, nor to compromise. He had made his farm with his own hands, andhe did not propose to see it destroyed. Much money he expended throughthe courts; indeed the profits of his business were eaten by anever-ending, inconclusive suit. The Hydraulic Company, securelyentrenched behind the barriers of especial privilege, could laugh at hisfrontal attacks. It was useless to think of force. The feud degeneratedinto a bitter legal battle and much petty guerrilla warfare on bothsides. 

To this quarrel Charley had been bred up in a consuming hate of theHydraulic Company, all its works, officers, bosses, and employees. Everyhuman being in any way connected with it wore horns, hoofs, and a tail. In company with the wild youths of the neighbourhood he perpetrated manya raid on the Company's property. Beginning with boyish openings ofcorrals to permit stock to stray, these raids progressed with the yearsuntil they had nearly arrived at the dignity of armed deputies and benchwarrants. 

The next day of significance to our story was October 15, 1872. On thatdate fire started near Flour Gold and swept upward. October is always abad time of year for fires in foothill California--between the rains, the heat of the year, everything crisp and brown and brittle. Thisthreatened the whole valley and water shed. The Gateses turned out, andall their neighbours, with hoe, mattock, axe, and sacking, trying tobeat, cut, or scrape a "break" wide enough to check the flames. It wascruel work. The sun blazed overhead and the earth underfoot. The airquivered as from a furnace. Men gasped at it with straining lungs. Thesweat pouring from their bodies combined with the parching of thesuperheated air induced a raging thirst. No water was to be had savewhat was brought to them. Young boys and women rode along the linecarrying canteens, water bottles, and food. The fire fighters snatchedhastily at these, for the attack of the fire permitted no respite. Twicethey cut the wide swath across country; but twice before it wascompleted 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 splendidresources of youth and heritage, and they had responded. Next in line tohis right had been a stranger. This latter was a slender, clean-cutyouth, at first glance seemingly of delicate physique. Charley hadlooked upon him with the pitying contempt of strong youth for weakyouth. 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 slenderbody possessed unexpected reserve, the long, lean hands plied the toolsunweariedly, the sensitive face had become drawn and tired, but thespirit behind the mocking eyes had not lost the flash of its defiance. In the heat of the struggle was opportunity for only the briefestexchanges. Once, when Charley despairingly shook his empty canteen, thestranger offered him a swallow from his own. Next time exigency crowdedthem together, Charley croaked:

"Reckon we'll hold her. "

Toward evening of the second day the westerly breeze died, and shortlythere breathed a gentle air from the mountains. The danger was past. 

Charley and the stranger took long pulls from their recently replenishedcanteens. Then they sank down where they were, and fell instantlyasleep. The projecting root of a buckthorn stuck squarely into Charley'sribs, but he did not know it; a column of marching ants, led by anon-adaptable commander, climbed up and over the recumbent form of thestranger, but he did not care. 

They came to life in the shiver of gray dawn, wearied, stiffened, theireyes 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 mightyou 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, bloodshoteyes 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 tounderstand 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 younggame cocks went at each other. Charley was much the strongerrough-and-tumble fighter; but Cathcart possessed some boxing skill. Result was that, in their weakened condition, they speedily foughtthemselves to a standstill without serious damage to either side. 

"Now perhaps you'll tell me who the hell you think you are!" pantedCathcart, fiercely. 

At just beyond arm's length they discussed the situation, at firstbelligerently with much recrimination, then more calmly, at last with amodicum of mutual understanding. Neither seceded from his basic opinion. Charley Gates maintained that the Company had no earthly businessruining his property, but admitted that with all that good gold lyingthere it was a pity not to get it out. Cathcart stoutly defended a man'sperfect right to do as he pleased with his own belongings, but concededthat 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, " saidCathcart, simply. 

For three years more Charley ran his father's cattle in the hills. Thenhe announced his intention of going away. John Gates was thunderstruck. By now he was stranded high and dry above the tide, fitting perfectlyhis surroundings. Vaguely he had felt that his son would stay with himalways. But the wave was again surging upward. Charley had talked withCathcart. 

"This is no country to draw a salary in, " the latter had told him, "norto play with farming or cows. It's too big, too new, there are too manyopportunities. 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 businessways; Charley Gates the intimate knowledge of the country; there onlyneeded a third member to furnish some money. Charley broke the news tohis family, packed his few belongings, and the two of them went to SanFrancisco. 

Charley had never seen a big city. He was very funny about it, but notoverwhelmed. While willing, even avid, to go the rounds and meet thesporting element, he declined to drink. When pressed and badgered by hisnew acquaintances, he grinned amiably. 

"I never play the other fellows' game, " he said. "When it gets to be mygame, 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 forlumber here is limited, and it is well taken care of by small concernsnear at hand. "

"The state will grow and I am counting on the outside market, " arguedCathcart. 

But this was too absurd! The forests of Michigan, Wisconsin, andMinnesota were inexhaustible! As for the state growing to that extent;of course we all believe it, but when it comes to investing good moneyin the belief----

At length they came upon one of the new millionaires created by thebonanzas of Virginia City. 

"I don't know a damn thing about your timber, byes, " said he, "but Ilike your looks. I'll go in wid ye. Have a seegar; they cost me a dollarapiece. "

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 thesummer they knew what they wanted; and immediately took steps to acquireit. Under the homestead laws each was entitled to but a small tract ofGovernment land. However, they hired men to exercise their privileges inthis respect, to take up each his allotted portion, and then to conveyhis rights to Cathcart and Gates. It was slow business, for the show ofcompliance with Government regulations had to be made. But in thismanner the sum of money at their disposal was indeed spread out verythin. 

For many years the small, nibbling lumbering operations their limitedcapital permitted supplied only a little more than a bare living and thetaxes. But every available cent went back into the business. It grew. Band saws replaced the old circulars; the new mills delivered theirproduct into flumes that carried it forty miles to the railroad. Theconstruction of this flume was a tremendous undertaking, but by now thefirm could borrow on its timber. To get the water necessary to keep theflume in operation the partners--again by means of "dummies"--filed onthe water rights of certain streams. To take up the water directly waswithout the law; but a show of mineral stain was held to justify a"mineral claim, " so patents were obtained under that ruling. ThenCharley had a bright idea. 

"Look here, Cliff, " he said to Cathcart. "I know something aboutfarming; I was brought up on a farm. This country will grow anythinganywhere if it has water. That lower country they call a desert, butthat's only because it hasn't any rainfall. We're going to have a lot ofwater at the end of that flume----"

They bought the desert land at fifty cents an acre; scraped ditches andchecks; planted a model orchard, and went into the real estate business. In time a community grew up. When hydro-electric power came into its ownCathcart & Gates from their various water rights furnished light forthemselves, and gradually for the towns and villages round-about. Thustheir affairs spread and became complicated. Before they knew it theywere wealthy, very wealthy. Their wives--for in due course each had hisromance--began to talk of San Francisco. 

All this had not come about easily. At first they had to fight tooth andnail. The conditions of the times were crude, the code merciless. Assoon as the firm showed its head above the financial horizon, it wasswooped upon. Business was predatory. They had to fight for what theygot; had to fight harder to hold it. Cathcart was involved continuallyin a maze of intricate banking transactions; Gates resisted aggressionwithin and without, often with his own two fists. They learned to trustno man, but they learned also to hate no man. It was all part of thegame. More sensitive temperaments would have failed; these succeeded. Cathcart became shrewd, incisive, direct, cold, a little hard; CharleyGates was burly, hearty, a trifle bullying. Both were in allcircumstances quite unruffled; and in some circumstances ruthless. 

About 1900 the entire holdings of the Company were capitalized, and astock company was formed. The actual management of the lumbering, theconduct of the farms and ranches, the running of the hydro-electricsystems of light and transportation, were placed in the hands of activeyoung men. Charley Gates and his partner exercised over these activitiesonly the slightest supervision; auditing accounts, making an occasionaltrip 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 theinner rooms where stood the partners' desks. One day Cathcart lit afresh cigar, and slowly wheeled his chair. 

"Look here, Charley, " he proposed, "we've got a big surplus. There's noreason 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 bigscale; although the naked import was somewhat obscured by thecomplications of the scheme. After he had finished Gates smoked for sometime in silence. 

"All right, Cliff, " said he, "let's do it. "

And so by a sentence, as his father before him, he marked the farthestthrow of the wave that had borne him blindly toward the shore. In thenext ten years Cathcart and Gates made forty million dollars. Charleyseemed to himself to be doing a tremendous business, but his real work, his contribution to the episode in the life of the commonwealth, ceasedthere. Again the wave receded. 

CHAPTER III

The third generation of the Gates family consisted of two girls and aboy. They were brought up as to their early childhood in what may becalled moderate circumstances. A small home near the little mill town, asingle Chinese servant, a setter dog, and plenty of horses formed theirentourage. When Charles, Jr. , was eleven, and his sisters six and eight, however, the family moved to a pretentious "mansion" on Nob Hill in SanFrancisco. The environment of childhood became a memory: the reality oflife was comprised in the super-luxurious existence on Nob Hill. 

It was not a particularly wise existence. Whims were too easilyrealized, consequences too lightly avoided, discipline too capricious. The children were sent to private schools where they met only their ownkind; they were specifically forbidden to mingle with the "hoodlums" inthe next street; they became accustomed to being sent here and there incarriages with two servants, or later, in motor cars; they had alwaysspending money for the asking. 

"I know what it is like to scrimp and save, and my children are going tobe spared that!" was Mrs. Gates's creed in the matter. 

The little girls were always dressed alike in elaborately simpleclothes, with frilly, starched underpinnies, silk stockings, high bootsbuttoned up slim legs; and across their shoulders, from beneathwonderful lingerie hats, hung shining curls. The latter were notnatural, but had each day to be elaborately constructed. They made adainty and charming picture. 

"Did you ever see anything so sweet in all your life!" was theinvariable feminine exclamation. 

Clara and Ethel-May always heard these remarks. They conductedthemselves with the poise and _savoir faire_ of grown women. Before theywere twelve they could "handle" servants, conduct polite conversationsin a correctly artificial accent, and adapt their manners to another'sstation in life. 

Charley Junior's development was sharply divided into two periods, withthe second of which alone we have to do. The first, briefly, wasrepressive. He was not allowed to play with certain boys, he was notpermitted to stray beyond certain bounds, he was kept clean anddressed-up, he was taught his manners. In short, Mrs. Gatestried--without knowing what she was doing--to use the same formula onhim 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 goodlooks we breed so easily from shirtsleeves, free with his money, knownas the son of his powerful father, a good boxer, knowing no fear, hespeedily became a familiar popular figure around town. It delighted himto play the prince, either incognito or in person; to "blow off thecrowd, " to battle joyously with longshoremen; to "rough house" thesemi-respectable restaurants. The Barbary Coast knew him, Taits, Zinkands, the Poodle Dog, the Cliff House, Franks, and many otherresorts not to be spoken of so openly. He even got into the policecourts once or twice; and nonchalantly paid a fine, with a joke at thejudge and a tip to the policeman who had arrested him. There was toomuch drinking, too much gambling, too loose a companionship, altogethertoo much spending; but in this case the life was redeemed from its usualsignificance by a fantastic spirit of play, a generosity of soul, aregard for the unfortunate, a courtliness toward all the world, arefusal to believe in meanness or sordidness or cruelty. Chuck Gates wasinbred with the spirit of _noblesse oblige_. 

As soon as motor cars came in Chuck had the raciest possible. With it hemanaged to frighten a good many people half out of their wits. He had noaccidents, partly because he was a very good heady driver, and partlybecause those whom he encountered were quick witted. One day whiletouring in the south he came down grade around a bend squarely upon acar ascending. Chuck's car was going too fast to be stopped. He trieddesperately to wrench it from the road, but perceived at once that thiswas impossible without a fatal skid. Fortunately the only turnout for ahalf mile happened to be just at that spot. The other man managed tojump his car out on this little side ledge and to jam on his brakes atthe very brink, just as Chuck flashed by. His mud guards slipped underthose at the rear of the other car. 

"Close, " observed Chuck to Joe Merrill his companion, "I was going alittle too fast, " and thought no more of it. 

But the other man, being angry, turned around and followed him intotown. 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 amountain 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. "Whatdo you suppose would have happened if I hadn't just been able to pullout?"

"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 youimagine you are privileged to the road, do whatever damage youplease--and _pay!_ I'll just take your number. "

"That is unnecessary. My name is Charles Gates, " replied Chuck, "of SanFrancisco. "

The man appeared never to have heard of this potent cognomen. A monthlater the trial came off. It was most inconvenient. Chuck was in Oregon, hunting. He had to travel many hundreds of miles, to pay an expensivelawyer. In the end he was fined. The whole affair disgusted him, but hewent through with it well, testified without attempt at evasion. It wasa pity; but evidently the other man was no gentleman. 

"I acknowledged I was wrong, " he told Joe Merrill. He honestly felt thatthis would have been sufficient had the cases been reversed. In answerto a question as to whether he considered it fair to place the burden ofsafety on the other man, he replied:

"Among motorists it is customary to exchange the courtesies of theroad--and sometimes the discourtesies, " he added with a faint scorn. 

The earthquake and fire of 1906 caught him in town. During three daysand nights he ran his car for the benefit of the sufferers; goingpractically without food or sleep, exercising the utmost audacity andingenuity in getting supplies, running fearlessly many dangers. 

For the rest he played polo well, shot excellently at the traps, wasgood at tennis, golf, bridge. Naturally he belonged to the best clubsboth 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 accuratetaste in dress. 

His mother firmly believed that he caused her much sorrow; his sisterslooked up to him with a little awe; his father down on him with afiercely tolerant contempt. 

For Chuck had had his turn in the offices. His mind was a good one; hiseducation both formal and informal, had trained it fairly well; yet hecould not quite make good. Energetic, ambitious, keen young men, clambering upward from the ruck, gave him points at the game and thenbeat him. It was humiliating to the old man. He could not see theperfectly normal reason. These young men were striving keenly for whatthey had never had. Chuck was asked merely to add to what he already hadmore 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 putashore here. No one knew of their whereabouts. Thus it was that Chuckfirst learned of his father's death from apoplexy in the scareheads ofan evening paper handed him by the majordomo. He read the articlethrough carefully, then went alone to the beach below. It had been theusual sensational article; and but two sentences clung to Chuck'smemory: "This fortunate young man's income will actually amount to aboutten dollars a minute. What a significance have now his days--andnights!"

He looked out to sea whence the waves, in ordered rank, cast themselveson the shore, seethed upward along the sands, poised, and receded. Histhoughts were many, but they always returned to the same point. Tendollars a minute--roughly speaking, seven thousand a day! What would hedo with it? "What a significance have now his days--and nights!"

His best friend, Joe Merrill, came down the path to him, and stoodsilently by his side. 

"I'm sorry about your governor, old man, " he ventured; and then, after along time:

"You're the richest man in the West. "

Chuck Gates arose. A wave larger than the rest thundered and ran hissingup 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 RockyMountains crosses the Canadian border another range edges in toward itfrom the south. Between these ranges lies a space of from twenty toforty miles; and midway between them flows a clear, wonderful riverthrough dense forests. Into the river empty other, tributary, riversrising in the bleak and lofty fastnesses of the mountains to right andleft. Between them, in turn, run spur systems of mountains only a littleless lofty than the parent ranges. Thus the ground plan of the wholecountry is a good deal like that of a leaf: the main stem representingthe big river, the lateral veins its affluents; the tiny veins itstorrents pouring from the sides of its mountains and glaciers; and theedges of the leaf and all spaces standing for mountains rising verysheer and abrupt from the floor of the densely forested stream valleys. In this country of forty miles by five hundred, then, are hundreds ofdistinct 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 isuninhabited. Its streams abound in trout; its dense forests with elkand white-tailed deer; its balder hills with blacktail deer; its upperbasins with grizzly bears; its higher country with sheep and that dizzyclimber the Rocky Mountain goat. 

He who would enter this region descends at a little station on the GreatNorthern, 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 seevery little of the open sky and less of the landscape. By way ofcompensation the forest itself is remarkably beautiful. Its undergrowth, though dense, is very low and even, not more than a foot or so off theground; and in the Hunting Moon the leaves of this undergrowth haveturned to purest yellow, without touch or trace of red, so that thesombre forest is carpeted with gold. Here and there shows a birch oraspen, also bright, pure light yellow, as though a brilliant sun werestriking down through painted windows. Groups of yellow-leafed larchesadd to the splendour. And close to the ground grow little flat plantsdecked out with red or blue or white wax berries, Christmas fashion. 

In this green-and-gold room one journeys for days. Occasionally a chanceopening affords a momentary glimpse of hills or of the river sweepingbelow; but not for long. It is a chilly room. The frost has hardened themud in the trail. One's feet and hands ache cruelly. At night camp ismade near the banks of the river, whence always one may in a few momentscatch as many trout as are needed, fine, big, fighting trout. 

By the end of three or four days the prospect opens out. Tremendouscliffs rise sheer from the bottom of the valley; up tributary cañons onecan see a dozen miles to distant snow ranges glittering and wonderful. Nearer at hand the mountains rise above timber line to great buttes andprecipices. 

CHAPTER II

THE FIRST CLIMB

Fisher, Frank, and I had been hunting for elk in the dense forests alongthe foot of one of these mountains; and for a half day, drenched withsweat, had toiled continuously up and down steep slopes, trying to goquietly, trying to keep our wind, trying to pierce the secrets of theleafy screen always about us. We were tired of it. 

"Let's go to the top and look for goats, " suggested Frank. "There aresome 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 twohours' steady climb nearly straight up. We would toil doggedly for ahundred feet, or until our wind gave out and our hearts began to pounddistressingly; then we would rest a moment. After doing this a fewhundred times we would venture a look upward, confidently expecting thesummit to be close at hand. It seemed as far as ever. We suffered adozen 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 wemade 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 werenever going to get anywhere, but were to go on forever, withoutultimate purpose and without hope, pushing with tired legs, gasping withinadequate lungs. When we had fully made up our minds to that, wearrived. This is typical of all high-mountain climbing--the dogged, hard, hopeless work that can never reach an accomplishment; and then atlast the sudden, unexpected culmination. 

We topped a gently rounding summit; took several deep breaths into theuttermost cells of our distressed lungs; walked forward a dozensteps--and found ourselves looking over the sheer brink of a precipice. So startlingly unforeseen was the swoop into blue space that I recoiledhastily, feeling a little dizzy. Then I recovered and stepped forwardcautiously for another look. As with all sheer precipices, the lip onwhich we stood seemed slightly to overhang, so that in order to see onehad apparently to crane away over, quite off balance. Only by thestrongest effort of the will is one able to rid oneself of the notionthat the centre of gravity is about to plunge one off head first intoblue space. For it was fairly blue space below our precipice. We couldsee birds wheeling below us; and then below them again, very tiny, thefall away of talus, and the tops of trees in the basin below. Andopposite, and all around, even down over the horizon, were othermajestic peaks, peers of our own, naked and rugged. From camp the greatforests had seemed to us the most important, most dominant, mostpervading feature of the wilderness. Now in the high sisterhood of thepeaks 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 thetalus. Here were supposed to dwell the goats. 

We proceeded along the crest, spying eagerly. We saw tracks; but noanimals. By now it was four o'clock, and past time to turn campward. Westruck down the mountain on a diagonal that should take us home. Forsome distance all went well enough. To be sure, it was very steep, andwe had to pay due attention to balance and sliding. Then a rock wallbarred 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 risenuntil it towered far above us, a sheer, gray cliff behind which the skywas very blue. We skirted the base of the second and lower cliff. It ledus to another; and to still another. Each of these we passed on thetalus beneath it; but with increasing difficulty, owing to the fact thatthe wide ledges were pinching out. At last we found ourselves cut offfrom farther progress. To our right rose tier after tier of greatcliffs, serenely and loftily unconscious of any little insects likeourselves that might be puttering around their feet. Straight ahead theledge ceased to exist. To our left was a hundred-foot drop to the talusthat 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 gettingstraight down was to climb back the weary way we had come; and thatmeant all night without food, warm clothing, or shelter on asnow-and-ice mountain. 

Therefore, we scouted that hundred-foot drop to our left verycarefully. It seemed hopeless; but at last I found a place where a pointof the talus ran up to a level not much below our own. The onlydifficulty was that between ourselves and that point of talus extended apiece of sheer wall. I slung my rifle over my back, and gave myself to aserious consideration of that wall. Then I began to work out across itsface. 

The principle of safe climbing is to maintain always three points ofsuspension: that it to say, one should keep either both footholds andone handhold, or both handholds and one foothold. Failing that, one istaking long chances. With this firmly in mind, I spidered out across thewall, testing every projection and cranny before I trusted any weight toit. One apparently solid projection as big as my head came away at thefirst touch, and went bouncing off into space. Finally I stood, orrather sprawled, almost within arm's length of a tiny scrub pine growingsolidly in a crevice just over the talus. Once there, our troubles wereover; but there seemed no way of crossing. For the moment it actuallylooked 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 veryslight crevice, and not more than two inches deep. The toe of a bootwould just hold there without slipping. Unfortunately, there were nohandholds above it. After thinking the matter over, however, I made upmy mind to violate, for this occasion only, the rules for climbing. Iinserted the toe, gathered myself, and with one smooth swoop swungmyself across and grabbed that tiny pine!

Fisher now worked his way out and crossed in the same manner. But Frankwas too heavy for such gymnastics. Fisher therefore took a firm grip onthe pine, inserted his toe in the crevice, and hung on with all hisstrength 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 climbedthis 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, butuneventful. 

Now, four days later, I crossed the river and set off above to explorein the direction of the Continental Divide. Of course I had no intentionof climbing for goats, or, indeed, of hunting very hard for anything. Myobject was an idle go-look-see. Equally, of course, after I had rammedaround 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 wallof my cañon. It was fifteen hundred nearly perpendicular feet of hardscrambling through windfalls. Then when I had gained the ridge, Ithought 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 forit!

On either side of me the mountain dropped away abruptly. I walked on aknife 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 grewfirmer, froze, then changed to dry, powdery snow. This change wasinteresting and beautiful, but rather uncomfortable, for my boots, soaked through by the slush, now froze solid and scraped various patchesof skin from my feet. It was interesting, too, to trace the change inbird life as the altitude increased. At snow line the species hadnarrowed down to a few ravens, a Canada jay, a blue grouse or so, nuthatches, and brown creepers. I saw one fresh elk track, innumerablemarten, and the pad of a very large grizzly. 

The ridge mounted steadily. After I had gained to 2, 300 feet above thecañon I found that the ridge dipped to a saddle 600 feet lower. Itreally grieved me to give up that hard-earned six hundred, and then tobuy it back again by another hard, slow, toilsome climb. Again I foundmy way barred by some unsuspected cliffs about sixty feet in height. Fortunately, they were well broken; and I worked my way to the top bymeans 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 lifedisappeared. My only companions were now at spaced-out and mightyintervals the big bare peaks that had lifted themselves mysteriouslyfrom among their lesser neighbours, with which heretofore they had beenconfused. In spite of very heavy exertions, I began to feel the cold; soI unslung my rucksack and put on my buckskin shirt. The snow had becomevery light and feathery. The high, still buttes and crags of the maindivide were right before me. Light fog wreaths drifted and eddiedslowly, now concealing, now revealing the solemn crags and buttresses. Over everything--the rocks, the few stunted and twisted small trees, thevery surface of the snow itself--lay a heavy rime of frost. This rimestood out in long, slender needles an inch to an inch and a half inlength, sparkling and fragile and beautiful. It seemed that a breath ofwind or even a loud sound would precipitate the glittering panoply toruin; but in all the really awesome silence and hushed breathlessness ofthat strange upper world there was nothing to disturb them. The onlymotion was that of the idly-drifting fog wreaths; the only sound wasthat made by the singing of the blood in my ears! I felt as though Iwere in a world holding its breath. 

It was piercing cold. I ate a biscuit and a few prunes, trampingenergetically back and forth to keep warm. I could see in all directionsnow: an infinity of bare peaks, with hardly a glimpse of forests orstreams or places where things might live. Goats are certainly eitherfools or great poets. 

After a half hour of fruitless examination of the cliffs I perforce hadto descend. The trip back was long. It had the added interest in that itwas bringing me nearer water. No thirst is quite so torturing as thatwhich afflicts one who climbs hard in cold, high altitudes. The throatand mouth seem to shrivel and parch. Psychologically, it is even worsethan the desert thirst because in cold air it is unreasonable. Finallyit became so unendurable that I turned down from the spur-ridge longbefore I should otherwise have done so, and did a good deal of extrawork merely to reach a little sooner the stream at the bottom of thecañon. 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 madea goat-survey of a new place. Finally, as time grew short, we realizedthat we must concentrate our energies in one effort if we were to getspecimens of this most desirable of all American big game. ThereforeFisher, Frank, Harry, and I, leaving our other two companions and themajority of the horses at the base camp, packed a few days' provisionsand started in for the highest peaks of all. 

We journeyed up an unknown cañon eighteen miles long, heavily wooded inthe bottoms, with great mountains overhanging, and with a beautifulclear trout stream singing down its bed. The first day we travelled tenhours. One man was always in front cutting out windfalls or otherobstructions. I should be afraid to guess how many trees we choppedthrough that day. Another man scouted ahead for the best route amiddifficulties. The other two performed the soul-destroying task ofgetting the horses to follow the appointed way. After three o'clock webegan to hope for horse feed. At dark we reluctantly gave it up. Theforest remained unbroken. We had to tie the poor, unfed horses to trees, while we ourselves searched diligently and with only partial success fortiny spots level enough and clear enough for our beds. It was very coldthat night; and nobody was comfortable; the horses least of all. 

Next morning we were out and away by daylight. If we could not findhorse feed inside of four hours, we would be forced to retreat. Threehours of the four went by. Then Harry and I held the horses while ourcompanions scouted ahead rapidly. We nearly froze, for in that deepvalley the sun did not rise until nearly noon. Through an opening wecould see back to a tremendous sheer butte rising more than threethousand feet[C] by a series of very narrow terraced ledges. We named itthe Citadel, so like was it to an ancient proud fortress. 

Fisher reported first. He had climbed a tree, but had seen no feed. Tenminutes later Frank returned. He had found the track of an ancientavalanche close under the mountain, and in that track grew coarsegrasses. We pushed on, and there made camp. 

It was a queer enough camp. Our beds we spread in the various littlespots 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 thelodge-pole pines, firs, and larches grew close and dark and damp. Onlyto 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, takingtremendous 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 countryaccessible to us. Leagues in all directions, as far as the eye couldreach, was plenty of other country, all equally good for goats; but itwas 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 sobelow the Citadel. Two ranges at right angles here converged, and theCitadel 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 onthe mountainside some two thousand feet above us and slightly westwardthat somehow looked to me different from other snow specks. For nearly aminute I stared at it through my glasses. At last the speck moved. Thegame was in sight!

We drew straws for the shot, and Fisher won. Then we began our climb. Itwas the same old story of pumping lungs and pounding hearts; but withthe incentive before us we made excellent time. A shallow ravine and afringe of woods afforded us the cover we needed. At the end of an hourand 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 thegoats, two of them, lying on the edge of small cliffs. We could see themvery plainly, but they were too far for a sure shot. After examiningthem to our satisfaction we wormed our way back. 

"The only sure way, " I insisted, "is to climb clear to the top of theridge, go along it on the other side until we are above and beyond thegoats, 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 oftwo brush wolves. We descended a few feet to gain safe concealment;walked as rapidly as possible to the point above the goats; and thenwith the utmost caution began our descent. 

In the last two hundred yards is the essence of big-game stalking. Thehunter must move noiselessly, he must keep concealed; he must determine_at each step_ just what the effect of that step has been in the mattersof noise and of altering the point of view. It is necessary to spysharply, not only from the normal elevation of a man's shoulders, butalso stooping to the waist line, and even down to the knees. An animalis just as suspicious of legs as of heads; and much more likely to seethem. 

The shoulder of the mountain here consisted of a series of steep grasscurves ending in short cliff jump-offs. Scattered and stunted trees andtree groups grew here and there. In thirty minutes we had made ourdistance and recognized the fact that our goats must be lying at thebase of the next ledge. Motioning Harry to the left and Fisher to thefront, I myself moved to the right to cut off the game should it run inthat direction. Ten seconds later I heard Fisher shoot; then Harryopened up; and in a moment a goat ran across the ledge fifty yards belowme. With a thrill of the greatest satisfaction I dropped the gold beadof my front sight on his shoulder!

The bullet knocked him off the edge of the cliff. He fell, struck thesteep grass slope, and began to roll. Over and over and over he went, gathering speed like a snowball, getting smaller and smaller until hedisappeared in the brush far below, a tiny spot of white. 

No one can appreciate the feeling of relaxed relief that filled me. Hardand dangerous climbs, killing work, considerable hardship and discomforthad 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 agood puttery day skinning out that goat. In addition I was suffering nowfrom a splitting headache, the effects of incipient snow-blindness, andwas generally pretty wobbly. 

And then my eye wandered to the left, whence that goat had come. I saw alarge splash of blood; at a spot _before_ I had fired! It was tooevident 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 hadjust made. At the knife-edge top I stopped for a moment to get my breathand to survey the country. Diagonally across the basin where the wolveswere 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 thesecond ridge; walk along the other side of it until I was above thosegoats, and then sneak down on them. 

I accomplished the first two stages of my journey all right, thoughwith considerably more difficulty in spots than I should haveanticipated. The knife edge was so sharp and the sides so treacherousthat at times it was almost impossible to travel anywhere but right ontop. This would not do. By a little planning, however, I managed toreach the central "keep" of the Citadel: a high, bleak, broken pile, flat on top, with snow in all the crevices, and small cliffs on allsides. From this advantage I could cautiously spy out the lay of theland. 

Below me fifty feet dipped the second ridge, running nearly at rightangles. It sloped abruptly to the wolf basin, but fell sheer on theother side to depths I could not at that time guess. [D] A very fewscattered, stunted, and twisted trees huddled close down to the rock andsnow. This saddle was about fifty feet in width and perhaps five hundredyards in length. It ended in another craggy butte very much like theCitadel. 

My first glance determined that my original plan would not do. The goatshad climbed from where I had first seen them, and were now leisurelytopping the saddle. To attempt to descend would be to reveal myself. Iwas forced to huddle just where I was. My hope was that the goats wouldwander along the saddle toward me, and not climb the other butteopposite. Also I wanted them to hurry, please, as the snow in which Isat was cold, and the wind piercing. 

This apparently they were not inclined to do. They paused, they nibbledat some scanty moss, they gazed at the scenery, they scratched theirears. I shifted my position cautiously--and saw below me, [E] lying onthe snow at the very edge of the cliff, a tremendous billy! He had beenthere all the time; and I had been looking over him!

At the crack of the Springfield he lurched forward and toppled slowlyout of sight over the edge of the cliff. The two I had been stalkinginstantly disappeared. But on the very top of the butte oppositeappeared 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 wasaccessible or not. On a guess I held six inches over his back. The goatgave one leap forward into space. For twenty feet he fell spread-eagledand right side up as though flying. Then he began to turn and whirl. Asfar as my personal testimony could go, he is falling yet through thatdizzy blue abyss. 

"Good-bye, billy, " said I, sadly. It looked then as though I had lostboth. 

I worked my way down the face of the Citadel until I was just above thesteep 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 totoboggan 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 readercan guess. Thirty feet below was a four-foot ledge. On the edge of thatledge grew two stunted pines about three feet in height--and only two. Against those pines my goat had lodged! In my exultation I straightenedup 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 thehead. Everybody had goats!

After a great deal of man[oe]uvring we worked our way down to the ledgeby means of a crevice and a ten-foot pole. Then we tied the goat to thelittle trees, and set to work. I held Frank while he skinned; and thenhe held me while I skinned. It was very awkward. The tiny landscapealmost directly beneath us was blue with the atmosphere of distance. Asolitary 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 ofsnowbirds 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 ajoint with a knife. At last we had a bright idea. I held the head backwhile 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 mapbelow. The raven folded his wings and dropped like a plummet, with astrange rushing sound. We watched him until the increasing speed of hisswoop turned us a little dizzy, and we drew back. When we looked amoment later he had disappeared into the distance--straight down!

Now we had to win our way out. The trophy we tied with a rope. Iclimbed up the pole, and along the crevice as far as the rope would letme, hauled up the trophy, jammed my feet and back against both sides ofthe "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 reconnaissancemade it very evident that we would have to go completely around theoutside of the Citadel, at the level of the saddle, until we had gainedthe other ridge. This meant about three quarters of a mile against thetremendous cliff. 

We found a ledge and started. Our packs weighed about sixty poundsapiece, and we were forced to carry them rather high. The ledge provedto be from six to ten feet wide, with a gentle slope outward. We couldnot afford the false steps, nor the little slips, nor the overbalancingsso unimportant on level ground. Progress was slow and cautious. We couldnot but remember the heart-stopping drop of that goat after we had cutthe rope; and the swoop of the raven. Especially at the corners did wehug 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 toget up or down from it. We rounded the shoulder of the pile. Below usnow 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 couldsee our ridge. Another quarter mile would land us in safety. 

Without warning the ledge pinched out. A narrow tongue of shale, on sosteep a slope that it barely clung to the mountain, ran twenty feet to aprecipice. A touch sent its surface rattling merrily down and intospace. It was only about eight feet across; and then the ledge beganagain. 

We eyed it. Three steps would take us across. Alternative: return alongthe ledge to attack the problem _ab initio_. 

"That shale is going to start, " said Frank. "If you stop, she'll surecarry you over the ledge. But if you keep right on going, _fast_, Ibelieve your weight will carry you through. "

We readjusted our packs so they could not slip and overbalance us; wemeasured and re-measured with our eyes just where those steps wouldfall; we took a deep breath--and we _hustled_. Behind us the fine shaleslid 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 hada goat apiece. 

We rejoined the main camp next day just ahead of a big snowstorm thatmust have made travel all but impossible. Then for five days we rodeout, in snow, sleet, and hail. But we were entirely happy, andindifferent to what the weather could do to us now. 

MOISTURE, A TRACE

Last fall I revisited Arizona for the first time in many years. Myultimate destination lay one hundred and twenty-eight miles south of therailroad. As I stepped off the Pullman I drew deep the crisp, thin air;I looked across immeasurable distance to tiny, brittle, gilded buttes; Iglanced up and down a ramshackle row of wooden buildings with crazywooden awnings, and I sighed contentedly. Same good old Arizona. 

The Overland pulled out, flirting its tail at me contemptuously. Asmall, battered-looking car, grayed and caked with white alkali dust, glided alongside, and from under its swaying and disreputable topemerged someone I knew. Not individually. But by many campfires of thepast I had foregathered with him and his kind. Same old Arizona, Irepeated 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 sacredArizona high-crowned hat, around his neck a bright bandana; no coat, butan unbuttoned vest; skinny trousers, and boots. Save for lack of spursand _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, andcrowded himself behind the wheel. The effect was that of a grown-up in ago-cart. This particular brand of tin car had not been built for thisparticular size of man. His knees were hunched up either side thesteering column; his huge, strong brown hands grasped most competentlythat toy-like wheel. The peak of his sombrero missed the wrinkled toponly because he sat on his spine. I reflected that he must have beendrafted into this job, and I admired his courage in undertaking todouble 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-eightmiles--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 galvanizedtanks of water. It was almost distressingly evident that the muffler hadeither been lost or thrown away. But she was hitting on all four. Iglanced at the speedometer dial. It registered the astonishing total of29, 250 miles. 

We swung out the end of the main street and sailed down a road thatvanished in the endless gentle slope of a "sink. " Beyond the sink thebank 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, andthe _mesas_ stayed where they were; and in between were successivelyvast stretches of mesquite, or alkali, or lava outcrops, or _sacatone_bottoms, each seeming, while one was in it, to fill all the worldforever, without end; and the day's changes were of mirage and theshifting colours of distant hills. 

It was soon evident that my friend's ideas of driving probably coincidedwith his ideas of going up a mountain. When a mounted cowboy climbs ahill he does not believe in fussing with such nonsense as grades; hegoes straight up. Similarly, this man evidently considered that, asroads were made for travel and distance for annihilation, one shouldturn on full speed and get there. Not one hair's breadth did he deign toswerve for chuck-hole or stone; not one fractional mile per hour did hecheck for gully or ditch. We struck them head-on, bang! did they happenin our way. Then my head hit the disreputable top. In the mysteriousfashion of those who drive freight wagons my companion remainedimperturbably glued to his seat. I had neither breath nor leisure forthe country or conversation. 

Thus one half hour. The speedometer dial showed the figures 29, 260. Iallowed 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 ofthe quadrant, steered with his knees, and produced the "makings. " Thefaithful little motor continued to hit on all four, but in slow andpainful succession, each explosion sounding like a pistol shot. We hadpassed already the lowest point of the "sink, " and were climbing theslope 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 byyourself. 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 gother--and that's about a year ago. "

He answered my questions briefly, volunteering nothing. He had never hadany trouble with the car; he had never broken a spring; he'd overhauledher once or twice; he averaged sixteen actual miles to the gallon. If Iwere to name the car I should have to write advt. After this article tokeep within the law. I resolved to get one. We chugged persistentlyalong on high gear; though I believe second would have been better. 

Presently we stopped and gave her a drink. She was boiling like a littletea kettle, and she was pretty thirsty. 

"They all do it, " said Bill. Of course his name was Bill. "Especiallythe 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 cowand use the milk. Only go slow or you'll git all clogged up withbutter. "

We clambered aboard and proceeded. That distant dreamful _mesa_ haddrawn very near. It was scandalous. The aloof desert whose terror, whosebeauty, whose wonder, whose allure was the awe of infinite space thatcould be traversed only in toil and humbleness, had been contracted by athing 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 pulledstrongly--a horseman emerged from a fold in the hills. He was riding asweat-covered, mettlesome black with a rolling eye. His own eye wasbitter, and likewise the other features of his face. After trying invain 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 sideof 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 gaitedhoss. He has fo' gaits now. "

"Four gaits, " repeated Bill, incredulously. "I'm in the stink wagonbusiness. I ain't aiming to buy no hosses. What four gaits you claimhe's got?"

"Start, stumble, fall down _and_ git up, " said Jim. 

Shortly after this joyous _rencontre_ we topped the rise, and, lookingback, could realize the grade we had been ascending. 

The road led white and straight as an arrow to dwindle in perspective toa mere thread. The little car leaped forward on the invisible downgrade. Again I anchored myself to one of the top supports. A long, rangyfowl happened into the road just ahead of us, but immediately floppedclumsily, half afoot, half a-wing, to one side in the brush, like astampeded hen. 

"Road runner, " said Bill, with a short laugh. "Remember how they used torack along in front of a hoss for miles, keeping just ahead, lettin' outa link when you spurred up? Aggravatin' fowl! They got over tryin' tokeep ahead of gasoline. "

In the white alkaline road lay one lone, pyramidal rock. It was aboutthe 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 carleaped straight up, the rock popped sidewise, and the tire went off witha 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, " heremarked, sadly. He walked around the car and began to examine the fourwrecks he carried as spares. After some inspection of their respectivemerits, he selected one. "I just somehow kain't git over the notion sheought to sidestep them little rocks and holes of her own accord, " heexclaimed. "A hoss is a plumb, narrow-minded critter, but he knowsenough for that. "

While he changed the tire--which incidentally involved patching one ofhalf a dozen over-worn tubes--I looked her over more in detail. Thecustomary frame, strut rods, and torsion rods had been supplemented bythe most extraordinary criss-cross of angle-iron braces it has ever beenmy fortune to behold. They ran from anywhere to everywhere beneath thatcar. 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. Itwas now just eleven o'clock. The odometer reading was 29, 276. Thetemperature was well up toward 100 degrees. But beneath the disreputabletop, and while in motion, the heat was not noticeable. Nevertheless, thebrief 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 vastillusions across the horizon. Lakes glimmered; distant ranges took onthe forms of phantasm, rising higher, flattening, reaching across spacethe arches of their spans, rendering unreal a world of beauty and dread. That in the old days was the deliberate fashion the desert had ofsearing men's souls with her majesty. Slowly, slowly, the changesmelted one into the other; massively, deliberately the face of the worldwas 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 fewminutes I began to feel sorry for the poor old desert! Its spells didn'twork for the simple reason that _we didn't give it time!_ We chargeddown on its phantom lakes and disproved them and forgot them. We brokeright in on the dignified and deliberate scene shifting of mountains and_mesas_, showed them up for the brittle, dry hills they were, and leftthem behind. It was pitiful! It was as though a revered tragedian shouldovernight find that his vogue had departed; that he was no longergetting over; that an irreverent upstart, breaking in on his mostsonorous 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 toevident houses. We drew into a straggling desert town. 

It was typical--thirty miles from the railroad, a distributing point forthe cattle country. Four broad buildings with peeled, sunburned faces, awooden house or so, and a dozen flat-roofed adobe huts hung pleasinglywith long strips of red peppers. Of course one of the wooden buildingswas labelled General Store; and another, smaller, contained a barbershop and postoffice combined. The third was barred and unoccupied. Thefourth had been a livery stable but was now a garage. Six saddle horsesand six Fords stood outside the General Store, which was a fairdivision. 

Bill slowed down. 

"Have a drink, " I observed, hospitably. 

"Arizona's a dry state, " Bill reminded me; but nevertheless stopped anduncoiled. That unbelievable phenomenon had escaped my memory. In the olddays I used to shut my eyes and project my soul into what I imagined wasthe future. I saw Arizona, embottled, dying in the last-wet ditch, whileall the rest of the world, even including Milwaukee, bore down on hercarrying the banners of Prohibition. So much for prophecy. I voiced athought. 

"There must be an awful lot of old timers died this spring. You can'tcut 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 rightran a counter and shelves of dry goods and clothing; on the leftgroceries, cigars, and provisions generally. Down the middle saddles, ropes, spurs, pack outfits, harness, hardware. In the rear a glasscubby-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 rackfull of tires; and a barrel of lubricating oil. I did not notice anybody polish. By the front door stood a paper-basket whose purport Iunderstood not at all. 

Bill led me at once past two or three lounging cow persons to thecubbyhole, 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 whilehe demanded, as usual, "What name?" We informed him together. He allowedhe 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 showedthe marks of loving but brutal and soiled hands. 

"Wrap it up?" inquired Mr. Billings. 

"Nope, " said Bill, and handed out three silver dollars. Evidently calicowas high in these parts. We turned away. 

"By the way, Bill, " Mr. Billings called after us, "I got a littlepresent here for you. Some friends sent her in to me the other day. Letme know what you think of it. "

We turned. Mr. Billings held in his hand a sealed quart bottle with afamiliar and famous label. 

"Why, that's kind of you, " said Bill, gravely. He took the profferedbottle, turned it upside down, glanced at the bottom, and handed itback. "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 sealedbottle, identical in appearance and label with the first. 

"Try it, " he urged. "Here's one from a different case. Some of theseyere vintages is better than others. "

"So I've noticed, " replied Bill, dryly. He glanced at the bottom andslipped it into his pocket. 

We went out. As we passed the door Bill, unobserved, dropped into theheretofore unexplained waste-basket the yard of calico he had justpurchased. 

"Don't believe I like the pattern for my boudoir, " he told me, gravely. 

We clambered aboard and shot our derisive exhaust at the diminishingtown. 

"Thought Arizona was a dry state, " I suggested. 

"She is. You cain't sell a drop. But you can keep stuff for personaluse. There ain't nothing more personal than givin' it away to yourfriends. "

"The price of calico is high down here. "

"And goin' up, " agreed Bill, gloomily. He drove ten miles in silencewhile I, knowing my type, waited. 

"That old Billings ought to be drug out and buried, " he remarked atlast. "We rode together on the Chiracahua range. He ought to know betterthan to try to put it onto me. "

"???" said I. 

"You saw that first bottle? Just plain forty-rod dog poison--and mepayin' 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 inyour pocket, " I stated. 

"Shore?"

"Why, yes--at least--that is, the bottle and label were the same, and Iparticularly noticed the cork seal looked intact. "

"It was, " agreed Bill. "That cap hasn't never been disturbed. You'reright. "

"Then what objection----"

"It's one of them wonders of modern science that spoils the simple lifenext to Nature's heart, " said Bill, unexpectedly. "You hitch a bighollow needle onto an electric light current. When she gets hot enoughyou punch a hole with her in the bottom of the bottle. Then you throwthe switch and let the needle cool off. When she's cool you pour out thereal thing for your own use--mebbe. Then you stick in yourforty-cent-a-gallon squirrel poison. Heat up your needle again. Draw herout very slow so the glass will close up behind her. Simple, neat, effective, honest enough for down here. Cork still there, seal stillthere, label still there. Bottle still there, except for a little bit ofa 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 themthe battery of our exhaust. 

We dipped down into a carved bottomland, several miles wide, filled withminarets, peaks, vermilion towers, and strange striped labyrinths ofmany colours above which the sky showed an unbelievable blue. The trunksof colossal trees lay about in numbers. Apparently they had all beencross-cut in sections like those sawed for shake bolts, for each wasmany times clearly divided. The sections, however, lay all in place; sothe trunks of the trees were as they had fallen. About the ground werescattered fragments of rock of all sizes, like lava, but of all thecolours of the giddiest parrots. The tiniest piece had at least all thetints of the spectrum; and the biggest seemed to go the littlest severalbetter. They looked to me like beautiful jewels. Bill cast at them acontemptuous glance. 

"Every towerist I take in yere makes me stop while he sags down the carwith this junk, " he said. Whenever I say "Bill said" or "I said, " Iimply that we shrieked, for always through that great, still country wehustled enveloped in a profanity of explosions, creaks, rattles, andhums. 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 withwhite 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; yourdriving wheels begin to spin--that finishes you. Every revolution digs adeeper hole. It is useless to apply power. If you are wise you throw outyour clutch the instant she stalls, and thus save digging yourself inunnecessarily. But if you are really wise you don't get in that fix atall. The next stage is that wherein you thrust beneath the hind wheelscertain expedients such as robes, coats, and so forth. The wheels, whenset in motion, hurl these trivialities yards to the rear. The car thensettles down with a shrug. About the time the axle is actually restingon the sand you proceed to serious digging, cutting brush, and layingcauseways. 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 truewisdom. Either you sit peacefully in the tonneau and smoke until someonecomes along; or, if you are doubtful of that miracle, you walk to thenearest team and rope. And never, never, never are you caught again! Adétour of fifty miles is nothing after that!

While Bill manipulated the makings, I examined the prospects. This wasthat 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 regretthat I failed to record that by test its contents had proved genuine), the cornered rock we had so blithely charged, other evidences of Bill'scasual 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 abygone past; but my interest in curios had waned. 

Bill dove into the grimy mysteries of under the back seat and producedtwo blocks of wood six or eight inches square and two strong straps withbuckles. He inserted a block between the frame of the car and the rearaxle; then he ran a strap around the rear spring and cinched on it untilthe car body, the block, and the axle made one solid mass. In otherwords, the spring action was entirely eliminated. He did the same thingon the other side. 

"Climb in, " said he. 

We went into low and slid down the steep clay bank into the waitingsand. To me it was like a plunge into ice water. Bill stepped on her. Weploughed out into trouble. The steering wheel bucked and jerked vainlyagainst Bill's huge hands; we swayed like a moving-picture comic; but weforged steadily ahead. Not once did we falter. Our wheels grippedcontinuously. When we pulled out on the other bank I exhaled as thoughI, too, had lost my muffler. I believe I had held my breath the wholeway across. Bill removed the blocks and gave her more water. Still inlow we climbed out of the malpais. 

It was now after two o'clock. We registered 29, 328. I was getting humbleminded. Six o'clock looked good enough to me now. 

One thing was greatly encouraging. As we rose again to the main level ofthe country I recognized over the horizon a certain humped mountain. Often in the "good old days" I had approached this mountain from thesouth. Beneath its flanks lay my friend's ranch, our destination. Fivehours earlier in my experience its distance would have appalled me; butmy standards had changed. Nevertheless, it seemed far enough away. I wasgetting physically tired. There is a heap of exercise in manyoccupations, such as digging sewers and chopping wood and shopping witha woman; but driving in small Arizona motor cars need give none of theseoccupations any odds. And of late years I have been accustoming myselfto three meals a day. 

For this reason there seems no excuse for detailing the next threehours. From three o'clock until sunset the mirages slowly fade away intothe many-tinted veils of evening. I know that because I've seen it; butnever would I know it whilst an inmate of a gasoline madhouse. Wecarried our own egg-shaped aura constantly with us, on the invisiblewalls of which the subtle and austere influences of the desert beat invain. That aura was composed of speed, bumps, dust, profane noise, andan extreme and exotic busyness. It might be that in a docile, tame, expensive automobile, garnished with a sane and biddable driver, onemight see the desert as it is. I don't know whether such a combinationexists. But me--I couldn't get into the Officers' Training Camp becauseof my advanced years: I may be an old fogy, but I cherish a sneakingidea that perhaps you have to buy some of these things at the cost ofthe aforementioned thirst, heat, weariness, and the slow passing of longdays. Still, an Assyrian brick in the British Museum is inscribed by afather 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 atevery jump. My friend's ranch was only six miles farther. This was homefor Bill, and we were soon surrounded by many acquaintances. He hadletters and packages for many of them; and detailed many items of localnews. To us shortly came a cowboy who had evidently bought all thecalico he could carry. This person was also long and lean and brown;hard bitten; bedecked with worn brown leather _chaps_, and wearing agun. 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 thoughconcluding a long conversation. 

"Shore not, Slim, " agreed one of the group, promptly annexing theartillery. "What is it?"

"Kill that ---- ---- ---- Beck, " said Slim, owlishly. "I can do it; andI can do it with my bare hands, b' God!"

He walked sturdily enough in the direction of the General Store acrossthe 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 wereabout ready to start. 

Back across the square drifted a strange figure. With difficulty werecognized it as the erstwhile Slim. He had no hat. His hair stuck outin all directions. One eye was puffing shut, blood oozed from a cut inhis forehead and dripped from his damaged nose. One shirt sleeve hadbeen half torn from its parent at the shoulder. But, most curious ofall, 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 aparticularly abrasive gravel walk. Slim seemed quite calm. 

His approach was made in a somewhat strained silence. At length therespoke a dry, sardonic voice. 

"Well, " said it, "did you kill Beck?"

"Naw!" replied Slim's remains disgustedly, "the son of a gun wouldn'tfight!"

We reached my friend's ranch just about dusk. He met me at the yardgate. 

"Well!" he said, heartily. "I'm glad you're here! Not much like the olddays, is it?"

I agreed with him. 

"Journey out is dull and uninteresting now. But compared to the way weused 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 pastand gone. To be sure there remain many large tracts supporting a singlegroup of ranch buildings, and over which the cattle wander "on athousand hills. " There are even a few, a very few--like the ranch ofwhich I am going to write--that are still undivided, still game haunted, still hospitable, still delightful. But in spite of these apparentexceptions, my first statement must stand. About the large tracts swarmreal estate men, eager for the chance to subdivide into small farms--andthe small farmers pour in from the East at the rate of a thousand amonth. No matter how sternly the old land-lords set their faces againstthe new order of things, the new order of things will prevail; forsooner or late old land-lords must die, and the heirs have not in themthe spirit of the ancient tradition. This is, of course, best for thecountry and for progress; but something passes, and is no more. So theChino ranch and more recently Lucky Baldwin's broad acres have yielded. 

And even in the case of those that still remain intact, whose widehills and plains graze thousands of head of cattle; whose pastures breedtheir own cowhorses; whose cowmen, wearing still with a twist of pridethe all-but-vanished regalia of their all-but-vanished calling, refuseto drop back to the humdrum status of "farm hands on a cow ranch"; evenhere has entered a single element powerful enough to change the old tosomething new. The new may be better--it is certainly moreconvenient--and perhaps when all is said and done we would not want togo back to the old. But the old is gone. One single modern institutionhas been sufficient to render it completely of the past. Thatinstitution is the automobile. 

In the old days--and they are but yesterdays, after all--the ranch wasperforce an isolated community. The journey to town was not to belightly undertaken; indeed, as far as might be, it was obviatedaltogether. 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 inhabitantsof that ranch settled down comfortably into the realization that theironly available community was that immediately about them; and so theyboth made and were influenced by the individual atmosphere of the place. 

In the latter years they have all purchased touring cars, and now theyrun to town casually, on almost any excuse. They make shopping lists asdoes the city dweller; they go back for things forgotten; and theyreturn to the ranch as one returns to his home on the side streets of agreat city. In place of the old wonderful and impressive expeditions tovisit in state the nearest neighbour (twelve miles distant), they dropover of an afternoon for a ten-minutes' chat. The ranch is no longer anenvironment in which one finds the whole activity of his existence, buta dwelling place from which one goes forth. 

I will admit that this is probably a distinct gain; but the fact isindubitable that, even in these cases where the ranch life has not beenmaterially changed otherwise, the automobile has brought about acondition entirely new. And as the automobile has fortunately come tostay, the old will never return. It is of the old, and its charm andleisure, that I wish to write. 

CHAPTER II

THE OLD WEST

I went to the ranch many years ago, stepping from the train somewherenear midnight into a cold, crisp air full of stars. My knowledge ofCalifornia was at that time confined to several seasons spent on thecoast, where the straw hat retires only in deference to a traditionwhich none of the flowers seem bound to respect. As my dress accordedwith this experience, I was very glad to be conducted across the streetto a little hotel. My guide was an elderly, very brown man, with a whitemoustache, and the bearing of an army regular. This latter surmise laterproved correct. Manning was one of the numerous old soldiers who hadfought through the General's Apache campaigns, and who now in his agehad drifted back to be near his old commander. He left me, after manysolicitations as to my comfort, and a promise to be back with the teamat seven o'clock sharp. 

Promptly at that hour he drew up by the curb. My kit bag was piledaboard, 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 theday, and so, perhaps, worth description. It might best be defined as arather wide, stiff buckboard set on springs, and supported by stoutrunning gear. The single seat was set well forward, while the body ofthe rig extended back to receive the light freight an errand to townwas sure to accumulate. An ample hood top of gray canvas could be raisedfor protection against either sun, wind, or rain. Most powerful brakescould be manipulated by a thrust of the driver's foot. You may be surethey were outside brakes. Inside brakes were then considered the weakexpedients of a tourist driving mercenary. Generally the tongue andmoving gear were painted cream; and the body of the vehicle dark green. 

This substantial, practical, and business-like vehicle was drawn by apair of mighty good bright bay horses, straight backed, square rumped, deep shouldered, with fine heads, small ears, and alert yet gentle eyesof high-bred stock. When the word was given, they fell into a steady, swinging trot. One felt instinctively the power of it, and knew thatthey were capable of keeping up this same gait all day. And that wouldmean many miles. Their harness was of plain russet leather, neat andwell 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 descantedat length on their breeding, and whence came they and their fathers andtheir fathers' fathers even unto the sixth generation. He left me atlast with the impression that this was probably the best team in thevalley, bar none. It was a good team, strong, spirited, gentle, andenduring. 

We swung out from the little town into a straight road. If it has seemedthat I have occupied you too exclusively with objects near at hand, thematter could not be helped. There was nothing more to occupy you. A fogheld all the land. 

It was a dense fog, and a very cold. Twenty feet ahead of the horsesshowed only a wall of white. To right and left dim, ghostly bushes orfence posts trooped by us at the ordered pace of our trot. An occasionallone poplar tree developed in the mist as an object on a dry platedevelops. We splashed into puddles, crossed culverts, went through allthe business of proceeding along a road--and apparently got nowhere. Themists opened grudgingly before us, and closed in behind. As far asknowing what the country was like I might as well have been blindfolded. 

From Manning I elicited piecemeal some few and vague ideas. Thismeagreness was not due to a disinclination on Manning's part, but onlyto the fact that he never quite grasped my interest in meresurroundings. Yes, said he, it was a pretty flat country, and somebrush. 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 alllandscapes with such building blocks as those. 

Now, as has been hinted, I was dressed for southern California; and thefog was very damp and chill. The light overcoat I wore failed utterly toexclude it. At first I had been comfortable enough, but as milesucceeded mile the cold of that winter land fog penetrated to the bone. In answer to my comment Manning replied cheerfully in the words of anold saw:

 "_A winter's fog Will freeze a dog_, "

said he. 

I agreed with him. We continued to jog on. Manning detailed what I thenthought were hunting lies as to the abundance of game; but which Iafterward discovered were only sober truths. When too far gone in themiseries of abject cold I remembered his former calling, and glancingsideways at his bronzed, soldierly face, wished I had gumption enoughleft to start him going on some of his Indian campaigns. It was toolate; I had not the gumption; I was too cold. 

Now I believe I am fairly well qualified to know when I really feelcold. I have slept out with the thermometer out of sight somewhere downnear the bulb; I once snowshoed nine miles; and then overheated fromthat exertion, drove thirty-five without additional clothing. On variousother occasions I have had experiences that might be called frigid. Butnever have I been quite so deadly cold as on that winter morning's drivethrough the land fog of semi-tropical California. It struck through tothe very heart. 

I subsequently discovered that it takes two hours and three quarters todrive 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 oftime at all, and gradually relapses into that queer condition of passiveendurance whereto is no end and no beginning. Therefore the end alwayscomes suddenly, and as a surprise. 

So it was in this case. Out of the mists sprang suddenly two tall fanpalms, and then two others, and still others. I realized dimly that wewere in an avenue of palms. The wheels grated strangely on gravel. Weswung sharply to the left between hedges. The mass of a building loomedindistinctly. Manning applied the brakes. We stopped, the steam fromthe 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 anappreciable moment it occurred to me that perhaps I'd better climb down. I did so, very slowly and stiffly, making the sad mistake of jumpingdown from the height of the step. How that did injure my feelings! Theonly catastrophe I can remember comparable to it was when a teacherrapped my knuckles with a ruler after I had been making snowballs barehanded. My benumbed faculties next swung around to the proposition ofproceeding up an interminable gravel walk--(it is twenty-five feetlong!) to a forbidding flight of stairs--(porch steps--five of them!) Iput this idea into execution. I reached the steps. And then----

The door was flung open from within, I could see the sparkle and leap ofa fine big grate fire. The Captain stood in the doorway, a broad smileon his face; my hostess smiled another welcome behind him; the Generalroared still another from somewhere behind her. 

Now I had never met the Captain. He held out both hands in greeting. Oneof those hands was for me to shake. The other held a huge glass of hotscotch. 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 tookme up to show me where I lived. We clambered up narrow boxed stairs thatturned 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 toanother wing; ducked through a passageway, and so arrived. The ranchhouse was like that. Parts of it were built out on stilts. Five or sixbig cottonwood trees grew right up through the verandahs, and spread outover the roof of the house. There are all sorts of places where you hangcoats, or stack guns, or store shells, or find unexpected books;passageways leading to outdoor upstairs screened porches, cubby holesand the like. And whenever you imagine the house must be quite full ofguests, they can always discover to you yet another bedroom. It may, atthe last, be a very tiny bedroom, with space enough only for a singlebed and not much else; and you may get to it only by way of out ofdoors; and it may be already fairly well occupied by wooden decoys andshotgun shells, but there it is, guests and guests after you thought thehouse must be full. 

Belonging and appertaining unto the house were several fixtures. One ofthese was old Charley, the Chinese cook. He had been there twenty-fiveyears. In that time he had learned perfect English, acquired our kind ofa sense of humour, come to a complete theoretical understanding of howto run a ranch and all the people on it, and taught Pollymckittrick whatshe knew. 

Pollymckittrick was the bereaved widow of the noble pair of yellow andgreen parrots Noah selected for his ark. At least I think she was thatold. She was certainly very wise in both Oriental and Occidental wisdom. Her chief accomplishments, other than those customary to parrots, werethe ability to spell, and to sing English songs. "After the Ball" and"Daisy Bell" were her favourites, rendered with occasional junglevariations. She considered Charley her only real friend, though shetolerated some others. Pollymckittrick was a product of artificialcivilization. No call of the wild in hers! She preferred her cage, gilded or otherwise. Each afternoon the cage was placed out on the lawnso Pollymckittrick could have her sun bath. One day a big redtail hawksailed by. Pollymckittrick fell backward off her perch, flat on herback. The sorrowing family gathered to observe this extraordinary caseof heart failure. After an interval Pollymckittrick unfilmed one yelloweye. 

"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 undoubtedlyRedmond. Redmond was another of the old soldiers who had in their agesought 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 andhunting clothes, got out the decoys, plucked the ducks, saw to theshells, fed the dogs, and was always on hand at arrival and departure tolend a helping hand. He dwelt in a square room in the windmill towertogether with a black cat and all the newspapers in the world. The cathe alternately allowed the most extraordinary liberties or disciplinedrigorously. On the latter occasions he invariably seized the animal andhurled it bodily through the open window. The cat took the long fallquite calmly, and immediately clambered back up the outside stairwaythat led to the room. The newspapers he read, and clipped therefromitems of the most diverse nature to which he deprecatingly invitedattention. 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. Theold man had hoisted his colours over the windmill tower, and now in afrenzy of fervour was marching around and around the tower beating thelong roll on his drum. After one such outbreak he would be his ordinary, humble, quiet, obliging, almost deprecating self for another month orso. The ranch people took it philosophically. 

The fourth institution was Nobo. Nobo was a Japanese woman who bossedthe General. She was a square-built person of forty or so who had alsobeen with the family unknown years. Her capabilities were undoubted; asalso her faith in them. The hostess depended on her a good deal; and atthe same time chafed mildly under her calm assumption that she knewperfectly what the situation demanded. The General took her dominationamusedly. To be sure nobody was likely to fool much with the General. His vast good nature had way down beneath it something that on occasioncould be stern. Nobo could and would tell the General what clothes towear, and when to change them, and such matters; but she never venturedto inhibit the General's ideas as to going forth in rains, or drivingwhere he everlastingly dod-blistered pleased, or words to that effect, across country in his magnificently rattletrap surrey, although sheoften looked very anxious. For she adored the General. But we all didthat. 

As though the heavy curtain of fog had been laid upon the land expresslythat I might get my first impressions of the ranch in due order, aboutnoon 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 sidesof which rose a grand amphitheatre of mountains. The nearest of them wassome thirty miles away, yet ordinarily, in this clear, dry, Westernatmosphere they were always imminent. Over their eastern ramparts thesun rose to look upon a chill and frosty world; behind their westernbarriers the sun withdrew, leaving soft air, purple shadows, and theflight of dim, far wildfowl across a saffron sky. To the north was onlydistance and the fading of the blue of the heavens to the pearl gray ofthe horizon. 

So much if one stepped immediately beyond the ranch itself. The plainswere broad. Here and there the flatness broke in a long, low line ofcottonwoods marking the winding course of a slough or trace of subsoilwater. Mesquite lay in dark patches; sagebrush; the green ofpasture-land periodically overflowed by the irrigation water. Nearer athome 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 andeucalyptus had been planted and had thriven mightily on the abundantartesian water. We have already noticed the six or eight great treesgrowing fairly up through the house. On the outskirts lay also a fruitorchard of several hundred acres. Opposite the house, and separated fromit by a cedar hedge, was a commodious and attractive bungalow for theforeman. Beyond him were the bunk house, cook houses, blacksmith shops, and the like. 

We started our tour of inspection by examining and commenting gravelyupon the dormant rose garden and equally dormant grape arbour. Throughthis we came to the big wire corrals in which were kept the dogs. Here Imet old Ben. 

Old Ben was not very old; but he was different from young Ben. He was apointer of the old-fashioned, stocky-built, enduring type common--andserviceable--before our bench-show experts began to breed for speed, fineness, small size--and lack of stamina. Ben proved in the event to bea good all-round dog. He combined the attributes of pointer, cockerspaniel, and retriever. In other words, he would hunt quail in theorthodox fashion; or he would rustle into the mesquite thorns for thepurpose of flushing them out to us; or he would swim anywhere any numberof times to bring out ducks. To be sure he occasionally got a littlemixed. At times he might try to flush quail in the open, instead ofstanding them; or would attempt to retrieve some perfectly livelyspecimens. Then Ben needed a licking; and generally got it. He lacked inhis work some of the finish and style of the dogs we used after grousein 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, ananomaly, an accident, and a farce. They happened because somebody hadonce given the hostess a pair of them. I do not believe she caredparticularly 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 originalpair had multiplied. Gazing on that yardful of imbecile-looking canines, my admiration for Noah's wisdom increased; he certainly needed no morethan a pair to restock the earth. Redmond claimed there were twenty-twoof them, though nobody else pretended to have been able to disentanglethem enough for a census. They were all light brown in colour; and theaggregation reminded me of a rather disentangled bunch of angle-worms. They lived in a large enclosure; and emerged therefrom only undersupervision, for they considered chickens and young pigs their especialprey. The Captain looked upon them with exasperated tolerance; Redmondwith affection; the hostess, I think, with a good deal of thepartisanship inspired not so much by liking as by the necessity ofdefending them against ridicule; and the rest of the world with amusedexpectation as to what they would do next. The Captain was continuallyuttering half-serious threats as to the different kinds of sudden deathhe was going to inflict on the whole useless, bandylegged, snipe-nosed, waggle-eared----

The best comment was offered last year by the chauffeur of theautomobile. After gazing on the phenomenon of their extraordinary buildfor some moments he remarked thoughtfully:

"Those dogs have a mighty long wheel base!"

For some reason unknown two of the dachshunds have been elevated fromthe ranks, and have house privileges. Their names are respectively Peteand Pup. They hate each other, and have sensitive dispositions. It tookme just four years to learn to tell them apart. I believe Pete has aslightly projecting short rib on his left side--or is it Pup? It wasfatal to mistake. 

"Hullo, Pup!" I would cry to one jovially. 

"G--r--r--r--!" would remark the dog, retiring under the sofa. Thus Iwould know it was Pete. The worst of it was that said Pete's feelingswere thereby lacerated so deeply that I was not forgiven all the rest ofthat day. 

Beyond the dogs lay a noble enclosure so large that it would have beensubdivided into building lots had it been anywhere else. It wasinhabited by all sorts of fowl, hundreds of them, of all varieties. There were chickens, turkeys, geese, and a flock of ducks. The Captainpointed 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 swarmedwith doves. A duck pond even had been provided for its proper denizens. 

Thus we reached the southernmost outpost of our quadrangle, and turnedto the west, where an ancient Chinaman and an assistant cultivatedminutely and painstakingly a beautiful vegetable garden. Tiny irrigationstreams ran here and there, fitted with miniature water locks. Strangeand foreign bamboo mattings, withes, and poles performed strange andforeign functions. The gardener, brown and old and wrinkled, his cuewound neatly beneath his tremendous, woven-straw umbrella of a hat, possessing no English, no emotion, no single ray of the sort ofintelligence required to penetrate into our Occidental world, bent overhis work. When we passed, he did not look up. He dwelt in a shed. Atleast, such it proved to be, when examined with the cold eye ofanalysis. In impression it was ancient, exotic, Mongolian, the abode ofone of a mysterious and venerable race, a bit of foreign country. Bywhat 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 nomore extensive properties than a few pieces of red paper, a partition, adingy curtain, and a varnished duck transform utterly an Americantenement into a Chinese pagoda. 

Thence we passed through a wicket and came to the abode of hogs. Theydotted the landscape into the far distance, rooting about to find whatthey could; they lay in wallows; they heaped themselves along fences;they snorted and splashed in sundry shallow pools; a good half mile ofmaternal hogs occupied a row of kennels from which the various progenyissued forth between the bars. I cannot say I am much interested inhogs, but even I could dimly comprehend the Captain's attitude ofswollen pride. They were clean, and black, and more nearly approximatedthe absurd hog advertisements than I had believed possible. You know thekind I mean; an almost exact rectangle on four short legs. 

In the middle distance stood a long, narrow, thatched roof supported onpoles. Beneath this, the Captain told me, were the beehives. They provedlater to be in charge of a mild-eyed religious fanatic who believed theworld to be flat. 

We took a cursory glance at a barn filled to the brim with prunes; andthe gushing, beautiful artesian well; at the men's quarters; theblacksmith shop, and all the rest. So we rounded the circle and came tothe most important single feature of the ranch--the quarters for thehorses. 

A very long, deep shed, open on all sides, contained a double row ofmangers facing each other, and divided into stalls. Here stood and werefed the working horses. By that I mean not only the mule and horseteams, but also the utility driving teams and the saddle horses used bythe cowboys. Between each two stalls was a heavy pillar supporting theroof, and well supplied with facilities for hanging up the harness andequipments. As is usual in California, the sides and ends were open tothe air; and the floor was simply the earth well bedded. 

But over against this shed stood a big barn of the Eastern type. Herewere the private equipments. 

The Captain is a horseman. He breeds polo ponies after a formula of hisown; and so successfully that many of them cross the Atlantic. On theranch are always several hundred head of beautiful animals; and ofthese 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 theharness and saddle room, glistening and satiny with polished metal andwell-oiled leather; we examined the half dozen or so of vehicles of alldescriptions. The hostess told with relish of her one attempt to bestylish. 

"We had such beautiful horses, " said she, "that I thought we ought tohave something to go with them, so I sent up to the city for mybrougham. It made a very neat turnout; and Tom was as proud of it as Iwas, but when it came to a question of proper garb for Tom I ran upagainst a deadlock. Tom refused point blank to wear a livery or anythingapproaching a livery. He was perfectly respectful about it; but herefused. 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, redhandkerchief, 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 sundropped; the shadows lengthened. From the fields the men began to comein. They drove the wagons and hay ricks into the spacious enclosure, andset leisurely about the task of caring for their animals. Chinese andJapanese drifted from the orchards, and began to manipulate thegrindstone on their pruning knives. Presently a cowboy jogged in, hisspurs 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 skyhad turned a light green full of lucence. The minor sounds of the ranchnear by seemed to be surrounded by a sea of silence outside. Singlesounds came very clearly across it. And behind everything, after a fewmoments, I made out a queer, monotonous background of half-croakingcalling. For some time this puzzled me. Then at last my gropingrecollection came to my assistance. I was hearing the calling of myriadsof 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 nowbeneath two blankets and an eiderdown quilt, and my nose was cold, I wasduly grateful. Mistaking the rite for a signal to arise, I did so; andshortly descended. The three fireplaces were crackling away merrily, butthey had done little to mitigate the atmosphere as yet. Maids weredusting and sweeping. The table was not yet set. Inquiry telling thatbreakfast 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 couldsee. 

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 soemerged into the open country. 

In the middle distance and perhaps a mile away was a low fringe ofbrush; to the left an equal distance a group of willows; and almostbehind 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 theranch. It looked like about four miles or so. Perhaps with my fiveshells 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 couldhear again the bickering cries of the snow geese and sandhill cranesaway in an unknown distance, the homelier calls of barnyard fowl nearerat hand. Cattle trotted before me and to right and left, their headshigh, their gait swinging with the freedom of the half-wild animals ofthe ranges. After a few steps they turned to stare at me, eyes andnostrils wide, before making up their minds whether or not it would bewise to put a greater distance between me and them. The close sod wasgreen and strong. It covered the slightly rounding irrigation "checks"that followed in many a curve and double the lines of contours on theflat plain. 

The fringe of brush did not amount to anything; it was merely aconvenient turning mark for my little walk. Arrived there, I executed asharp "column left----"

Seven ducks leaped into the air apparently from the bare, open, and dryground!

Every sportsman knows the scattering effect on the wits of theabsolutely unexpected appearance of game. Every sportsman knows also theinstinctive 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 youthink of that! Who in blazes would have expected ducks here?" and otherfutile remarks. In the meantime, the trained part of me had jerked thegun off my shoulder, pushed forward the safety catch, and prepared forone hasty long shot at the last and slowest of the ducks. Now theinstinctive part of one can do the preparations, but the actualshooting requires a more ordered frame of mind. By this time my witshad snapped back into place. I had the satisfaction of seeing the duck'soutstretched neck wilt; of hearing him hit the ground with a thudsomewhere beyond. 

Marking the line of his fall, I stepped confidently forward, and withoutany warning whatever found myself standing on the bank of an irrigationditch. It was filled to the brim with placid water on which floated afew downy feathers. On this side was dry sod; and on the other was drysod. Nothing indicated the presence of that straight band of silverywater until one stood fairly at its brink. To the right I could see itssides narrow to the point of a remote perspective. To the left it ranfor a few hundred yards, then apparently came to an abrupt stop where itturned at an angle. 

In the meantime, my duck was on the other side; I was in my citizen'sclothes. 

No solution offered in sight, so I made my way to the left where I couldlook 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. Sureenough, not a hundred and fifty yards away floated another band ofducks. 

I watched them for a moment until I was sure, by various smalllandmarks, of their exact location. Then I dropped back far enough sothat, even standing erect, I would be below the line of vision of thoseducks; strolled along until opposite my landmarks; then, bolt upright, walked directly forward, the gun at ready. When within twenty yards theducks arose. It was, of course, easy shooting. Both fell across theditch. That did not worry me; if worst came to worst I could strip andwade. 

This seemed to be an exceedingly unique and interesting way to shootducks. To be sure, I had only two shells left; but then, it must bealmost 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 sunwas just getting in its work on the frost. Long files of wagons and mencould be seen disappearing in the distance. I entered proudly, only tenminutes late. 

CHAPTER V

QUAIL

The family assembled took my statement with extraordinary calm, contenting themselves with a general inquiry as to the species. I wasjust a trifle crestfallen at this indifference. You see at this time Iwas not accustomed to the casual duck. My shooting heretofore had been avery strenuous matter. It had involved arising many hours before sun-up, and venturing forth miles into wild marshes; and much endurance of coldand discomfort. To make a bag of any sort we were in the field beforethe folk knew the night had passed. Upland shooting meant driving longdistances, and walking through the heavy hardwood swamps and slashesfrom dusk to dusk. Therefore I had considered myself in great luck tohave blundered upon my ducks so casually; and, furthermore, from thefamily's general air of leisure and unpreparedness, jumped to theconclusion that no field sport was projected for that day. 

Mrs. Kitty presided beside a copper coffee pot with a bell-shaped glasstop. As this was also an institution, it merits attention. A smallalcohol lamp beneath was lighted. For a long time nothing happened. Thenall at once the glass dome clouded, was filled with frantic brown andracing bubbling. Thereupon the hostess turned over a sand glass. Whenthe last grains had run through, the alcohol lamp was turned off. Immediately the glass dome was empty again. From a spigot one drew offcoffee. 

But if perchance the Captain and I wished to get up before anybody elsecould be hired to get up, the Dingbat could be so loaded as to give downan automatic breakfast. The evening before the maid charged the affairas usual, and at the last popped four eggs into the glass dome. Afterthe mysterious alchemical perturbations had ceased, we fished out thoseeggs soft boiled to the second! One day the maid mistook the gasolinebottle for the alcohol bottle. That is a sad tale having to do withrunning flames, and burned table pieces, not to speak of a melted-downconnection 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 andindignation that our good old tried and trained Dingbat should in hisold age cut up any such didoes. Especially as there were new guestspresent. 

After breakfast we wandered out on the verandah. Nobody seemed to be inany hurry to start anything. The hostess made remarks toPollymckittrick; the General read a newspaper; the Captain saunteredabout enjoying the sun. After fifteen minutes, as though the notion hadjust 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 otherexperience, "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 theverandah. After some few moments the Captain joined me. After some fewmoments more a tremendous rattling came from the stable. A fine bay teamswung into the driveway, rounded the circle, and halted. It drew thesource of the tremendous rattling. 

Thus I became acquainted with the Liver Invigorator. The Invigorator wasa buckboard high, wide, and long. It had one wide seat. Aft of that seatwas a cage with bars, in which old Ben rode. Astern was a deep boxwherein one carried rubber boots, shells, decoys, lunch, game, and thelike. The Invigorator was very old, very noisy, and very able. With itwe drove cheerfully anywhere we pleased--over plowed land, irrigationchecks, through brush thick enough to lift our wheels right off theground, and down into and out of water ditches so steep that wealternately stood the affair on its head and its tail, and so deep thatwe had to hold all our belongings in our arms, while old Ben stuck hisnose out the top bars of his cage for a breath of air. It could not betipped over; at least we never upset it. To offset these virtues itrattled like a runaway milk wagon; and it certainly hit the high spotsand hit them _hard_. Nevertheless, in a long and strenuous sportingcareer the Invigorator became endeared through association to manyfriends. When the Captain proposed a new vehicle with easier springs andless noise, a wail of protest arose from many and distant places. TheInvigorator still fulfills its function. 

Now there are three major topics on the Ranch: namely, ducks, quail, andponies. 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 sinceI was a small boy with the first sixteen-gauge gun ever brought to thecoast. I knew him for a very speedy bird, much faster than our bobwhite, dwelling in the rounded sagebrush hills, travelling in flocks offrom twenty to several thousand, exceedingly given to rapid leg work. Wehad to climb hard after him, and shoot like lightning from insecurefooting. His idiosyncrasies were as strongly impressed on me as the factthat human beings walk upright. Here, however, I had to revise my ideas. 

We drove down the avenue of palms, pursued by four or five yappingdachshunds, and so out into a long, narrow lane between pasture fences. Herds of ponies, fuzzy in their long winter coats, came gently to lookat 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 ofvelvet, thus providing for additional warmth by the extra air spacebetween the outside of the coat and the skin. It must be very handy tocarry this invisible overcoat, ready for the moment's need. Here, too, were cattle standing about. On many of them I recognized the familiarJ-I brand of many of my Arizona experiences. Arizona bred and raisedthem; California fattened them for market. We met a cowboy jingling byat his fox trot; then came to the country road. 

Along this we drove for some miles. The country was perfectly flat, butvariegated by patches of greasewood, of sagebrush, of Egyptian-cornfields, and occasionally by a long, narrow fringe of trees. Here, too, were many examples of that phenomenon so vigorously doubted by mostEasterners: the long rows of trees grown from original cotton wood orpoplar fence posts. In the distance always were the mountains. Overheadthe sky was very blue. A number of buzzards circled. 

After a time we turned off the road and into a country covered over withtumbleweed, a fine umber red growth six or eight inches high, andscattered sagebrush. Inlets, bays, and estuaries of bare ground raneverywhere. The Captain stood up to drive, watching for the game tocross these bare places. 

I stood up, too. It is no idle feat to ride the Invigorator thus overhummocky ground. It lurched and bumped and dropped into and out oftrouble; and in correspondence I alternately rose up and sat down again, hard. The Captain rode the storm without difficulty. He was accustomedto 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 crestscocked forward, their trim figures held close as a sprinter goes, rankafter rank, their heads high in the alert manner of quail. 

The Captain sat down, jerked off the brake, and spoke to his horses. Isat down, too; mainly because I had to. The Invigorator leaped from humpto hump. Before those quail knew it we were among them. Right, left, allaround us they roared into the air. Some doubled back; some buzzed lowto right or left; others rose straight ahead to fly a quarter mile, andthen, wings set, to sail another quarter until finally they pitched downinto some bit of inviting cover. 

The Captain brought his horses to a stand with great satisfaction. Wecongratulated each other gleefully; and even old Ben, somewhat shaken upin 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 theband had flushed, flown, and lighted as one body, immediately on hittingthe ground they would have put their exceedingly competent little legsinto action, and would have run so well and so far that, by the time wehad arrived on the spot, they would have been a good half mile away. Butnow that the covey was broken, the individuals and small bands wouldstay put. If they ran at all, it would be for but a short distance. Onthis preliminary scattering depends the success of a chase afterCalifornia quail. I have seen six or eight men empty both barrels oftheir guns at a range of more than a hundred yards. They were not insaneenough to think they would get anything. Merely they hoped that theracket 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 forthover 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 thebare ground were the most likely places. Apparently the birds workedslowly through the cover ahead of us, but hesitated to cross the openspots, and so bunched at the edge. By walking in a zigzag along some ofthese borders, we gathered in many scattered birds and small bunches. Why the zigzag? Naturally it covers a trifle more ground than a straightcourse, but principally it seems to confuse the game. If you walk in astraight line, so the quail can foretell your course, it is very apteither to flush wild or to hide so close that you pass it by. The zigzagfools it. 

Thus, with varying luck, we made a slow circle back to the wagon. Herewe found Mrs. Kitty and Carrie and the lunch awaiting us with theponies. 

These robust little animals were not miniature horses, but genuineponies, with all the deviltry, endurance, and speed of their kind. Theywere jet-black, about waist high, and of great intelligence. They drew aneat little rig, capable of accommodating two, at a persistent rapidpatter that somehow got over the road at a great gait. And they couldkeep it up all day. Although perfectly gentle, they were as alert asgamins for mischief, and delighted hugely in adding to the general rowand confusion if anything happened to go wrong. Mrs. Kitty drove themeverywhere. One day she attempted to cross an irrigation ditch thatproved to be deeper than she had thought it. The ponies disappearedutterly, leaving Mrs. Kitty very much astonished. Horses would havedrowned in like circumstances, but the ponies, nothing daunted, dug intheir hoofs and scrambled out like a pair of dogs, incidentally dippingtheir mistress on the way. 

In the shade of a high greasewood we unpacked the pony carriage. Thiswas before the days of thermos bottles, so we had a most elaboratewicker basket whose sides let down to form a wind shield protecting analcohol burner and a kettle. When the water boiled, we made hot tea, andso came to lunch. 

Strangely enough this was my first experience at having lunch broughtout to the field. Ordinarily we had been accustomed to carry a sandwichor so in the side pockets of our shooting coats, which same we ate atany odd moment that offered. Now was disclosed an astonishing variety. There were sandwiches, of course, and a salad, and the tea, butwonderful to contemplate was a deep dish of potted quail, row after rowof them, with delicious white sauce. In place of the frugal bite or sothat would have left us alert and fit for an afternoon's work, we ateuntil nothing remained. Then we lit pipes and lay on our backs, andcontemplated a cloudless sky. It was the warm time of day. The horsessnoozed, a hind leg tucked up; old Ben lay outstretched in doggycontent; Mrs. Kitty knit or crocheted or something of that sort; andCarrie and the Captain and I took cat naps. At length, the sun's rays nolonger striking warm from overhead, the Captain aroused us sternly. 

"You're a nice, energetic, able lot of sportsmen!" he cried withindignation. "Have I got to wait until sunset for you lazy chumps to geta full night's rest?"

"Don't mind him, " Mrs. Kitty told me, placidly; "he was sound asleephimself; 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 theponies. 

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 anew covey, so we reversed to pick up some of those that had originallydoubled 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 theonly way to walk in a plowed field, after all. The birds had pitcheddown into the old furrows, and whenever a tuft of grass, a piece oftumbleweed, or a shallow grassy ditch offered a handful of cover, therethe 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 birdsunerringly. The quail flew low and hard, offering in the gatheringtwilight and against the neutral-coloured earth marks worthy of goodshooting. At last we turned back to our waiting team. The dusk wascoming over the land, and the "shadow of the earth" was marking itsstrange blue arc in the east. As usual the covey was now securelyscattered. Of a thousand or so birds we had bagged forty-odd; and yet ofthe remainder we would have had difficulty in flushing another dozen. Itis the mystery of the quail, and one that the sportsman can nevercompletely comprehend. As we clambered into the Invigorator we couldhear from all directions the birds signalling each other. Near, far, toright, to left, the call sounded, repeating over and over again aparting, 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 founditself. 

CHAPTER VI

PONIES

Next morning the Captain decided that he had various affairs to attendto, 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 ofeducation, and he was delighted to have them ridden, once he wasconvinced of your seat and hands. They were beautiful ponies, generallyiron gray in colour, very friendly, very eager, and very lively. Ridingthem was like flying through the air, for they sailed over rough ground, irrigation checks, and the like without a break in their stride, andwithout a jar. By the same token it was necessary to ride them. At oddmoments they were quite likely to give a wide sidewise bound or astiff-legged buck from sheer joy of life. One got genuine "horseexercise" out of them. 

The Captain, as perhaps I have said, invented these ponies himself. FromChihuahua he brought in some of the best mustang mares he could find;and, in case you have Frederick Remington's pictures of starvedwinter-range animals in mind, let me tell you a good mustang is a veryhandsome animal indeed. These he bred to a thoroughbred. The resultinghalf-breeds grew to the proper age. Then he started to have them brokento the saddle. A start was as far as he ever got, for nobody could ridethem. They combined the intelligence and vice of the mustang with theendurance and nervous instability of the thoroughbred. The Captain triedall sorts of men, even sending at last to Arizona for a good broncobuster on the J-I. Only one or two of the many could back the animals atall, though many aspirants made a try at it. After a long series ofexperiments, the Captain came to the reluctant conclusion that the crosswas no good. It seemed a pity, for they were beautiful animals, up tofull polo size, deep chested, strong shouldered, close coupled, andspeedy. 

Then, by way of idleness, he bred some of the half-bred mares. Thethree-quarter cross proved to be ideal. They were gentle, easily broken, and to the eye differed in no particular from their pure-bloodedbrothers. So, ever since, the Captain has been raising these mostexcellent polo ponies to his great honour and profit and the incidentalpleasure of his friends who like riding. 

One of these ponies was known as the Merry Jest. He had a terrifying butharmless trick. The moment the saddle was cinched, down went his headand he began to buck in the most vicious style. This he would keep upuntil further orders. In order to put an end to the performance all onehad 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 along 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 wasso 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. Theanimals chafed to be away; and when we loosened the reins, leapedforward in long bounds. Over the rough country they skimmed likeswallows, their hoofs hardly seeming to touch the ground, the powerfulmuscles playing smoothly beneath us like engines. After a mile of thiswe 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, thevegetable gardens, and the like. Here an immense hay rick was beingdriven 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 obviatedthe crowding that would have taken place had the hay not been thusscattered. The more aggressive followed close after the rick, snatchingmouthfuls of the hay as it fell. The more peaceful, or subdued, orphilosophical strung out in a long, thin line, eating steadily at onespot. They got more hay with less trouble, but the other fellows had tomaintain reputations for letting nobody get ahead of _them_!

At another point an exceedingly rackety engine ran a hay press, wherethe constituents of one of the enormous house-like haystacks were fedinto a hopper and came out neatly baled. A dozen or so men oversaw theactivities of this noisy and dusty machine. 

Down by the northerly cottonwoods two miles away we found other men withscrapers throwing up the irrigation checks along the predeterminedcontour lines. By means of these irregular meandering earthworks thewater, admitted from the ditch to the upper end of the field, would workits way slowly from level to level instead of running off or makingchannels for itself. This job, too, was a dusty one. We could see thesmoke of it rising from a long distance; and the horses and men werebrown 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 stoodgreat 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 fora long distance through water five or six inches shallow. Underneath thesurface we could see the short green grass of the turf that thusreceived its refreshment. Then somewhere near, silhouetted against thesky or distant mountains, on the slight elevation of the irrigationditch bank, we were sure to see some of the irrigation Chinamen. Theywere strange, exotic figures, their skins sunburned and dark, theirqueues wound around their heads; wearing always the same uniform of bluejeans cut China-fashion, rubber boots, and the wide, inverted bowlChinese sun hat of straw. By means of shovels wherewith to dig, and ironbars wherewith to raise and lower flood gates, they controlled theartificial rainfall of the region. So accustomed did the ducks becometo these amphibious people that they hardly troubled themselves to getout of the way, and were utterly careless of how near they flew. UncleJim once disguised himself as an irrigation Chinaman and got all kindsof shooting--until the ducks found him out. Now they seem able todistinguish accurately between a Chinaman with a long shovel and a whiteman with a shotgun, no matter how the latter is dressed. Ducks, tame andwild, have a lot of sense. It must bore the former to be forced toassociate with chickens. 

Over in the orchard, of a thousand acres or so, were many moreOrientals, and hundreds of wild doves. These Chinese were all of thelower coolie orders, and primitive, not to say drastic in their medicalideas. One evening the Captain heard a fine caterwauling and drumbeating over in the quarters, and sallied forth to investigate. In oneof the huts he found four men sitting on the outspread legs and arms ofa fifth. The latter had been stripped stark naked. A sixth was engagedin placing live coals on the patient's belly, while assorted assistantsfurnished appropriate music and lamentation. The Captain put a stop tothe proceedings and bundled the victim to a hospital where he promptlydied. It was considered among Chinese circles that the Captain hadkilled him by ill-timed interference!

Everywhere we went, and wherever a small clump of trees or even largebrush offered space, hung the carcasses of coyotes, wildcats, and lynx. Some were quite new, while others had completely mummified in the dryair of these interior plains. These were the trophies of theprofessional "varmint killer, " a man hired by the month. Of course itwould be only too easy for such an official to loaf on his job, so thisone had adopted the unique method of proving his activity. Everywherethe Captain rode he could see that his man had been busy. 

All this time we had been working steadily away from the ranch. Longzigzags and side trips carried us little forward, and a constantleftward tendency swung us always around, until we had completed a halfcircle of which the ranch itself was the centre. The irrigated fieldshad given place to open country of a semi-desert character grown highwith patches of greasewood, sagebrush, thorn-bush; with wide patches ofscattered bunch grass; and stretches of alkali waste. Here, unexpectedlyto me, we stumbled on a strange but necessary industry incidental to solarge an estate. Our nostrils were assailed by a mighty stink. We camearound the corner of some high brush directly on a small two-storyaffair with a factory smokestack. It was fenced in, and the fence wascovered with drying hides. I will spare you details, but the function ofthe place was to make glue, soap, and the like of those cattle whoseterm of life was marked by misfortune rather than by the butcher'sknife. The sole workman at this economical and useful occupation did notseem to mind it. The Captain claimed he was as good as a buzzard atlocating the newly demised. 

Our ponies did not like the place either. They snorted violently, andpricked their ears back and forth, and were especially relieved andeager to obey when we turned their heads away. 

We rode on out into the desert, our ponies skipping expertly throughthe low brush and gingerly over the alkali crust of the open spacesbeneath which might be holes. Jackrabbits by the thousand, literally, hopped away in front of us, spreading in all directions as along thesticks of a fan. They were not particularly afraid, so they loped easilyin high-bounding leaps, their ears erect. Many of them sat bolt upright, looking at least two feet high. Occasionally we managed really to scareone, and then it was a grand sight to see him open the throttle and scudaway, his ears flat back, in the classical and correct attitude of theconstantly recurring phrase of the ancients: "belly to earth he flew!"

Jackrabbits are a great nuisance. The Captain had to enclose hisprecious alfalfa fields with rabbit-proof wire to prevent utterdestruction. There was a good deal of fence, naturally, and occasionallythe inquiring rabbit would find a hole and crawl through. Then he was inalfalfa, which is, as every Californian knows, much better than being inclover. He ate at first greedily, then more daintily, wandering alwaysfarther afield in search of dessert. Never, however, did he forget theprecise location of the opening by which he had entered, as was wise ofhim. For now, behold, enter the dogs. Ordinarily these dogs, who werealso wise beasts, passed by the jackrabbit in his abundance with onlyinhibited longing. Their experience had taught them that to chasejackrabbits in the open with any motive ulterior to that of healthfulexercise and the joy of seeing the blame things run was as vain and aspuppish as chasing one's tail. But in the alfalfa fields was a chance, for it must be remembered that such fields were surrounded by therabbit-proof wire in which but a single opening was known to the jack inquestion. Therefore, with huge delight, the dogs gave chase. Mr. Rabbitbolted back for his opening, his enemies fairly at his heels. Now comesthe curious part of the episode. The dogs knew perfectly well that ifthe rabbit hit the hole in the fence he was safe for all of them; andthey had learned, further, that if the rabbit missed his plunge forsafety he would collide strongly with that tight-strung wire. Whenwithin 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 andscudded away over the open plain outside. Then the dogs turned andtrotted philosophically back to the ranch. But the other two times therabbit 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 hiswaiting pursuers. Though thousands may consider this anothernature-fake, I shall always have the comfort of thinking that theCaptain 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 carrioncreatures, and their delicate bones, scattered by the ravens, buzzards, and coyotes, soon disintegrate and pass into the soil. One does not findmany evidences of the destruction that has been at work; yet he will seetens instead of myriads. I have been at the ranch when one was never outof sight of jackrabbits, in droves, and again I have been there whenone would not see a half dozen in a morning's ride. They recover theirnumbers fast enough, and the chances are that this "narrow-gauge mule"will be always with us. The ranchman would like nothing better than tobid him a last fond but genuine farewell; but I should certainly misshim. 

The greasewood and thorn-bush grew in long, narrow patches. The ragweedgrew everywhere it pleased, affording grand cover for the quail. Thesagebrush occurred singly at spaced intervals, with tiny bare spacesbetween across which the plumed little rascals scurried hurriedly. Thetumbleweed banked high wherever, in the mysterious dispensations ofProvidence, 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 andseeds, and finally turns brown and brittle. Just about as you wouldconclude it has reached a respectable old age and should settle down byits chimney corner, it decides to go travelling. The first breath ofwind that comes along snaps it off close to the ground. The next turnsit over. And then, inasmuch as the tumbleweed is roughly globular inshape, some three or four feet in diameter, and exceedingly light instructure, over and over it rolls across the plain! If the wind happensto increase, the whole flock migrates, bounding merrily along at a goodrate of speed. Nothing more terrifying to the unaccustomed equine can beimagined than thirty or forty of these formidable-looking monsterscharging down upon him, bouncing several feet from the surface of theearth. The experienced horse treats them with the contempt suchlight-minded senility deserves, and wades through their phantom attackindifferent. After the breeze has died the debauched old tumbleweeds areeverywhere to be seen, piled up against brush, choking the ditches, filling the roads. Their beautiful spherical shapes have been frayed outso that they look sodden and weary and done up. But their seeds havebeen scattered abroad over the land. 

Wherever we found water, there we found ducks. The irrigating ditchescontained many bands of a dozen or fifteen; the overflow ponds had eachits little flock. The sky, too, was rarely empty of them; and the criesof the snow geese and the calls of sandhill cranes were rarely still. Iremarked on this abundance. 

"Ducks!" replied the Captain, wonderingly. "Why, you haven't _begun_ tosee ducks! Come with me. "

Thereupon we turned sharp to the left. After ten minutes I made out froma 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 ofgrowth 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 rodesteadily forward. 

All at once a mighty roar burst on our ears, like the rush of a heavytrain over a high trestle; and immediately the air ahead of us wasfilled with ducks towering. They mounted, and wheeled, and circled backor darted away. The sky became fairly obscured with them in the sensethat it seemed inconceivable that hither space could contain anotherbird. Before the retina of the eye they swarmed exactly as a nearercloud of mosquitoes would appear. 

Hardly had the shock of this first stupendous rise of wildfowl spentitself before another and larger flight roared up. It seemed that allthe ducks in the world must be a-wing; and yet, even after that, a thirdbody arose, its rush sounding like the abrupt, overwhelming noise of acataract in a sudden shift of wind. I should be afraid to guess how manyducks had been on that lake. Its surface was literally covered, so thatnowhere did a glint of water show. I suppose it would be a simple matterto compute within a few thousand how many ducks would occupy so muchspace; but of what avail? Mere numbers would convey no impression of theeffect. Rather fill the cup of heaven with myriads thick as a swarm ofgnats against the sun. They swung and circled back and forth beforemaking up their minds to be off, crossing and recrossing the variouslines of flight. The first thrice-repeated roar of rising had givenplace to the clear, sustained whistling of wings, low, penetrating, inspiring. In the last flight had been a band of several hundred snowgeese; and against the whiteness of their plumage the sun shone. 

"That, " observed the Captain with conviction, "is what you might callducks. "

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; therewas no middle ground. If possible, we ate largely of many most deliciousthings. If, on the other hand, we happened to be out somewhere at noon, we cheerfully omitted lunch. So, when we returned to the ranch, theCaptain, after glancing at his watch and remarking that it was ratherlate to eat, proposed that we try out two other ponies with the polomallets. 

This we proceeded to do. After an hour's pleasant exercise on the flatin the "Enclosure, " we jogged contentedly back into the corral. 

Around the corner of the barn sailed a distracted and utterly stampededhen. After her, yapping eagerly, came five dachshunds. 

Pause and consider the various elements of outrage the situationpresented. (A) Dachshunds are, as before quoted, a bunch of useless, bandylegged, snip-nosed, waggle-eared----, anyway, and represent anamiable good-natured weakness on the part of Mrs. Kitty. (B) Dachshundsin general are _not_ supposed to run wild all over the place, but toremain in their perfectly good, sufficiently large, entirely comfortablecorral, 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 hencould run just a trifle faster than the dachshunds; and the dachshundsjust a trifle faster than the Captain. I always claimed they circled thebarn three times, in the order named. The Captain insists with dignitythat I exaggerate three hundred per cent. At any rate, the hen finallyblundered, the dachshunds fell upon her--and the Captain swung his polomallet. 

Five typical "sickening thuds" were heard; five dachshunds literallysailed through the air to fall in quivering heaps. The Captain, hisanger cooled, came back, shaking his head. 

"I wouldn't have killed those dogs for anything in the world!" hemuttered 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 sorryabout it!" and so on, at length. 

We turned the corner of the hedge. There in a row on the top step of theverandah sat five dachshunds, their mouths open in a happy smile, sixinches of pink tongue hanging, their eyes half closed in good-humouredappreciation. 

The Captain approached softly and looked them over with great care. Hefelt 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 theCaptain for the fiftieth time in the month. "I won't have them on theranch!"

That was seven years ago. They are still there--they and numerousdescendants. [G]

CHAPTER VII

DINNER

We washed up and came down stairs. All at once it proved to be drowsytime. The dark had fallen and the lamps were lit. A new fire crackled inthe fireplace, anticipating the chill that was already descending. Carrie played the piano in the other room. The General snorted oversomething in his city paper. Mrs. Kitty had disappeared on householdbusiness. Pete and Pup, having been mistaken one for the other by someinnocent bystander, gloomed and glowered under chairs. 

Both the Captain and myself made some sort of a pretence of reading thepapers. It was only a pretence. The grateful warmth, the soothingcrackling of the fire, the distant music--and, possibly, our state ofstarvation--lulled us to a half doze. From this we were aroused by anannouncement of dinner. 

We had soup and various affairs of that sort; and there was brought on ahuge and baronial roast, from which the Captain promptly proceeded toslice generous allowances. With it came vegetables. They were all cookedin 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 werejellies, and little fat hot rolls, and strange pickled products of thesoil. 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 whichreposed, side by side, five ducks. That meant a whole one apiece! To myfeeble protest the family turned indignantly. 

"Of course you must eat your duck!" Mrs. Kitty settled the wholequestion at last. 

So I ate my duck. It was a very good duck; as indeed it should havebeen, for it was fattened on Egyptian corn, hung the exact number ofdays, and cooked by Charley. It had a little spout of celery down whichI could pour the abundant juice from its inside; and it was flankedright and left respectively by a piece of lemon liberally sprinkled withred pepper and sundry crisp slabs of fried hominy. Every night of theshooting season each member of the household had "his duck. " Later I wasshown the screened room wherein hung the game, each dated by a littletag. 

After I had made way with most of my duck, and other things, and had hadmy coffee, and had lighted a cigar, I was entirely willing to sink backto disgraceful ease. But the Captain suddenly developed an inexcusableand fiendish energy. 

"No, you don't, " said he. "You come with me and Redmond and get out thedecoys. "

"What for?" I temporized, feebly. 

"To keep the moths out of them, of course, " replied the Captain withfine sarcasm. "Do you mean to tell me that you can sit still and donothing after seeing all those ducks this afternoon? You're a finesportsman! 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. Nobodysaid anything for a long time. The Captain was busy in the gun room withone 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 airwithin, awakened me like the shock of cold water. Redmond was awaitingus with a lantern. By the horse block lay the mass of somethingindeterminate which I presently saw to be sacks full of somethingknobby. 

"I have six sacks of wooden decoys, " said Redmond, "with weights all onthem. "

The Captain nodded and passed on. We made our way down past the grapearbour, opened the high door leading into chickenville, and stopped atthe border of the little pond. On its surface floated a hundred or sotame ducks of all descriptions. By means of clods of earth we woke themup. They came ashore and waddled without objection to a littleinclosure. We followed them and shut the gate. 

One after another the Captain indicated those he wished to take with himon the morrow. Redmond caught them, inserted them in gunny sacks, two tothe sack. They made no great objection to being caught. One or twoyoungsters flopped and flapped about, and had to be chased into acorner. In general, however, they accepted the situationphilosophically, and snuggled down contentedly in their sacks. 

"They are used to it, " the Captain explained. "Most of these Rouen ducksare old hands at the business; they know what to expect. "

He was very particular as to the colouring of the individuals heselected. A single white feather was sufficient to cause the rejectionof a female; and even when the colour scheme was otherwise perfect, toolight a shade proved undesired. 

"I don't know just why it is, " said he, "but the wild ducks are a lotmore particular about the live decoys than about the wooden. A woodendecoy 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. Withinfifteen minutes thereafter I was sleeping the sleep of the moderatelytired and the fully fed. 

CHAPTER VIII

DUCKS

The Captain rapped on my door. It was pitch dark, and the wind, whichhad 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 steppedforth. 

Ten minutes later, by the light of a single candle, we were manipulatingthe coffee-and-egg machine, and devouring the tall pile ofbread-and-butter sandwiches that had been left for us over night. Then, stepping as softly as we could in our clumping rubber boots, our armsburdened with guns and wraps, we stole into the outer darkness. 

It was almost black, but we could dimly make out the treetops whippedabout by the wind. Over by the stable we caught the intermittent flashesof many lanterns where the teamsters were feeding their stock. Presentlya 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 Captainspoke to his horses, and we were off. 

That morning I had my first experience of a phenomenon I have neverceased admiring--and wondering at. I refer to the Captain's driving inthe dark. 

The night was absolutely black, so that I could hardly make out thehorses. In all the world were only two elements, the sky full of starsand the mass of the earth. The value of this latter, as a means ofshowing us where we were, was nullified by the fact that the skylineconsisted, not of recognizable and serviceable landmarks, but of thedistant mountains. We went a certain length of time, and bumped over acertain number of things. Then the Captain pulled his team sharp aroundto the left. Why he did so I could not tell you. We drove an hour over ameandering course. 

"Hang tight, " remarked the Captain. 

I did so. The front end of the Invigorator immediately fell away fromunder me, so that if I had not been obeying orders by hanging tight Ishould most certainly have plunged forward against the horses. We seemedto slide and slither down a steep declivity, then hit water with asplash, and began to flounder forward. The water rose high enough tocover the floor of the Invigorator, causing the Captain to speculate onwhether Redmond had packed in the shells properly. Then the bow rosewith 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, thebanks fell off perpendicular, the water was deep, and the bottom soft. The approach was down no fenced lane, but across the open, with no otherlandmarks even in daylight than the break of low willows andcottonwoods exactly like a hundred others. Ten minutes later theCaptain drew rein. 

"Here you are, " said he, cautiously. "You can dump your stuff off righthere. I can't get through the fence with the team; but it's only a shortdistance to carry. "

Accordingly, in entire faith, I descended and unloaded my three sacks ofwooden 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 directionthis mythical fence is situated; what kind of a fence it is; and where Icarry to when I get through it?"

The Captain chuckled. 

"Why, " he explained, "the fence is straight ahead of you; and it'sbarbed wire; and as for where you're headed, you'll find the pond wherewe 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 myveins. Now that I was afoot, I could begin to make out things in thestarlight--the silhouettes of bushes or brush, and even three or fourposts of the fence. 

The Invigorator rattled into the distance. I got my stuff the other sideof the wires, and, shouldering a sack, plodded away due west. 

But now I made out the pond gleaming; and by this and by the dimgrayness of the earth immediately about me knew that dawn was at lastunder way. The night had not yet begun to withdraw, but its firststrength was going. Objects in the world about became, not visible, butexistent. By the time I had carried my last load the rather liberalhundred yards to the shores of the pond the eastern sky had banished itsstars. 

My movements had, of course, alarmed the ducks. There were not many ofthem, as I could judge by the whistling of their departing wings and bythe silvery furrows where they had left the water. It is curious howstrong the daylight must become before the eye can distinguish a duck inflight. The comparative paucity of numbers, I reflected, was probablydue to the fact that the ducks used this pond merely as a loafing placeduring the day. Therefore I should anticipate a good flight as soon asfeeding time should be over; especially as one end of the pond proved tobe fairly well sheltered from the high wind. 

At once I set to work to build me a blind. This I constructed oftumbleweed and willow shoots, with a lucky sagebrush as a good basis. Imade it thick below and thin on top, so I could crouch hidden, and riseeasily to shoot. Also I made it hastily, working away with aconcentration that would prove very valuable could it be brought to auseful line of work. There can nothing equal the busyness of a manhastening to perfect his arrangements before a flight of ducks is due tostart. Every few moments I would look anxiously up to see how thingswere going with the morning. The light was indubitably increasing. Thatis 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 wasalmost free of stars. Also the perpendicular plane of the mountains tothe west, in some subtle manner, was beginning to break. It was not yetdaylight; but the dawn was here. 

I reached cautiously into one of the sacks and brought forth one of thedecoy ducks. Around his neck I buckled a little leather collar to a ringin which had been attached a cord and weight. Then I cautiously wadedout and anchored him. 

He was delighted, and proceeded immediately to take a bath, ducking hishead under and out again, ruffling his wings, and wagging his absurdlittle tail. Apparently the whole experience was a matter of course tohim; 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 thewooden decoys artistically around the outskirts. By now it was quitegenuinely early daylight. Three times the overhead whistle of wings hadwarned me to hurry; and twice small flocks of ducks had actually swungdown within range only to discover me at the last moment and tower awayagain. When younger, I used, at such junctures, to rush for my gun. Thatis 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 pickup 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. Atlength I was able to wade ashore and sink into my blind. 

Immediately, as usual, the flights ceased for the time being. I hadnothing to do but sit tight and wait. 

This was no unpleasant task. The mountains to the west had becomelucent, and glowed pink in the dawn; those to the east looked likesilhouettes of very thin slate-coloured cardboard stuck up on edge, across which a pearl wash had been laid. The flatter world of the plainsall about me lay half revealed in an unearthly gray light. The windswooped and tore away at the brush, sending its fan-shaped cat's-pawsacross the surface of the pond. My ducks, having finished theirablutions, now gave a leisurely attention to smoothing out their plumesruffled by the night in the gunnysack. They ran each feather separatelythrough their bills, preening and smoothing. All the time they conversedtogether in low tones of voice. Whenever one made a rather cleverremark, or smoothed to glossiness a particularly rumpled feather, hewagged his short tail vigorously from side to side in satisfaction. 

Suddenly the one farthest out in the pond stilled to attention andcraned 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, liftedup their voices. Cautiously I turned my head. Low against the growingsplendour of the sunrise, wings rigidly set, came a flock of mallards. My ducks fairly stood up on their tails the better to hurl invitationsand inducements at their wild brethren. The chorus praising thisparticular spot was vociferous and unanimous, I wonder what the mallardsthought of the other fifty or sixty in my flock, the wooden ones, thatsat placidly aloof. Did they consider these remarkably exclusive; or didthey perhaps look upon the live ones as the "boosters" committee forthis particular piece of duck real estate? At any rate, they dropped inwithout the slightest hesitation, which shows the value of live decoys. The mallard is ordinarily a wily bird and circles your pond a number oftimes before deciding to come in to wooden decoys. At the proper momentI got to my feet, and, by good fortune, knocked down two fatgreen-heads. 

They fell with a splash right among my ducks. Did the latter exhibitalarm over either the double concussion of the gun or this fall ofdefunct game from above? Not at all! they were tickled to death. Eachswam vigorously around and around at the limit of his tether, rufflinghis 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 theCaptain had been here he'd have killed a half dozen of the chumps beforethey got out of range!" and so on. For your experienced decoy alwaysseems to enjoy the game hugely, and to enter into it with muchenthusiasm and intelligence. And all the while the flock of woodendecoys headed unanimously up wind, and bobbed in the wavelets; and thesun went on gilding the mountains to the west. 

Next a flock of teal whirled down wind, stooped, and were gone like aflash. I got in both barrels; and missed both. The dissatisfaction ofthis was almost immediately mitigated by a fine smash at a flock ofsprig that went by overhead at extreme long range, but from which Imanaged 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 thequicker downward, until he fell on a long slant, his wings set, his neckstill outstretched. I marked the direction as well as I could, andimmediately went in search of him. Fortunately he lay in the open, quitedead. Looking back, I could see another good flock fairly hovering overthe 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 allprecedent and reason. A duck shooter ought to be out in a storm, a goodcold 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, hisnose blue, his body shivering. That sort of discomfort goes with duckshooting. Yet here I was sitting out in a warm, summerlike day in myshirt sleeves, waiting comfortably--and the ducks were coming in, too!

After a time I heard the mighty rattle of the Invigorator, and theCaptain's voice shouting. Reluctantly I disentangled myself from myblind 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 stillcoming in fast. You see, I was not yet free from the traditions to whichI had been brought up. Back in Michigan, when a man went for a day'sshoot, he stayed with it all day. It was serious business. I was notyet accustomed to being so close to the game that the casual expeditionwas after all the most fun. 

So I pulled up my rubber boots, and waded out, gathering in the game. Tomy immense surprise I found that I had thirty-seven ducks down. It hadnot occurred to me that I had shot half that number, which is perhapscommentary on how fast ducks had been coming in. It was then only abouteight o'clock. After gathering them in, next we performed the slow andvery moist task of lifting the wooden decoys and winding their anchorcords 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 usindignantly. I do not think they were frightened, for once we had ourhands on them, they resumed their dignified calm. Only they enjoyed thefun outside; and they did not fancy the bags inside; a choice eminentlycreditable 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 thebirds two by two, keeping tally in a loud voice. Redmond thoroughlyenjoyed all the small details. 

CHAPTER IX

UNCLE JIM

Each morning, while we still sat at breakfast, Uncle Jim drove up fromthe General's in his two-wheeled cart to see if there might be anythingdoing. Uncle Jim was a solidly built elderly man, with the browncomplexion and the quizzical, good-humoured eye of the habitualsportsman. He wore invariably an old shooting coat and a cap that hadseen younger, but perhaps not better, days. His vehicle was a batteredbut serviceable two-wheeled cart drawn by a placid though adequatehorse. His weapon for all purposes was a rather ponderous twelve-gauge. 

If we projected some sporting expedition Uncle Jim was our man; but ifthere proved to be nothing in the wind, he disappeared promptly. Heconducted various trapping ventures for "varmints, " at which he seemedto 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 nobodyknew, for it was a harsh and unsociable character. Uncle Jim began toshow signs of life about July fifteenth when the dove season opened; hecame into his own from the middle of October until the first ofFebruary, during which period one can shoot both ducks and quail; hedied down to the bare earth when the game season was over, and only sentup a few green shoots of interest in the matter of supplying hiswildcat with that innumerable agricultural pest, the blackbird. 

Sometimes I accompanied Uncle Jim, occupying the other side of thetwo-wheeled cart. We never had any definite object in view; we just wentforth for adventure. The old horse jogged along very steadily, considering the fact that he was as likely to be put at cross country asa road. We humped up side by side in sociable silence, spying keenly forwhat we could see. A covey of quail disappearing in the brush caused usto pull up. We hunted them leisurely for a half hour and gathered in adozen birds. Always we tried to sneak ducks, no matter how hopeless thesituation might seem. Once I went on one hand and my knees through threeinches of water for three hundred yards, stalking a flock of sprigloafing in an irrigation puddle. There was absolutely no cover; I was inplain sight; from a serious hunting standpoint the affair was quixotic, not to say imbecile. If I had been out with the Captain we shouldprobably not have looked twice at those sprig. Nevertheless, as thegeneral atmosphere of Uncle Jim's expeditions was always one ofadventure and forlorn hopes and try-it-anyway, I tried it on. Uncle Jimsat in the cart and chuckled. Every moment I expected the flock to takewing, but they lingered. Finally, when still sixty yards distant, theleaders rose. I cut loose with both barrels for general results. To myvast surprise three came down, one dead, the other two wing-tipped. Thetwo latter led me a merry chase, wherein I managed to splatter the restof myself. Then I returned in triumph to the cart. The forlorn hope hadplanted its banner on the walls of achievement. Uncle Jim laughed at mefor my idiocy in crawling through water after such a fool chance. Ilaughed at Uncle Jim because I had three ducks. We drove on, and thewarm sun dried me off. 

In this manner we made some astonishing bags; astonishing not by theirsize, but by the manner of their accomplishment. 

We were entirely open minded. Anything that came along interested us. Weinvestigated all the holes in all the trees, in hopes of 'coons or honeyor something or other. We drove gloriously through every patch of brush. Sometimes an unseen hummock would all but upset us; so we had toscramble hastily to windward to restore our equilibrium. 

The country was gridironed with irrigation ditches. They were eight toten feet deep, twenty or thirty feet wide, and with elevated, precipitous banks. One could cross them almost anywhere--except whenthey were brimful, of course. The banks were so steep that, oncestarted, the vehicle had to go, but so short that it must soon reachbottom. 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, hecould draw the light vehicle by dead weight the rest of the distance. Naturally, the driver had to take the course at exactly right angles, orhe capsized ingloriously. 

One day Uncle Jim and I started to cross one of these ditches that hadlong been permitted to remain dry. Its bottom was covered by weeds sixinches high, and looked to be about six feet down. We committedourselves to the slope. Then, when too late to reconsider, we discoveredthat the apparent six-inch growth of weeds was in reality one of fouror five feet. The horse discovered it at the same time. With truepresence of mind, he immediately determined that it was up to him toleap that ditch. Only the fact that he was hitched to the cart preventedhim from doing so; but he made a praiseworthy effort. 

The jerk threw me backward, and had I not grabbed Uncle Jim I would mostcertainly have fallen out behind. As for Uncle Jim, he would mostcertainly have fallen out behind, too, if he had not clung like grimdeath to the reins. And as for the horse, alarmed by the check andconsequent scramble, he just plain bolted, fortunately straight ahead. We hit the opposite bank with a crash, sailed over it, and headed acrosscountry. 

Consider us as we went. Feet in air, I was poised on the end of mybackbone in a state of exact equilibrium. A touch would tumble me outbehind; an extra ounce would tip me safely into the cart; my onlysalvation was my hold on Uncle Jim. I could not apply that extra ouncefor the simple reason that Uncle Jim also, feet in air, was poisedexactly on the end of his backbone. If the reins slackened an inch, overhe went; if he could manage to pull up the least bit in the world, in hecame! So we tore across country for several hundred yards, unable torecover and most decidedly unwilling to fall off on the back of ourheads. 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 wedrove. Uncle Jim, in his naming of animals, always showed a sterndisregard for the female sex. Then, as usual, we looked about to seewhat we could see. 

Over to the left grew a small white oak. About ten or twelve feet fromthe ground was a hole. That was enough; we drove over to investigatethat hole. It was not an easy matter, for we were too lazy to climb thetree unless we had to. Finally we drove close enough so that, bystanding on extreme tip-toe atop the seat of the cart, I could get asort of sidewise, one-eyed squint at that hole. 

"If, " I warned Uncle Jim, "Henry leaves me suspended in mid-air I'llbash 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, allat once, I made out two dull balls of fire glowing steadily out of theblackness. That was as long as I could stand stretching out my entireanatomy to look down any hole. 

On hearing my report, Uncle Jim phlegmatically thrust the flexible whipdown the hole. 

"'Coon, " he pronounced, after listening to the resultant remarks fromwithin. 

And then the same bright idea struck us both. 

"Mrs. Kitty here makes good with those angleworms, " Uncle Jim voiced theinspiration. 

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 herdachshunds, Mrs. Kitty had always stoutly opposed the legend of"medium-size game. " The dachshunds may look like bologna sausages onlegs, ran the gist of her argument; and they may progress like ratherlively measuring worms; and the usefulness of their structure may seemto limit itself to a facility for getting under furniture withoutstooping, _but_--Mrs. Kitty's eloquence always ended by convincingherself, and she became very serious--but that is not the dogs' fault. Rather it is the fault of their environment to which they have beentransplanted. Back in their own native vaterland they were always usedfor medium-sized game. And what is more they are _good_ at it! Comehere, 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, andthey have spatulate feet for digging, and their bandy legs enable themto throw the dirt out behind them. Their long, sharp noses are liketweezers to seize upon the medium-size game. In short, by muchrepetition, a legend had grown up around the dachshunds, a legend offierceness inhibited only by circumstances, of pathetic deprivation ofthe sports of their native land. If only we could have a badger, wecould almost hear them say to each other in dog language, a strong, morose, savage badger! Alas! we are wasting our days in idleness, ourtalents rust from disuse! Finally, Uncle Jim remained the only franklyskeptical member. 

At this time there visited the ranch two keen sportsmen whom we shallcall Charley and Tommy; as also several girls. We burst on the assembledmultitude with our news. Immediately a council of war was called. Afterthe 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 frettingfor medium-size game. Well, here's some. Bring out the whole flock, andlet's see them get busy. "

The proposition was received with a shout of rapture Uncle Jim smiledgrimly. 

"Well, they'll do it!" cried Mrs. Kitty, with spirit. 

Preparations were immediately under way. In half an hour the armydebouched from the ranch and strung out single file across the plain. 

First came Uncle Jim and myself in the two-wheeled cart as scouts andguides. 

Followed the General in his surrey. The surrey had originally beenintended for idle dalliance along country lanes. In the days of itsglory it had been upholstered right merrily, and around its flat top haddangled a blithesome fringe. Both the upholstery and fringe were stillsomewhat there. Of the glory that was past no other reminder hadpersisted. The General sat squarely in the middle of the front seat, very large, erect, and imposing, driving with a fine military disregardof hummocks or the laws of equilibrium. In or near the back seat hovereda 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. Immediatelyastern of the pony cart followed a three-seated carry-all with assortedguests. This was flanked by the Captain and Charley as outriders. Therear was closed by the Invigorator rilled with dachshunds. Their pointednoses poked busily through the slats of the cage, and sniffed up overthe edge of the wagon box. 

The rear, did I say? I had forgotten Mithradates Antikamia Briggs. Thelatter polysyllabic person was a despised, apologetic, rangy, black-and-white mongrel hound said to have belonged somewhere to a mannamed Briggs. I think the rest of his name was intended as an insult. Ordinarily Mithradates hung around the men's quarters where he wasliked. Never had he dared seek either solace or sympathy at the doors ofthe great house; and never, never had he remotely dreamed of followingany of the numerous hunting expeditions. That would have beenlese-majesty, high treason, sublime impudence, and intolerable nuisanceto be punished by banishment or death. Mithradates realized thisperfectly; and never did he presume to raise his eyes to such high andshining affairs. 

But to-day he followed. Nobody was subsequently able to explain whyMithradates Antikamia should on this one occasion so have plucked upheart. 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 classwith Old Ben or Young Ben, or even of the fox terriers; but if I'm notmore 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 gomyself!"

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 triedto drive him back. Mithradates Antikamia would not go. The Captaindismounted and tried force. Mithradates shut both eyes, crouched to theground, and immediately weighed a half ton. When punished he rolled overand held all four paws in the air. The minute the Captain turned hisback, after stern admonitions to "go home!" and "down, charge!" and thelike, Mithradates crawled slowly forward to the waiting line, duckinghis head, wrinkling his upper lips ingratiatingly, and sneezing in themost 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. Weunblocked the opening, and the Invigorator was driven to a spot beneathit so each person could take his turn at standing on the seat andpeering down the hole. The eyes still glowed like balls of fire. 

Next the dachshunds were lifted up one by one and given a chance tosmell at the game. This was to make them keen. Held up by means of ahand held either side their chests, they curled up their hind legs andtails and seemed to endure. Mrs. Kitty explained that they had neverbeen so far off the ground in their lives, and so were naturallypreoccupied by the new sensation. This sounded reasonable, so we placedthem on the ground. There they sat in a circle looking up at ourperformances, a solemn and mild interest expressing itself in theirlugubrious countenances. A dachshund has absolutely no sense of humouror lightness of spirits. He never cavorts. 

By sounding carefully with a carriage whip we determined the depth ofthe hole, and proceeded to cut through to the bottom. This was quite ajob, for the oak was tough, and the position difficult. Tommy hadascended the tree, and proclaimed loudly the first signs of daylight asthe axe bit through. Mine happened to be the axe work; so when I hadfinished a neat little orifice, I swung up beside Tommy, and theInvigorator drove out of the way. 

My elevated position was a good one; and as Tommy was peering eagerlydown the hole, I had nothing to do but survey the scene. 

The rigs were drawn up in a semi-circle twenty yards away. Next thehorses' heads stood the drivers of the various vehicles, anxious to missnone of the fun. The dachshunds sat on their haunches, looking up, andprobably wondering why their friend, Tommy, insisted on roosting up atree. The Captain and Charley were immediately below, engaged in anearnest effort to poke the 'coon into ascending the hole. Tommy wasreporting the result of these efforts from above. The General, his feetfirmly planted, had unlimbered a huge ten-bore shotgun, so as to beready for anything. Uncle Jim stood by, smoking his pipe. MithradatesAntikamia Briggs sat sadly apart. 

The poking efforts accomplished little. Occasionally the 'coon made alittle dash or scramble, but never went far. There was a great deal oftalking, 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 toit, 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 treeincontinently, with the 'coon on top of him. 

We caught our breath in horror. Although we could plainly see that Tommywas in no degree injured by his short fall, yet we all realized that itwas going to be serious to be mixed up with a raging, snarling beastfight of twenty-two members. When the dachshunds should pounce on theirnatural prey, the medium-size game, poor Tommy would be at the bottom ofthe heap. Several even started forward to restrain the dogs, but stoppedas they realized the impossibilities. 

Tommy and the 'coon hit with a thump. The dachshunds took one horrifiedlook; then with the precision of a drilled man[oe]uvre they unanimouslyturned tail and plunged into the tall grass. From my elevated perch Icould see it waving agitatedly as they made their way through it in thedirection of the distant ranch. 

For a moment there was astounded silence. Then there arose a shriek ofdelight. The Captain rolled over and over and clutched handfuls of turfin his joy. The General roared great salvos of laughter. Tommy, stillseated where he had fallen, leaned weakly against the tree, the tearscoursing down his cheeks. The rest of the populace lifted up theirvoices and howled. Even Uncle Jim, who rarely laughed aloud, althoughhis eyes always smiled, emitted great Ho! ho!'s. Only Mrs. Kitty, dumbwith indignation, stared speechless after that wriggling mess offugitives. 

The occasion was too marvellous. We enjoyed it to the full. Whenever therapture sank somewhat, someone would gasp out a half-remembered bit ofMrs. Kitty's former defences. 

"Their long, sharp noses are like tweezers to seize the game!" declaimedCharley, weakly. [Spasm by the audience. ]

"Their spatulate feet are meant for digging, " the Captain took up thetale. [Another spasm. ]

"Their bandy legs enabled them to throw the dirt out behind them--asthey 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 bea 'coon. At the same time we became conscious of a most unholy row inthe offing: the voice of Mithradates Antikamia. 

"If you people want your 'coon, " he was remarking in a staccato andexasperated voice, "you'd better come and lend a hand. _I_ can't managehim alone! The blame thing has bitten me in three places already. Ofcourse, I like to see people have a good time, and I hope you won'tcurtail your enjoyment on my account; but if you've had _quite_ enoughof those made-in-Germany imitations, perhaps you'll just stroll over andsee 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 oneof the tiny two-roomed shacks wherein dwelt the small settlers. Thehouses were always of new boards, unpainted, perched on four-by-fours, in the middle of bare ground, perhaps surrounded by young poplars orcottonwoods, but more likely fully exposed to the sun. A trifling openshed protected a battered buggy on the thills and wheels of whichperched numerous chickens. A rough corral and windmill completed thearrangements. Near the house was usually a small patch of alfalfa. Farther out the owner was engaged in the strenuous occupation ofbrushing and breaking a virgin country. 

To greet us rushed forth a half-dozen mongrel dogs, and appeared a swarmof children, followed by the woman of the place. Uncle Jim knew them allby name, including even the dogs. He carefully wound the reins aroundthe whip, leaned forward comfortably, and talked. Henry dozed; and Ilistened with interest. Uncle Jim had the natural gift of popularity. Byeither instinct or a wide experience he knew just what problems andtriumphs, disappointments and perplexities these people wereencountering; and he plunged promptly into the discussion of them. Also, I was never able to make out whether Uncle Jim was a conscious orunconscious diplomat; but certainly he knew how judiciously to make useof the subtle principle, so well illustrated by Molière, that it pleasespeople 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 leisurelyroadside call was at an end, we rolled away from unanimously heartysignals of farewell. 

In accordance with our settled feeling of taking things as they came, and trying for everything, we blundered into varied experiences, none ofwhich arrange themselves in recollection with any pretence of logicalorder. Perhaps it might not be a bad idea to copy our method, to setforth and see where we land. 

One of the most amusing happened when we were out with my younger, butnot smaller, brother. This youth was at that time about eighteen yearsold, and six feet two in height. His age _plus_ his stature _equalled_ acertain lankiness. As we drove peacefully along the highway we observedin the adjacent field a coyote. The animal was some three or fourhundred yards away, lying down, his head between his paws, for all theworld like a collie dog. Immediately the lad was all excitement. Wepointed out the well-known facts that the coyote is no fool and isdifficult to stalk at best; that while he is apparently tame as long asthe wagon keeps moving, he decamps when convinced that his existence isreceiving undue attention; that in the present instance the short grasswould not conceal a snake; and that, finally, a 16-gauge gun loaded withnumber-six shot was not an encouraging coyote weapon. He brushed themaside as mere details. So we let him out. 

He dropped into the grass and commenced his stalk. This he accomplishedon his elbows and knees. A short review of the possibilities willconvince you that the sight was unique. Although the boy's head andshoulders were thus admirably close to the ground, there followed anextremely abrupt apex. Add the fact that the canvas shooting coat soonfell forward over his shoulders. 

The coyote at first paid no attention. As this strange object workednearer, he raised his head to take a look. Then he sat up on hishaunches to take a better look. At this point we expected him to lopeaway instead of which he trotted forward a few feet and stopped, hisears pricked forward. There he sat, his shrewd brain alive withconjecture until, at thirty-five yards, the kid emptied both barrels. Thereupon he died, his curiosity as to what a movable brown pyramidmight be still unsatisfied. 

Uncle Jim, the kid, and I had great fun cruising for jackrabbits. UncleJim sat in the middle and drove while the kid and I hung our feet overthe sides and constituted ourselves the port and starboard batteries. Bumping and banging along at full speed over the uneven country, wejumped the rabbits, and opened fire as they made off. Each had to stickto his own side of the ship, of course. Uncle Jim's bird dog, his headbetween our feet, his body under the seat, watched the proceedings, whining. It looked like good fun to him, but it was forbidden. Ajackrabbit arrested in full flight by a charge of shot turns a veryspectacular somersault. The dog would stand about five rabbits. As thesixth turned over, he executed a mad struggle, accomplished a flyingleap over the front wheel, was rolled over and over by the forwardmomentum of the moving vehicle, scrambled to his feet, pounced on thatrabbit, and most everlastingly and savagely shook it up! Then Uncle Jimdescended and methodically and dispassionately licked the dog. 

Jackrabbits were good small-rifle game. They started away on a slowlope, but generally stopped and sat up if not too seriously alarmed. Awhistle sometimes helped bring them to a stand. After a moment'sinspection they went away, rapidly. With a . 22 automatic one could turnloose 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 thesage was a jungle, the tiny pellets express bullets, the rabbitsmagnified--I am sorry for the fellow who cannot have fun sometimes"pretending!" In the brush, too, dwelt little cottontails, very good toeat. The jackrabbit was a pest, but the cottontail was worth getting. Wecaught sight of him first in the bare open spaces between the bushes, whereupon he proceeded rapidly to cover. It was necessary to shootrather quickly. The inexperienced would be apt to run forward eagerly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the cottontail on the other side; butalways it would be in vain. That would be owing to the fact that thelittle rabbit has a trick of apparently running through a brush at fullspeed, but in reality of stopping abruptly and squatting at the roots. Often it is possible to get a shot by scrutinizing carefully the lastplace he was seen. He can stop as suddenly as a cow pony. 

Often and often, like good strategic generals, we were induced bycircumstances to change our plans or our method of attack at the lastmoment. On several occasions, while shooting in the fields of Egyptiancorn, I have killed a quail with my right barrel and a duck with myleft! Continually one was crouching in hopes, when some unexpected flockstooped toward him as he walked across country. These hasty concealmentswere in general quite futile, for it is a fairly accurate generalizationthat, in the open, game will see you before you see it. This is notalways true. I have on several occasions stood stock still in the openplain until a low-flying mallard came within easy range. Invariably thebird was flying toward the setting sun, so I do not doubt his vision wasmore or less blinded. 

The most ridiculous effort of this sort was put into execution by theCaptain and myself. 

Be it premised that while, in the season, the wildfowl myriads werealways present, it by no means followed that the sportsman was alwayssure of a bag. The ducks followed the irrigation water. One week theymight be here in countless hordes; the next week might see only a fewcoots and hell divers left, while the game was reported twenty milesaway. Furthermore, although fair shooting--of the pleasantest sort, inmy opinion--was always to be had by jumping small bands and singles fromthe "holes" and ditches, the big flocks were quite apt to feed and loafin the wide spaces discouragingly free of cover. Irrigation was done ona large scale. A section of land might be submerged from three inches toa foot in depth. In the middle of this temporary pond and a half dozenothers like it fed the huge bands of ducks. What could you do? Therewas no cover by which to sneak them. You might build a blind, but beforethe ducks could get used to its strange presence in a flat andfeatureless landscape the water would be withdrawn from that piece ofland. Only occasionally, when a high wind drove them from the open, orwhen 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 couldget all the ducks he could reasonably require, there was no real reasonwhy he should look with longing on these inaccessible packs, but we alldid. It was not that we wanted more ducks; for we held strictly withinlimits, but we wanted to get in the thick of it. 

On the occasion of which I started to tell, the Captain and I werereturning from somewhere. Near the Lakeside ranch we came across a bigtract of land overflowed by not deeper than two or three inches ofwater. The ducks were everywhere on it. They sat around fat and solemnin flocks; they swirled and stooped and lit and rose again; they fedbusily; they streamed in from all points of the compass, cleaving theair with a whistling of wings. 

Cover there was none. It was exactly like a big, flat cow pasturewithout any fences. We pulled up the Invigorator and eyed the scene withspeculative eyes. Finally, we did as follows:

Into the middle of that field waded we. The ducks, of course, arose witha roar, circled once out of range, and departed. We knew that in lessthan a minute the boldest would return to see if, perchance, we mighthave been mere passers-by. Finding us still there, they would, in thenatural course of events, circle once or twice and then depart forgood. 

Now we had noticed this: ducks will approach to within two or threehundred yards of a man standing upright, but they will come within onehundred--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 aman, 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 inchesof water, placed our chests across two wooden shell boxes we had broughtfor the purpose, ducked our heads, and waited. After a few momentsoverhead came the peculiar swift whistle of wings. We waited, rigid. When that whistle sounded very loud indeed, we jerked ourselves uprightand looked up. Immediately above us, already towering frantically, was aflock of sprig. They were out of range, but we were convinced that thiswas only because we had mistakenly looked up too soon. 

It was fascinating work, for we had to depend entirely on the sense ofhearing. The moment we stirred in the slightest degree away went theducks. As it took an appreciable time to rise to our feet, locate theflock, and get into action, we had to guess very accurately. We fired agreat many times, and killed a very few; but each duck was anachievement. 

Though the bag could not be guaranteed, the sight of ducks could. Whenmy 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 theSierras had overflowed an immense tract of country to form a lake eightor nine miles across. On this lake the ducks were safe, and thither theyresorted in vast numbers. As a consequence, the customary resorts weredeserted. We could see the ducks, and that was about all. Realizing thehopelessness of the situation we had been confining ourselves sostrictly to quail that my brother had begun to be a little sceptical ofour wildfowl tales. Therefore, one day, I took him out and showed himducks. 

They were loafing in an angle of the lake formed by the banks of twosubmerged irrigating ditches, so we were enabled to measure themaccurately. After they had flown we paced off their bulk. They hadoccupied a space on the bank and in the water three hundred yards longby fifty yards wide; and they were packed in there just about as thickas ducks could crowd together. An able statistician might figure out howmany there were. At any rate, my brother agreed that he had seen someducks. 

There was one thing about Uncle Jim's expeditions: they were cast in norigid lines. Their direction, scope, or purpose could be changed at thelast moment should circumstances warrant. 

One day Uncle Jim came after me afoot, with the quiet assurance that heknew where there were "some ducks. "

"Tommy is down there now, " said he, "in a blind. We'll make a couplemore blinds across the pond, and in that way one or the other of us issure to get a shot at everything that comes in. And the way they'recoming in is scand'lous!"

Therefore I filled my pockets with duck shells, seized my close-choked12-bore, and followed Uncle Jim. We walked across three fields. 

"Those ducks are acting mighty queer, " proffered Uncle Jim in puzzledtones. 

We stopped a moment to watch. Flock after flock stooped toward thelittle pond, setting their wings and dropping with the extraordinaryconfidence wildfowl sometimes exhibit. At a certain point, however, andwhile 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 awell-made blind. Even as we looked another flock of sprig sailed downwind, stopped short at a good two hundred yards, towered with everyappearance of lively dismay, and departed. Tommy's head came above theblind, gazing after them. 

"They couldn't act worse if Tommy was out waving his hat at 'em, " saidUncle Jim. 

We climbed a fence. This brought us to a slight elevation, butsufficient to enable us to see abroad over the flat landscape. 

Immediately beyond Tommy was a long, low irrigation check grown withsoft green sod. On the farther slope thereof were the girls. They hadbrought magazines and fancy work, and evidently intended to spend theafternoon in the open, enjoying the fresh air and the glad sunshine andthe cheerful voices of God's creatures. They were, of course, quiteunconscious of Tommy's sporting venture not a hundred feet away. Theirparasols were green, red, blue, and other explosive tints. 

Uncle Jim and I sat for a few moments on the top of that fence enjoyingthe view. Then we climbed softly down and went away. We decided tacitlynot to shoot ducks. The nature of the expedition immediately changed. Wespent the rest of the afternoon on quail. To be sure number-five shot ina close-choked twelve is not an ideal load for the purpose; but by carein letting our birds get far enough away we managed to have a very goodafternoon's sport. And whenever we would make a bad miss we had readyconsolation: the thought of Tommy waiting and wondering and puzzling inhis 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 thenormal and usual thing. Thus one day Mrs. Kitty drove me over to look ata 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 alucky sneak, I managed to gather in five ducks from an irrigation pond. On another occasion, having a spare hour before lunch, I started outafoot from the ranch house at five minutes past eleven, found my quailwithin a quarter mile, had luck in scattering them, secured my limit oftwenty-five, and was back at the house at twelve twenty-five! Beforethis I had been to drive with Mrs. Kitty; and after lunch we drovetwelve miles to call on a neighbour. Although I had enjoyed a full day'squail shoot, it had been, as it were, merely an interpolation. 

Occasionally, however, it was elected to make a grand and formal raid onthe game. This could be either a get-up-early-in-the-morning session inthe blinds, a formal quail hunt, or the Grand Tour. 

To take the Grand Tour we got out the Liver Invigorator and as manysaddle horses as might be needed to accommodate the shooters. Onreaching the hog field it was proper to disembark, and to line up for anadvance on the corner of the irrigation ditch where I had sounexpectedly jumped the ducks my first morning on the ranch. In extendedorder we approached. If ducks were there, they got a great hammering. Everybody shot joyously--whether in sure range or not, it must beconfessed. The birds went into a common bag, for it would be impossibleto say who had killed what. After congratulations and reproaches, bothof which might be looked upon as sacrifices to the great god Josh, weswung to the left and tramped a half mile to the artesian well. TheInvigorator and saddle horses followed at a respectful distance. When wehad investigated the chances at the well, we climbed aboard again andrattlety-banged across country to the Slough. 

The Slough comprised a wide and varied country. In proper application itwas 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, butoccasionally, for some reason to me unknown, the growth gave space fortiny open ponds or channels. These were further screened by occasionalwillows or greasewood growing on the banks. They were famous loafingplaces for mallards. 

It was great fun to slip from bend to bend of the Slough, peeringkeenly, moving softly, trying to spy through the thick growth to aglimpse of the clear water. The ducks were very wary. It was necessaryto know the exact location of each piece of open water, itssurroundings, and how best it was to be approached. Only too often, peeras cautiously as we might, the wily old mallards would catch a glimpseof some slight motion. At once they would begin to swim back and forthuneasily. Always then we would withdraw cautiously, hoping against hopethat suspicion would die. It never did. Our stalk would disclose to usonly a troubled surface of water on which floated lightly a half dozenfeathers. 

But when things went right we had a beautiful shot. The ducks toweredstraight up, trying to get above the level of the brush, affording ashot at twenty-five or thirty yards' range. We always tried to avoidshooting at the same bird, but did not always succeed. Old Ben delightedin this work, for now he had a chance to plunge in after the fallen. Asa matter of fact, it would have been quite useless to shoot ducks inthese circumstances had we not possessed a good retriever like Old Ben. 

The Slough proper was about two miles long, and had probably eight orten "holes" in which ducks might be expected. The region of the Sloughwas, however, a different matter. 

It was a fascinating stretch of country, partly marshy, partly dry, butall of it overgrown with tall and rustling tules. These reeds weresometimes so dense that one could not force his way through them; atothers so low and thin that they barely made good quail cover. Almosteverywhere a team could be driven; and yet there were soft places andwater channels and pond holes in which a horse would bog downhopelessly. From a point on the main north-and-south ditch a man afootleft the bank to plunge directly into a jungle of reeds ten feet tall. Through them narrow passages led him winding and twisting and doubtingin a labyrinth. He waded in knee-deep water, but confidently, for heknew the bottom to be solid beneath his feet. On either side, fairlytouching his elbows, the reeds stood tall and dense, so that it seemedto him that he walked down a narrow and winding hallway. And every oncein a while the hallway debouched into a secret shallow pond lying in themiddle of the tule jungle in which might or might not be ducks. If therewere ducks, it behooved him to shoot very, very quickly, for those thatfell in the tules were probably not to be recovered. Then more narrowpassages led to other ponds. 

Always the footing was good, so that a man could strike forwardconfidently. But again there are other places in the Slough region whereone has to walk for half a mile to pass a miserable little trickle onlyjust too wide to step across. The watercress grows thick against eitheroozy bank, leaving a clear of only a foot. Yet it is bottomless. 

The Captain knew this region thoroughly, and drove in it by landmarks ofhis own. After many visits I myself got to know the leading "points ofinterest" and how to get to them by a set route; but their relations oneto another have always remained a little vague. 

For instance, there was an earthen reservoir comprising two circularconnecting ponds, elevated slightly above the surrounding flats, so thata man ascended an incline to stand on its banks. One half of thisreservoir is bordered thickly by tules; but the other half is withoutgrowth. We left the Invigorator at some hundreds of yards distance; and, single file, followed the Captain. We stopped when he did, crawled whenhe did, watched to see what dry and rustling footing he avoided, everysense 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. Wewere 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 eachof us had worked out his own stalk we should have multiplied the chancesof alarming the game; we should have created the necessity for signals;and we should have had the greatest difficulty in synchronizing ourarrival at the shooting point. We moved a step at a time, feelingcircumspectly before resting our weight. At the last moment the Captainmotioned with his hand. Wriggling forward, we came into line. Then, verycautiously, we crawled up the bank of the reservoir and peered over!That was the supreme moment! The wildfowl might arise in countlessnumbers; in which case we shot as carefully and as quickly as possible, reloading and squatting motionless in the almost certain hope of along-range shot or so at a straggler as the main body swung back overus. Or, again, our eager eyes were quite likely to rest upon nothing buta family party of mud-hens gossiping sociably. 

Just beyond the reservoir on the other side was an overflowed smallflat. It was simply hummocky solid ground with a little green grass andsome water. Behind the hummocks, even after a cannonade at thereservoir, we were almost certain to jump two or three single spoonbillsor teal. Why they stayed there, I could not tell you; but stay theydid. We walked them up one at a time, as we would quail. The range waslong. Sometimes we got them; and sometimes we did not. 

From the reservoir we drove out into the illimitable tules. The horseswent forward steadily, breasting the rustling growth. Behind them theInvigorator rocked and swayed like a small boat in a tide rip. We stayedin as best we could, our guns bristling up in all directions. TheCaptain drove from a knowledge of his own. After some time, across theyellow, waving expanse of the rushes, we made out a small dead willowstub slanted rakishly. At sight of this we came to a halt. Just beyondthat stub lay a denser thicket of tules, and in the middle of them wasknown to be a patch of open water about twenty feet across. There wasnot much to it; but invariably a small bunch of fat old greenheads wereloafing in the sun. 

It now became, not a question of game, for it was always there, but aquestion of getting near enough to shoot. To be sure, the tiny pond wasso well covered that a stranger to the country would actually be unawareof its existence until he broke through the last barrier of tules; but, by the same token, that cover was the noisiest cover invented for theprotection of ducks. Often and often, when still sixty or seventy yardsdistant, we heard the derisive _quack_, _quack_, _quack_, with which amallard always takes wing, and, a moment later, would see those wilybirds rising above the horizon. A false step meant a crackle; a stumblemeant a crash. We fairly wormed our way in by inches. Each yard gainedwas a triumph. When, finally, after a half hour of Indian work, we hadmanaged to line up ready for the shot, we felt that we had really a fewcongratulations coming. We knew that within fifteen or twenty feetfloated the wariest of feathered game; and _absolutely unconscious ofour presence_. 

"Now!" the Captain remarked, aloud, in conversational tones. 

We stood up, guns at present. The Captain's command was answered by theinstant beat of wings and the confused quicker calling of alarm. In thebriefest fraction of a second the ducks appeared above the tules. Theyhad to tower straight up, for the pond was too small and the reeds toohigh to permit of any sneaking away. So close were they that we couldsee the markings of every feather--the iridescence of the heads, thedelicate, wave-marked cinnamons and grays and browns, even the absurdlittle curled plumes over the tails. The guns cracked merrily, theshooters aiming at the up-stretched necks. Down came the quarry withmighty splashes that threw the water high. The remnant of the flockswung away. We stood upright and laughed and joked and exulted after thelong strain of our stalk. Ben plunged in again and again, bringing outthe game. 

Of these tule holes there were three. When we had visited them each inturn we swung back toward the west. There, after much driving, we cameto the land of irrigation ditches again. At each new angle one of uswould descend, sneak cautiously to the bank and, bending low, peer downthe length of the ditch. If ducks were in sight, he located themcarefully and then we made our sneak. If not, we drove on to the nextbend. Once we all lay behind an embankment like a lot of soldiersbehind a breastwork while one of us made a long détour around a bigflock resting in an overflow across the ditch. The ruse was successful. The ducks, rising at sight of the scout, flew high directly over theambuscade. A battery of six or eight guns thereupon opened up. I believewe killed three or four ducks among us; but if we had not brought down afeather we should have been satisfied with the fact that our stratagemsucceeded. 

So at the last, just as the sun was setting, we completed the circle andlanded at the ranch. We had been out all day in the warm California sunand the breezes that blow from the great mountains across the plains; wehad worked hard enough to deserve an appetite; we had in a dozeninstances exercised our wit or our skill against the keen senses of wildgame; we had used our ingenuity in meeting unexpected conditions; we hadhad a heap of companionship and good-natured fun one with another; wehad seen a lot of country. This was much better than sitting solitaryanchored in a blind. To be sure a man could kill more ducks from ablind; but what of that?

CHAPTER XIII

RANCH ACTIVITIES

Big as it was, the ranch was only a feeder for the open range. Way downin southeastern Arizona its cattle had their birth and grew to theirhalf-wild maturity. They won their living where they could, fiercelyfrom the fierce desert. On the broad plains they grazed during the fatseason; and as the feed shortened and withered, they retired slowly tothe barren mountains. In long lines they plodded to the watering places;and in long, patient lines they plodded their way back again, until deepand indelible troughs had been worn in the face of the earth. Otherliving creatures they saw few, save the coyotes that hung on theirflanks, the jackrabbits, the prairie dogs, the birds strangely cheerfulin the face of the mysterious and solemn desert. Once in a while a pairof mounted men jog-trotted slowly here and there among them. They gaveway to right and left, swinging in the free trot of untamed creatures, their heads high, their eyes wild. Probably they remembered the terrorand ignominy and temporary pain of the branding. The men examined themwith critical eye, and commented technically and passed on. 

This was when the animals were alive with the fat grasses. But as thedrought lengthened, they pushed farther into the hills until the boldestor hardiest of them stood on the summits, and the weakest merely stareddully as the mounted men jingled by. The desert, kind in her bounty, wasterrible in her wrath. She took her toll freely and the dried bones ofher 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 veryblue sky. Then, while some of the cowboys sat their horses as sentinels, turning the herd back on itself, others threaded a way through themultitude, edging always toward the border of the herd some animaluneasy in the consciousness that it was being followed. Surrounding themain herd, and at some distance from it, other smaller herds rapidlyformed from the "cut. " Thus there was one composed entirely of cows andunbranded calves; another of strays from neighbouring ranges; and athird 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 hadbeen cut out and driven home by the cowboys of their several owners; thecalves had been duly branded and sent out on the desert to grow up. Butthere remained still compact the beef herd. When all the excitement ofthe 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 nexthad to be urged to its first experience of sidedoor Pullmans. There thepowerful beasts went frantic. Pike poles urged them up the chute intothe cars. They rushed, and hesitated, and stopped and turned back in apanic. At times it seemed impossible to get them started into the narrowchute. 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 otherimpulse 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 crowdedanimals staring stupidly through the bars. They are not having aparticularly hard time, considering the fact that they are undergoingtheir first experience in travelling. Nowadays they are not allowed tobecome thirsty; and they are too car sick to care about eating. Carsick? Certainly; just as you or I are car sick, no worse; only we do notneed to travel unless we want to. At the end of the journey, often, theyare too wobbly to stand up. This is not weakness, but dizziness from theunwonted motion. Once a fool S. P. C. A. Officer ordered a number of theCaptain'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 theirsea legs off; and then were driven slowly to a cattle paradise--theranch. 

For there was flowing water always near to the thirsty nose; and richgrazing; and wonderful wagons from which the fodder was thrownabundantly; and pleasant shade from a mild and beneficent sun. The thin, wiry beasts of the desert lost their angles; they became fat, and curlyof hair, and sleek of coat, and much inclined to kink up their tails andcavort off in clumsy buck jumps just from the sheer joy of living. Fornow they were, in good truth, beef cattle, the aristocracy of fiftythousand, the pick of wide ranges, the total tangible wealth of a greatprincipality. To see them would come red-faced men with broad hats andlinen dusters; and their transfer meant dollars and dollars. 

I have told you these things lest you might have concluded that theCaptain did nothing but shoot ducks and quail and ride the polo poniesaround the enclosure. As a matter of fact, the Captain was always goingto Arizona, or coming back, or riding here or driving there. When wewent to the ranch, he looked upon our visit as a vacation, but even thenhe could not shoot with us as often as we all would have liked. On theArizona range were the [JH] ranch, and the Circle I, and the Bar O, andthe Double R, and the Box Springs, and others whose picturesque names Ihave forgotten. To manage them were cowpunchers; and appertainingthereunto were Chinese cooks, and horses, and pump mules, and grublists, and many other things. The ranch itself was even more complicatedan affair; for, as I have indicated, it meant many activities besidescattle. And then there was the buying and selling and shipping. TheCaptain was a busy man. 

And the ranch was a busy place. Its population swung through thenations. Always the aristocracy was the cowboy. There were not many ofhim, for the cattle here were fenced and fattened; but a few werenecessary to ride abroad in order that none of the precious beef bemired down or tangled in barbed wire; and that all of it be moved hitherand yon as the pasture varied. And of course the driving, the loadingand unloading of fresh shipments in and out demanded expert handling. 

Some of them came from the desert, lean, bronzed, steady-eyed menaddicted to "double-barrelled" (two cinch) saddles, ox-bow stirrups, straight-shanked spurs, tall-crowned hats, and grass ropes. They wereplain "cowpunchers. " Between them and the California "vaqueros, " or"buckeroos", was always much slow and drawling argument. For the latterhad been "raised different" in about every particular. They used thesingle-cinch saddle; long _tapaderos_; or stirrup hoods; curve-shankedspurs with jingling chains; low, wide-brimmed sombreros and rawhideropes. And you who have gauged the earnestness of what might be called"equipment arguments" among those of a gentler calling, can wellappreciate that never did bunk-house conversation lack. 

Next to these cow riders and horse riders came probably the muledrivers. There were many teams of mules, and they were used for manythings: such as plowing, cultivating, harvesting, haying, the buildingof irrigation checks and ditches, freighting, and the like. A teamcomprised from six to twelve individuals. The man in charge had to knowmules--which is no slight degree of special wisdom; had to know loads;had to understand conditioning. His lantern was the first to twinkle inthe morning as he doled out corn to his charges. 

Then came the ruck of field hands of all types. The average field handin California is a cross between a hobo and a labourer. He worksprobably 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 waywhen he can; catches freight train rides; consorts in thickets with hiskind. Unlike the common hobo, however, he generally has money in hispocket and always carries a bed-roll. The latter consists of a blanketor so, or quilt, and a canvas strapped around the whole. You can see himat any time plodding along the highways and railroads, the roll slungacross his back. He much appreciates a lift in your rig; and sometimesproves worth the trouble. His labour raises him above the leveldegradation of the ordinary tramp; the independence of his spirit giveshis point of view an originality; the nomadic stirring of his bloodkeeps him going. In the course of years he has crossed the length andbreadth of the state a half dozen times. He has harvested apples inSiskiyou and oranges in Riverside; he has chopped sugar pine in thesnows of the Sierras and manzanita on the blazing hillsides of SanBernardino; he has garnered the wheat of the great Santa Clara Valleyand the alfalfa of San Fernando. And whenever the need for change or thedesire for a drink has struck him, he has drawn his pay, strapped hisbed roll, and cheerfully hiked away down the long and dusty trail. 

That is his chief defect as a field hand--his unreliability. He seemsto have no great pride in finishing out a job, although he is a goodworker while he is at it. The Captain used to send in the wagon to bringmen out, but refused absolutely to let any man ride in anything goingthe other way. Nevertheless the hand, when the wanderlust hit him, trudged cheerfully the long distance to town. I am not sure that a newtype is not thus developing, a type as distinct in its way as theriverman or the cowboy. It is not as high a type, of course, for it hasnot the strength either of sustained and earnest purpose nor of classloyalty; but still it makes for new species. The California field handhas mother-wit, independence, a certain reckless, you-be-damned courage, a wandering instinct. He quits work not because he wants to loaf, butbecause he wants to go somewhere else. He is always on the roadtravelling, travelling, travelling. It is not hope of gain that takeshim, for in the scarcity of labour wages are as high here as there. Itis not desire for dissipation that lures him from labour; he drinks hardenough, but the liquor is as potent here as two hundred miles away. Helooks you steadily enough in the eye; and he begs his bread and commitshis depredations half humorously, as though all this were fooling thatboth you and he understood. What his impelling motive is, I cannot say;nor whether he himself understands it, this restlessness that turns hisfeet ever to the pleasant California highways, an Ishmael of the road. 

But this very unreliability forces the ranchman to the next element inour consideration of the ranch's people--the Orientals. They are goodworkers, these little brown and yellow men, and unobtrusive andskilled. 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 areafraid of them. They crowd our people out. Into a community they edgethemselves little by little. At the end of two years they have savedenough capital to begin to buy land. At the end of ten years they havetaken up all the small farms from the whites who cannot or will not livein competition with Oriental frugality. The valley, or cove, or flat hasbecome Japanese. They do not amalgamate. Their progeny are Japaneseunchanged; and their progeny born here are American citizens. In theface of public sentiment, restriction, savage resentment they have madehead. They are continuing to make head. The effects are as yet small inrelation to the whole of the body politic; but more and more of thefertile, beautiful little farm centres of California are becoming thebreeding grounds of Japanese colonies. As the pressure of population onthe other side increases, it is not difficult to foresee a result. Weare afraid of them. 

The ranchmen know this. "We would use white labour, " say they, "if wecould 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. Thecitrus crop is almost entirely moved by them; and all other producedepends so largely on them that it would hardly be an exaggeration tosay that without them a large part of the state's produce would rot infields. We do not want the Oriental; and yet we must have him, must havemore 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 notface facts in a commonsense manner. As I remember it, the originalanti-Oriental howl out here made much of the fact that the Chinaman andJapanese saved his money and took it home with him. In the peculiarcircumstances we should not object to that. We cannot get our work doneby our own people; we are forced to hire in outsiders to do it; weshould expect, as a country, to pay a fair price for what we get. It isundoubtedly more desirable to get our work done at home; but if wecannot find the help, what more reasonable than that we should get itoutside, and pay for it? If we insist that the Oriental is a detrimentas 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 hisjob?

And he will go _if pay is all he gets_. Only when he is permitted tosettle down to his favourite agriculture in a fertile country does hestay permanently. To be sure a certain number of him engages in variousother commercial callings, but that number bears always a very definiteproportion to the Oriental population in general. And it is harmless. Itis not absolute restriction of immigration we want--although I believeimmigration should be numerically restricted, but absolute prohibitionof the right to hold real estate. To many minds this may seem a denialof the "equal rights of man. " I doubt whether in some respects men haveequal rights. Certainly Brown has not an equal right with Jones to spankJones's small boy; nor do I believe the rights of any foreign nationparamount to our own right to safeguard ourselves by proper legislation. 

These economics have taken us a long distance from the ranch and itsOrientals. The Japanese contingent were mainly occupied with the fruit, possessing a peculiar deftness in pruning and caring for the prunes andapricots. The Chinese had to do with irrigation and with the vegetables. Their broad, woven-straw hats and light denim clothes lent theparticular landscape they happened for the moment to adorn a peculiarlyforeign and picturesque air. 

And outside of these were various special callings represented by one ortwo men: such as the stable men, the bee keeper, the blacksmith andwagon-wright, the various cooks and cookees, the gardeners, the "varmintcatcher, " and the like. 

Nor must be forgotten the animals, both wild and tame. Old Ben and YoungBen and Linn, the bird dogs; the dachshunds; the mongrels of the men'squarters; all the domestic fowls; the innumerable and blue-blooded hogs;the polo ponies and brood mares, the stud horses and driving horses andcow horses, colts, yearlings, the young and those enjoying a peacefuland 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, orwaiting like so many Japanese bronzes for a chance at a gopher;red-tailed hawks circling slowly; pigeon hawks passing with their falcondart; little gaudy sparrow hawks on top the telephone poles; buzzards, stately and wonderful in flight, repulsive when at rest; barn-owlsdwelling in the haystacks, and horned owls in the hollow trees; thegame in countless numbers; all the smaller animals and tiny birds inspecies too numerous to catalogue, all these drew their full sustenanceof life from the ranch's smiling abundance. 

And the mules; I must not forget them. I have the greatest respect for amule. He knows more than the horse; just as the goose or the duck knowsmore than the chicken. Six days the mules on the ranch laboured; but onthe seventh they were turned out into the pastures to rest and roll andstand around gossiping sociably, rubbing their long, ridiculous Romannoses together, or switching the flies off one another with theirtasselled tails. Each evening at sunset all the various teams came infrom different directions, converging at the lane, and plodding dustilyup its length to the sheds and their night's rest. Five evenings thusthey come in silence. But on the sixth each and every mule lifted up hisvoice in rejoicing over the morrow. The distant wayfarer--familiar withranch ways--hearing this strident, discordant, thankful chorus faracross the evening peace of the wide country, would thus have known thiswas 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 knowsmuch more than externals concerning the Chinese. Some men there are, generally reporters on the big dailies, who have been admitted to thetongs; who can take you into the exclusive Chinese clubs; who areeverywhere in Chinatown greeted cordially, treated gratis to strangefood and drink, and patted on the back with every appearance ofaffection. They can tell you of all sorts of queer, unknown customs andfacts, and can show you all sorts of strange and unusual things. Yet atthe last analysis these are also discursions and anecdotes. We gatherempirical knowledge: only rarely do we think we get a glimpse of how thedelicate machinery moves behind those twinkling eyes. 

I am led to these remarks by the contemplation of Chinese Charley at theranch. He has been with Mrs. Kitty twenty-five years; he wears Americanclothes; he speaks English with hardly a trace of either accent oridiom; he has long since dropped the deceiving Oriental stolidity andweeps out his violent Chinese rages unashamed. Yet even now Mrs. Kitty'ssumming up is that Charley is a "queer old thing. "

If you start out with a good Chinaman, you will always have goodChinamen; if you draw a poor one, you will probably be cursed with asuccession of mediocrities. They pass you along from one to another ofthe same "family"; and, short of the adoption of false whiskers and achange of name, you can find no expedient to break the charm. When oneleaves of his own accord, he sends you another boy to take his place. When he is discharged, he does identically that, although you may notknow it. Down through the list of Gins or Sings or Ungs you slidecomfortably or bump disagreeably according to your good fortune ordeserts. 

Another feature to which you must become accustomed is that of theUnexpected Departure. Everything is going smoothly, and you are engagedin 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 thusof leaving you in the lurch; in vain do you threaten detention of wagesdue unless he gives you what your servant experience has taught you is acustomary "week's warning. " He repeats his remark: and goes. Attwo-fifteen another bland and smiling heathen appears at your door. Hemay 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. Youpay 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 thegood graces of heathendom, you will be given an involved and fancyreason for the departure. These generally have to do with the mysteriousmovements of relatives. 

"My second-uncle, he come on ship to San Flancisco. I got to show himwhat to do, " explains Ah Sing. 

If they like you very much, they tell you they will come back at the endof a month. They never do, and by the end of the month the new man hasso 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 canmake out. Ah Sing may not entirely like the place; or he may havereceived orders from his tong to move on--probably the latter. If bothAh Sing and his tong approve of you and the situation, he will stay withyou for many years. Our present man once remained but two days at aplace. The situation is an easy one; Toy did his work well; therelations were absolutely friendly. After we had become intimate withToy, 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. Onegood man will do the work of two white servants, and do it better. Toytakes care of us absolutely. He cooks, serves, does the housework, andwith it all manages to get off the latter part of the afternoon andnearly every evening. At first, with recollections of the rigidlydefined "days off" of the East, I was a little inclined to look intothis. I did look into it; but when I found all the work done, withoutskimping, I concluded that if the man were clever enough to save histime, he had certainly earned it for himself. Systematizing and no falsemoves proved to be his method. 

Since this is so, it follows, quite logically and justly, that theChinese servant resents the minute and detailed supervision somehousewives delight in. Show him what you want done; let him do it;criticize the result--but do not stand around and make suggestions andoffer amendments. Some housekeepers, trained to make of housekeeping anend rather than a means, can never keep Chinese. This does not mean thatyou must let them go at their own sweet will: only that you must try asfar as possible to do your criticizing and suggesting before or afterthe actual performance. 

I remember once Billy came home from some afternoon tea where she hadbeen talking to a number of "conscientious" housekeepers of the oldschool until she had been stricken with a guilty feeling that she hadbeen 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 seemedto be always neatly on hand; but what of that? The fact remained thatBilly had time to go horseback riding, to go swimming, to see herfriends, and to shoot at a mark. Every other housekeeper was busy frommorning until night; and then complained that somehow or other she nevercould get finished up! It was evident that somehow Billy was not doingher full duty by the sphere to which woman was called, etc. 

So home she came, resolved to do better. Toy was placidly finishing upfor the afternoon. Billy followed him around for a while, being ahousekeeper. Toy watched her with round, astonished eyes. Finally heturned on her with vast indignation. 

"Look here, Mis' White, " said he. "What a matter with you? You talk justlike one old woman!"

Billy paused in her mad career and considered. That was just what shewas talking like. She laughed. Toy laughed. Billy went shooting. 

After your Chinaman becomes well acquainted with you, he develops humantraits that are astonishing only in contrast to his former mask ofabsolute stolidity. To the stranger the Oriental is as impassive andinscrutable as a stone Buddha, so that at last we come to read hisattitude into his inner life, and to conclude him without emotion. Thisis also largely true of the Indian. As a matter of fact, your heathen israther vividly alive inside. His enjoyment is keen, his curiositylively, his emotions near the surface. If you have or expect to havevisitors, 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 arefrom the East, you inform them of what every Californian knows--thateach and every member of a household must say "good morning"ceremoniously to Ah Sing. And Ah Sing will smile blandly and duck hispig-tailed, shaven head, and wish each member "good morning" backagain. It is sometimes very funny to hear the matin chorus of a dozenpeople crying out their volley of salute to ceremony; and to hear againthe Chinaman's conscientious reply to each in turn down the longtable--"_Good_ mo'ning, Mr. White; _good_ mo'ning, Mis' White; _good_mo'ning, Mr. Lewis----" and so on, until each has been remembered. Thereare some families that, either from ignorance or pride, omit this andkindred little human ceremonials. The omission is accepted; but thatfamily is never "my family" to the servant within its gates. 

For your Chinaman is absolutely faithful and loyal and trustworthy. Hecan be allowed to handle any amount of money for you. We ourselves areaway from home a great deal. When we get ready to go, we simply pack ourtrunks and depart. Toy then puts away the silver and valuables andplaces 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 thingsup, reclaims the valuables, rearranges everything. His wonderful Chinesememory enables him to replace every smallest item exactly as it was. IfI happen to have left seven cents and an empty . 38 cartridge on thesouthwestern corner of the bureau, there they will be. It is difficultto believe that affairs have been at all disturbed. Yet probably, if ourstay away has been of any length, everything in the house has been movedor laid away. 

Furthermore, Toy reads and writes English, and enjoys greatly sending uswonderful and involved reports. One of them ended as follows: "Theweather is doing nicely, the place is safely well, and the dogs arehappy all the while. " It brings to mind a peculiarly cheerful picture. 

One of the familiar and persistent beliefs as to Chinese traits is thatthey are a race of automatons. "Tell your Chinaman exactly what you wantdone, and how you want it done, " say your advisors, "for you will neverbe able to change them once they get started. " And then they will adducea great many amusing and true incidents to illustrate the point. 

The facts of the case are undoubted, but the conclusions as to theinvariability of the Chinese mind are, in my opinion, somewhatexaggerated. 

It must be remembered that almost all Chinese customs and manners ofthought are the direct inverse of our own. When announcing or receivinga piece of bad news, for example, it is with them considered polite tolaugh; while intense enjoyment is apt to be expressed by tears. Theantithesis can be extended almost indefinitely by the student ofOriental manners. Contemplate, now, the condition of the young Chinesebut 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 hemakes in initiative is stopped and corrected. To his mind there seems noearthly sense or logic in nine tenths of what we want; but he is willingto do his best. 

"Oh, well, " says he to himself, "these people do things crazily; and nowell-regulated Chinese mind could possibly either anticipate how theydesire things done, or figure out why they want them that way. I giveit up! I'll just follow things out exactly as I am told"--and he doesso!

This condition of affairs used to be more common than it is now. Underthe present exclusion law no fresh immigration is supposed to bepossible. Most of the Chinese servants are old timers, who have learnedwhite people's ways, and--what is more important--understand them. Theyare quite capable of initiative; and much more intelligent than theaverage white servant. 

But a green Chinaman is certainly funny. He does things forever-afterjust as you show him the first time; and a cataclysm of nature isrequired to shake his purpose. Back in the middle 'eighties my father, moving into a new house, dumped the ashes beside the kitchen stepspending the completion of a suitable ash bin. When the latter had beenbuilt, 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 ashesby the kitchen steps every day; and on Friday solemnly transferred themto the ash bin! Nor could anything persuade him to desist. 

Again he was given pail, soap, and brush, shown the front steps and walkleading to the gate, and set to work. Gin Gwee disappeared. When we wentto hunt him up, we found him half way down the block, still scrubbingaway. 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 thedozen as proof of the "stupidity" of the Chinese. The Chinese areanything but stupid; and, as I have said before, when once they havegrasped the logic of the situation, can figure out a case with the bestof them. 

They are, however, great sticklers for formalism; and disapprove of anyshort cuts in ceremony. As soon leave with the silver as without waitingfor 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 howto receive a caller. Therefore she rang her own doorbell, presented acard; in short, went through the whole performance. Tom understoodperfectly. That same afternoon Mrs. G----, a next-door neighbour andintimate 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 coldand 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 mistakeblundered to the kitchen door. Mrs. B----'s house is a bungalow and on acorner. 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, andwaited. 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 properceremonials had been fulfilled. 

To one who appreciates what he can do, and how well he does it; who canvalue absolute faithfulness and honesty; who confesses a sneakingfondness for the picturesque as nobly exemplified in a clean andstarched or brocaded heathen; who understands how to balance thedifficult poise, supervision, and interference, the Chinese servant isthe best on the continent. But to one who enjoys supervising every stepor who likes well-trained ceremony, "good form" in minutiæ, and thedeference of our kind of good training the heathen is likely to provedisappointing. When you ring your friend's door-bell, you are quite aptto be greeted by a cheerful and smiling "hullo!" I think mostCalifornians rather like the entirely respectful but freshlyunconventional relationship that exists between the master and hisChinese servant. I do. [H]

CHAPTER XV

THE LAST HUNT

Of all ranch visits the last day neared. Always we forgot it until thelatest possible moment; for we did not like to think of it. Then, whenthe realization could be no longer denied, we planned a grand day justto finish up on. The telephone's tiny, thin voice returned acceptancesfrom distant neighbours; so bright and early we waited at thecross-roads rendezvous. 

And from the four directions they came, jogging along in carts orspring-wagons, swaying swiftly in automobiles whose brass flashed backthe early sun. As each vehicle drew up, the greetings flew, chargedelectrically with the dry, chaffing humour of the out of doors. When wefinally 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 andhis three sons and two guests from Stockdale ranch; the sporting parsonof the entire neighbourhood, and Dodge and his three beautiful dogs. 

Spread out in a rough line we tramped away through the dried andstraggling ranks of the Egyptian corn. Quail buzzed all around us likeangry hornets. We did not fire a shot. Each had his limit of twenty-fivestill before him, and each wanted to have all the fun he could out ofgetting them. Shooting quail in Egyptian corn is, comparativelyspeaking, not much fun. We joked each other, and whistled and sang, andtrudged manfully along, gun over shoulder. The pale sun wasstrengthening; the mountains were turning darker as they threw aside thefilmy rose of early day; in treetops a row of buzzards sat, their wingsoutspread like the heraldic devices of a foreign nation. Thousands ofdoves whistled away; thousands of smaller birds rustled and dartedbefore our advancing lines; tens of thousands of blackbirds sprinkledthe bare branches of single trees, uttering the many-throated multitudecall; underneath all this light and joyous life the business-like littlequail 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 aboutten feet deep on the average, probably thirty feet wide, and was denselygrown with a tangle of willows, berry vines, creepers, wild grape, andthe like. Into this the quail pitched. 

By the time we had covered the mile length of that cornfield we haddumped an unguessable number of quail into that slough. 

Then we walked back the entire distance--still with our guns over ourshoulders--but this time along the edge of the ravine. We shouted andthrew clods, and kicked on the trees, and rattled things, urging thehidden quail once more to flight. The thicket seemed alive with them. Wecaught glimpses as they ran before us, pacing away at a great rate, their feathers sleek and trim; they buzzed away at bewildering pitchesand angles; they sprang into the tops of bushes, cocking their headplumes forward. Their various clicking undercalls, chatterings, andchirrings filled the thicket as full of sound as of motion. And in themiddle 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 intothe slough behind us; but a proportion broke through the thicket andsettled in the wide fields on the other side. After them we went, andfor the first time opened our guns and slipped the yellow shells intothe barrels. 

For this field on the other side was the wide, open plain; and it wasgrown over by tiny, half-knee high thickets of tumbleweed with here andthere a trifle of sagebrush. Between these miniature thickets woundnarrow strips of sandy soil, like streams and bays and estuaries inshape. We knew that the quail would lie well here, for they hate tocross bare openings. 

Therefore, we threw out our skirmish line, and the real advance in forcebegan. 

Every man retrieved his own birds, a matter of some difficulty in thetumbleweed. While one was searching, the rest would get ahead of him. The line became disorganized, broke into groups, finally disintegratedentirely. Each man hunted for himself, circling the tumbleweed patches, combing carefully their edges for the quail that sometimes burst intothe air fairly at his feet. When he had killed one, he walked directlyto the spot. On the way he would flush two or three more. They weretempting; but we were old hands at the sport, and we knew only too wellthat if we yielded so far as to shoot a second before we had picked upthe first, the probabilities were strong that the first would never befound. In this respect such shooting requires good judgment. It isgenerally useless to try to shoot a double, even though a dozen easyshots are in the air at once; and yet, occasionally, on a day whenKoos-ey-oonek is busy elsewhere, it may happen that the birds flushacross a wide, bare space. It is well to keep a weather eye open forsuch chances. 

With a green crowd and in different cover such shooting might have beendangerous; 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 likefirecrackers. In fact, the fun grew a little too fast and furious tosuit Dodge. 

Dodge had beautiful and well-trained dogs. Ordinarily any one of uswould have esteemed it a high privilege to shoot over them. In fact, Ihave often declared myself to the effect that of the three elements ofpleasure comprehended in field shooting that of working the dogs was thechief. Just as it is better to catch one yellowtail on a nine-ounce rodthan twenty on a hand line, so it is better to kill one quail over awell-trained dog than a half dozen "Walking 'em up. " But this particularcase was different. We were out for a high old time; and part of a highold time was a wild and reckless disregard of inhibitive sportingconventions. The birds were here literally in thousands. Not a third hadleft the slough for this open country; we could not shoot at a tenth ofthose flushed, yet the guns were popping continuously. Everybody wasshooting and laughing and running about. The game was to pelt away, retrieve your bird as quickly as you could, and pelt away again. Thedogs, working up to their points carefully and stylishly, as good dogsshould, were being constantly left in the rear. They drew down to theirpoints--and behold nobody but their devoted master would pay anyattention to their bird! Everybody else was engaged busily in poppingaway at any one of the dozen-odd other birds to be had for theselection!

Poor Dodge, being somewhat biased by the accident of ownership, lookedon 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 joyousexcitement of the occasion, someone threw out a chance remark on "those---- dogs" being in the way. Then Dodge withdrew with dignity. Having afellow-feeling as a dog-handler I went over to console him. He wasinconsolable; and so remained until after lunch. 

In this manner we made our way slowly down the length of the slough, andthen slowly back again. Of the birds originally flushed from theEgyptian corn into the thicket but a small proportion had left thatthicket for the open country of the tumbleweed and sage; and of thelatter we had been able to shoot at a very, very small percentage. Nevertheless, when we emptied our pockets, we found that each had madehis 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 savedjust one bird of his limit until after lunch. No one wanted to be leftout of _all_ the shooting while the rest filled their bags; and no onehad believed that anybody but himself had come so close to the limit. 

So we laughed, and shouldered our guns, and trudged across country tothe clump of cottonwood where already the girls had spread lunch. 

That was a good lunch. We sat under shady trees, and the sunlit plainsstretched away and away to distant calm mountains. Near at hand thesparse gray sagebrush reared its bonneted heads; far away it blurredinto a monochrome where the plains lifted and flowed molten into thecañons and crevices of the foothills. Numberless crows, blackbirds, andwildfowl 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 ofthe girls followed us. We were now epicures of shooting, and each letmany 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 tosee the others finish. 

 * * * * *

Next day, our baggage piled in most anywhere, our farewells all said, webowled away toward town in the brand-new machine. Redmond sat in thefront seat with the chauffeur. It was his first experience in anautomobile, and he sat very rigidly upright, eyes front, his moustachesbristling. 

Now at a certain point on the road lived a large black dog--just plainranch dog--who was accustomed to come bounding out to the road to runalongside and bark for an appropriate interval. This was an unvaryingceremony. He was a large and prancing dog; and, I suppose from hisappearance, must have been named Carlo. In the course of our many visitsto the ranch we grew quite fond of the dog, and always looked as hardfor 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-trottingranch team to greet. The road was smooth and straight, and the car washitting thirty-five miles an hour. The dog bounded confidently down thefront walk, leaping playfully in the air, opened his mouth to bark--and, behold! the vehicle was not within range any more, but thirty yards awayand rapidly departing. So Carlo shut his mouth and got down to business. For three hundred yards he managed to keep pace alongside; but theeffort required all his forces; not once did he manage to gather windfor even a single bark. 

Redmond in the front seat sat straighter than ever. From his lordlyelevation 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 disappearingdistance, 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!]