Cattle-Ranch to College Part 16

Before the boys had reached the house the news of his defeat had been made known there, and Mr. Worth, thinking that John had become more or less a bully, determined that the lesson he had received should be a lasting one.

"h.e.l.lo, John!" he said jovially, as the two boys came slowly in, "you met your match to-day, I hear. Whipped you well, didn't he?"

John hung his head and tried to hide the tears that would rush out over his swollen cheeks.

"Hold up here, let me see your face," said the father roughly. "Well, he did give it to you: eyes blacked, face scratched, mouth swollen--you're a sight. You'll be more careful next time, I guess," he added.

John turned on his heel and left the room.

"Ben," he said, on meeting his brother outside, "I'm going away."

"Going away?" Ben repeated in wonder. "Where are you going?"

"I don't know; I don't care. I'm not going to show my face in camp again; even father at home laughs and jeers at me. I'm going to leave to-night."

CHAPTER XI.

A TRYING JOURNEY.

"I'm glad I'm going, Ben, but I'm sorry to leave you; you'll go back and tell them I've gone--and be good to Baldy, won't you? I'll write to you when I get to Helena."

It was long past midnight, and Ben was starting his brother on his journey to the great city that neither had seen. It was his present objective point; how far beyond he would go he did not dream.

"How much money have you?" inquired Ben anxiously.

"Nearly ten dollars, with your three. That'll keep me going till I get a job."

"But say, John, wait a few days and we can sell a horse or a saddle."

Ben hung on to his brother's arm and tried to pull him back; his small, freckled face was full of entreaty and trouble. "Regan will buy the three-year-old after pay day. You'd better wait."

"Oh, I've thought of all that," said John. "I could ride the colt off, for that matter, but I'm not going to take away a thing--except enough money to last till I get work."

"Don't forget to write, John, will you? They'll blame me at home for not telling about this, so don't make it too hard for me." Ben's voice was not very steady, and the note of appeal in it affected John greatly.

"Tell me if work is plenty, for I'm going myself before long--I'll be so lonesome."

They shook hands without a word, each turning his face away, ashamed of the tears that would come despite their efforts to suppress them.

"Good-by."

"Good-by."

Ben turned down the trail toward home and John continued on in the opposite direction. Day was just breaking; the stars still shone above, while the sun's mellow light brightened the east. Neither boy had any eyes for the beauties of the sunrise; it was hard for them to part and neither could think of anything else. They had been not only brothers but "pardners." Never before had they been separated. Rocked in the same shoe-box cradle, playing with the same rude toys, sharing the same pleasures and the same fears, braving the same dangers, and dividing bread or blanket when need be, they had grown up so closely that they did not realize the bond till it was about to be broken.

Brothers still they would be, but "pardners" never again.

When out of sight, each, unknown to the other, dropped to the earth and cried bitterly. Ben's share of grief was the heavier. No change of scene for him; no excitement of antic.i.p.ated adventure; no new sights, experiences, or friends; the world was not spread out before him to enter at will and to roam over; none of the delights of freedom were to fall to his lot. Only duty, weary, commonplace, devoid of companionship and boyish sympathy. He went sorrowfully home.

John, his cry over, felt better. The sun was now coming out in his full strength, the birds poured forth melody, the cool morning was refreshing. In spite of the parting wrench he could not help feeling exhilarated, and the thought that, no matter what might happen, he was free, made him almost joyous. He sprang up, dashed the tears from his eyes, and started along the trail, shouting aloud: "I don't care." He repeated it again and again, trying to convince himself that he really didn't care.

It was too late to turn back now, even if he wanted to; he knew his father's character, and he did not fear pursuit. He wished now that he had walked manfully up to him and told him. "But he laughed at me," he said aloud, arguing with himself. "I do _not_ care," this between his teeth; and then he marched on, his head held high, defiantly.

It was fifteen miles to the railroad, John knew; but how much further to Helena he had no idea--he had not thought of it before.

The trail he was following led him across the range down to the main road on Savage Creek. The mountain walk was fine, the air cool and bracing, the sounds of bird and insect grateful. Before long he reached the creek and drank deeply of its clear waters, washing his bruised face and hands. This he did gingerly, for his wounds were still fresh and his bitten thumb, which no one at home had seen, pained him exceedingly. The danger from a wound by the human tooth is very great, but John realized nothing but the pain.

The slices of bread and meat which Ben had wrapped in an old newspaper for him were eaten with relish. Though he was somewhat tired, and his body still stiff from the hard usage of the day before, he could not bear to sit still and think. At intervals the tears welled up in spite of his efforts to keep them back. "I won't think," he said, and repeated his a.s.sertion, "I don't care," to keep his courage up.

A piece of bread still in his hand, munching as he walked, he struck off down the trail at a strong pace, resolved to reach the railroad and get to Helena quick.

After several miles of sharp walking along the Savage Creek road, he heard the heavy _chug-chug_ and rattle of freight wagons ahead of him.

He soon overtook them and hailed the driver.

"h.e.l.lo, kid; where'd you come from?" called that worthy cheerily, from his perch on the near wheel mule, his leg thrown carelessly over the horn of the saddle, the picture of contentment.

"Up the road a way," answered John evasively. "How far is it to the railroad?"

"What d'ye want of the railroad?" asked the "mule skinner" sharply, bringing his foot down and sitting erect.

John knew that these freighters did not look with favor on the railroads or with any one or thing connected with them, for they declared bitterly that the railroads robbed them of their business.

"It's only a couple of miles to the railroad," the man continued. "But it's eighteen miles to a station. A railroad's no good without a station; climb in this and take a ride."

John climbed up as the wagon moved slowly along. He was tired, and the cheerful "mule skinner" was a desirable companion, for the time at least. The man lifted his leg again and turned in his saddle, the better to talk to his pa.s.senger.

"I was comin' down the road last month," he began, "and the pesky train half a mile away scared my mules nigh out of their wits. Mules don't like trains; don't blame them neither. It's thrown the critters out of work and is forcin' me clear out o' business--how there, you Mag!" he interrupted himself to shout, as the dainty-footed mule swerved to avoid a mud-hole. "Notice that mule?" queried the teamster.

John nodded an a.s.sent.

"She's one of the finest near leaders in the country; watch her gee." A long jerk line ran from the driver's saddle to the bit of the near leader of the eight-mule team. He pulled the line gently and the leader swung promptly to the right. He pulled steadily and the intelligent animal swung back into the road.

"See that? Only a touch and she's awake. That mule's a dandy; been offered two hundred for her--she's little, too." John only nodded, but the teamster, glad enough to have a listener, rattled on about his grievances, the all-absorbing railroads and the men who ran them and spoiled his business.

The wagon did not travel fast enough for the impatient pa.s.senger, so before long he scrambled down again.

"Must you go?" inquired the teamster. "Well, you leave the wagon road at the third bridge ahead, and if you cut across to your left you'll come to the railroad." The boy thanked him and started off on a brisk walk down the road. "But it's eighteen miles to a station, and a railroad's no good without a station," shouted the mule skinner, determined to have one more rap at the iron trail.

"So long," yelled the boy in return, and continued at a brisk pace, in his effort to drown gloomy feelings by rapid motion.

At the third bridge he left the road, struck across to the left, and came upon the railroad. It was a disappointment, though he found all that could be expected when a "station is eighteen miles away." The shining rails stretched away, before and behind him, till they ran together in the distance. The journey was a weary one, the track rough with boulders, the ties hard and unyielding to his heel, and just too near together to allow of an easy stride. Momentarily the heat of the sun increased, and the track seemed to reflect it back more intensely.

There was no shade and the heavens were brazen. He stopped at every brook to drink and bathe his blistering feet and cool his aching hand.

Though he had eaten nothing since early morning he did not feel hunger, except in its weakening effect. On and on he trudged, hour after hour, until swinging his legs became mechanical and he ceased to feel even weariness. At length a cooling rain began to fall, wetting him thoroughly and arousing him to faint grat.i.tude for the relief it brought.

Just before nightfall an object loomed up far down the track; it was the station at last! The boy struggled on, limping, his mouth open and dry, his bitten hand swollen to twice its usual size; and now reaching a water tank near the platform, he dropped down by it, cruelly tired.

After a short rest, he raised his head and looked around. Not another building was in sight but the station, and not a morsel of food had he eaten since early morning. "I'll tackle the station people for something to eat," he said to himself, and, suiting the action to the word, presented himself at the door. A woman was there, but in the dusk she took him for a tramp, slamming the door in his face when he asked for food. His only hope now was to catch a train and reach some settlement. The station agent dashed his last hope by saying that the last train for the night had gone; but noticing the boy's forlorn appearance he spoke to him kindly, so John plucked up courage to say: "Where can I buy something to eat?" The man responded by bringing him food, and, while the boy was gratefully eating, told him that he would be glad to let him rest on the waiting-room floor during the night, but since the rules of the road did not permit of this the best shelter he could offer was a vacant building across the track. John accepted the suggestion gladly, for he was tired in every fibre. "Good night; that supper was bully, thank you," he said to the agent.