The Gold Girl Part 17

Hastening to the open door she peered down the valley. The song ceased, and presently from the cottonwood thicket emerged a horse and rider. The rider wore a roll-brimmed hat and brilliant yellow chaps, and he was mounted upon a fantastically spotted pinto. "It's--'The Bishop of All Outdoors'," she smiled, as she returned to the stove.

"He certainly has a voice. I don't blame Mr. Thompson for being crazy about him. Anybody that can sing like that! And he loves it, too."

A hearty "Good morning" brought her once more to the door.

"Just in time for breakfast," she smiled up into the eyes of the man on the pinto.

"Breakfast! Bless you, I didn't stop for breakfast. I figured on breakfasting with my friend, The Villain, over across the ridge."

"The Villain?"

"Vil Holland," laughed the man. "His name, I believe is, Villiers. I shortened it to Villain, and the natives hereabouts have bobbed it down to Vil. But he'll have to breakfast alone this morning, as usual. I've changed my mind. You see, I share the proverbial weakness of the clergy for a good meal. And against so charming a hostess, old Vil hasn't a chance in the world." Dismounting, the Reverend Len Christie removed his saddle and bridle and, with a resounding slap on the flank turned the pinto loose. "Get along, old Paint, and lay in some of this good gra.s.s!" he laughed as the pinto, cavorting like a colt, galloped across the creek to join Patty's hobbled cayuse.

"My, that bacon smells good," he said, a moment later, as he stood in the doorway and watched the girl turn the thin strips in the pan. "Do let me furnish part of the breakfast," he cried, eagerly and began swiftly to loosen from behind the cantle of his saddle a slender case, from which he produced and fitted together a two-ounce rod. "I'll take it right from your own dooryard in just about two jiffies." He affixed a reel, threaded a cobweb line, and selected a fly. "Just save that bacon fry for a few minutes and we'll have some speckled beauties in the pan before you know it."

Pushing the frying pan to the back of the stove, Patty accompanied him to the bank of the stream where she watched enthusiastically as, one after another, he pulled four glistening trout from the water.

"That's enough," he said, as the fourth fish lay squirming upon the gra.s.s. And in what seemed to the girl an incredibly short time, he had them cleaned, washed, and ready for the pan. While she fried them he busied himself with his outfit, wiping his rod and carefully returning it to its case, and spreading his line to dry. And a few moments later the two sat down to a breakfast of hot biscuits, coffee, bacon, and trout, crisp and brown, smoking from the pan.

"You must have ridden nearly all night to have reached here so early,"

ventured the girl as she poured a cup of steaming coffee.

"No," laughed Christie, "I spent the night at the Wattses'. I had some drawing paper and pencils for David Golieth. Do you know, I've a notion to send that kid to school some place. He's wild about drawing.

Takes me all over the hills for a mile or two around the ranch and shows me pictures he has drawn with charcoal wherever there is a piece of flat rock. He's as shy and sensitive as a girl, until he begins to talk about his drawing, then his big eyes fairly glow with enthusiasm as he points out the good points of some of his creations, and the defects of others. All of them, of course, are crude as the pictorial efforts of the Indians, but it seems to me that here and there I can see a flash of real genius."

"Wouldn't it be wonderful if he should become a famous artist!"

exclaimed the girl. "And wouldn't you feel proud of having discovered him? And I guess lots of them do come from just as unpromising parentage."

"It wouldn't be so remarkable," smiled the man. "Watts, himself is a genius--for inventing excuses to rest."

"How is the sick man?" asked Patty. "The one you went to see, over on Big Porcupine, wasn't it?"

"Yes, old man Samuelson. Fine old fellow--Samuelson. I sure hope he'll pull through. Doc Mallory came while I was there, and he told me he's got a good fighting chance. And a fighting chance is all that old fellow asks--even against pneumonia. He's a man!"

"I wonder if there is anything I could do?" asked the girl.

Christie's face brightened. "Why, yes, if you would. It's a long ride from here--thirty miles or so. There's nothing you could take them, they're very well fixed--capital Chinese cook and all that. But I've an idea that just the fact that you called would cheer them immensely.

They lost a daughter years ago who would be about your age, I think.

They've got a son, but he's up in Alaska, or some place where they can't reach him. Decidedly I think it would do those old people a world of good. You'll find Mrs. Samuelson different from----"

"Ma Watts?" interrupted Patty.

The man laughed, "Yes, from Ma Watts. Although she's a well meaning soul. She's going over and 'stay a spell' with the Samuelsons, just as soon as she can 'fix to go.' Mrs. Samuelson is a really superior old lady, refined and lovable in every way. You'll like her immensely. I'm sure. And I know she will enjoy you."

"Thank you," Patty bowed elaborately. "Poor thing, she must be frightfully lonely."

"Yes. Of course, the neighbors do all they can. But neighbors are few and far between. Vil Holland has been over a couple of times, and Jack Pierce stopped work right in the middle of his upland haying to go to town for some medicine. I tell you, Miss Sinclair, a person soon learns who's who in the mountains."

Christie pushed back his chair. "I must be going. I hate to hurry off, but I want to see Vil and caution him to have an eye on the old man's stock--you see, there are some shady characters in the hills, and old man Samuelson runs horses as well as cattle. It is very possible they may decide to get busy while he is laid up.

"By the way, Miss Sinclair, may I ask if you are making satisfactory headway in your own enterprise?"

Patty shook her head. "No. I'm afraid I'm making no headway at all.

Sometimes, I think--I'm afraid--" she stumbled for words.

"Is there anything in the world I can do to help you?" asked the man, eagerly. "If there is, just mention it. I knew your father, and admired him very much. I'm satisfied he made a strike, and I do hope you can locate it."

The girl shook her head. "No, nothing, thank you," she answered and then suddenly looked up, "That is--wait, maybe there is something----"

"Name it." Christie waited eagerly for her to speak.

"It just occurred to me--maybe you could help me--find a school."

"A school!"

"Yes, a school to teach. You see, I have used nearly all my money. By the end of next month it will be gone, and I must get a job." The man noticed that the girl was doing her best to meet the situation bravely.

"Indeed I will help you!" he exclaimed. "In fact, I think I can right now promise that whenever you get ready to accept it, there will be a position waiting."

"Even if it is only a country school--just so I can make enough money this winter to come back next summer."

"I couldn't think of letting a country school get you. We need you right in town. You see, I happen to be president of the school board, and if I were to let a perfectly good teacher get away, I'd deserve to lose my job." Stepping to the door, he whistled shrilly, and a moment later the piebald cayuse trotted to his side. When the horse stood saddled and bridled, the man turned to Patty: "Oh, about the Samuelsons--do you know how to get to Big Porcupine?"

Patty shook her head. "No, but I guess I can find it."

"Give me a pencil and a piece of paper, and I'll show you in a minute." Leaning over the table, the man sketched rapidly upon the paper. "We'll say this is the Watts ranch, and mark it R. That's our starting point. Then you follow down the creek to the ford--here, at F. Then, instead of following the trail, you turn due east, and follow up a little creek about ten miles. This arrow pointing upward means up the creek. When you come to a sharp pinnacle that divides your valley--we'll mark that [^] so--you take the right hand branch, and follow it to the divide. That leads, let's see, southeast--we'll mark it S. E. 3 to D; it runs about three miles to the divide which you cross. Then you follow down another creek four or five miles until it empties into Big Porcupine, 4 E. to P., and from there it's easy. Just turn up Porcupine, pa.s.s Jack Pierce's ranch, and about five miles farther on you come to Samuelson's. Do you get it?"

Patty watched every move of the pencil, as she listened to the explanation.

And when, a few moments later, the big "Bishop of All Outdoors" crossed the ford and rode out of sight up the coulee that led to the trampled notch in the hills, she threw herself down at the table and with eyes big with excitement, drew her father's map from its silk envelope and spread it out beside Christie's roughly sketched one. "What a fool I am not to have guessed that those letters must stand for the points of the compa.s.s!" she cried. "It ought to be plain as day, now." Carefully, she read the cabalistic line at the bottom of the map. "SC 1 S 1 1/2 E 1 S [up arrow] to [union symbol] 2 W to a. to b. Stake L. C. [zigzag symbol] center." Her brow drew into a puzzled frown "SC," she repeated. "S stands for south, but what does SC mean? SW or SE would be southwest, or southeast, but SC--?"

She glanced at the other map. "Let's see, Mr. Christie's first letter is R--that stands for Watts' Ranch. SC must represent daddy's starting point, of course! But, SC? Let's see, South Corner--south corner of _what?_ I wish he'd put his letters right on the map like this one, instead of all in a row at the bottom, then I might figure out what he was driving at. SC, SC, SC, SC," she repeated over and over again, until the letters became a mere jumble of meaningless sounds. "S must stand for South," she insisted, "and C could stand for creek, or cave, only there are no caves around here that I've seen, or camp--South Camp--that don't do me any good, I don't know where any of his camps were. And he'd hardly say Creek, that would be too indefinite. Let's see, C--cottonwood--south cottonwood--short cottonwood, scarred cottonwood, well if I have to hunt these hills over for a short cottonwood or a scarred cottonwood, when there are millions of both, I might better keep on hunting for the crack in the rock wall."

For a long time she sat staring at the paper. "If I could only get the starting point figured out, the rest would be easy. It says one mile south, one and one half miles east, one mile south, then the arrowhead pointing up, must mean up a creek or a mountain to something that looks like an inverted horseshoe, then, two miles west to a. to b.

whatever a. and b. are. There are no letters on the map, then it says to stake L. C.--L. C., is lode claim, at least, I know that much, and it can be 1500 feet long along the vein, and 300 feet each way from the center. But what does he mean by the wiggly looking mark before the word center? I guess it isn't going to be quite as easy as it looks," she concluded, "even when I know that the letters stand for the points of the compa.s.s. If I could only figure out where to start from I could find my way at least to the a. b. part--and that would be something.

"Anyway, I know how to make a map, now, and that is just exactly what I needed to know in order to set my trap for the prowler who is continually searching this cabin. It's all ready but the map, and I may as well finish up the job to-day as any time." From the pocket of her shirt she drew a photograph and examined it critically. "It looks a good deal like the close-up of one of daddy's," she said approvingly, "and it certainly looks as if it might have been carried for a year." Returning the picture to her pocket, she folded the preacher's map with her father's and replaced them in the envelope, then making her way to the coulee, extracted from the tin can two or three of her father's ore samples. These, together with a light miner's pick, she placed in an empty flour sack which she secured to her saddle and struck out northwestward into the hills.

At the top of the first divide she stopped, carefully studied the back trail, and producing paper and pencil made a rough sketch which she marked 1 NW. She rode on, mapping her trail and adding letters and figures to denote distance and direction.

Her continued scrutiny of the back trail satisfied her that she was not followed. Two hours brought her to her journey's end, a rock wall some seven miles from her cabin. Producing the photograph, she verified the exact location, and with her pick, proceeded to stir up the ground and loose rocks at the base of the ledge. For an hour she worked steadily, then carefully replaced the dirt and small fragments, taking care to leave the samples from her sack where they would appear to have been tossed with the other fragments. Indicating the spot by a dot on the photograph she rode back to her cabin and spent the entire afternoon covering sheets of paper with trail maps, and letters, and figures, in an endeavor to produce a sketch that would pa.s.s as a prospector's hastily prepared field map. At last she produced several that compared favorably with her father's and taking a blank leaf from an old notebook she found in the pack sack, drew a very creditable rough sketch.

"Now, for putting in the letters and figures," she said, as she held the paper up for inspection. "Let's see, where would daddy have started from? Watts's ranch, maybe, or he could have started from here. This cabin was here then, and that would make it seem all the more reasonable that I should have chosen this for my home. C stands for cabin, or, let's see, what did they call this place. The sheep camp, here goes SC--Why! SC--SC! That's the starting point on daddy's map! And here I sat right in this chair and nearly went crazy trying to figure out what SC meant! And, if it weren't so late, I'd start right out now to find my mine! If it weren't for that a. b. part I could ride right to it, and snap my fingers at the prowler. But, it may take me a long time to blunder onto the meaning of these letters, and anyway, I want to know 'who's who,' as Mr. Christie says." She continued her work, and a half-hour later examined the result critically. "SC 1 NW 1 N [up arrow] to [union symbol] 2 E to a. Stake L. C.

center at dot," she read, "and just to make it easier for him, I put the a. down on the map." With a sigh of satisfaction the girl carefully placed the new map and photograph in the silk envelope, and placing the others in the pocket of her shirt, fastened it with a pin.

Whereupon, she gathered up all the practice sketches and burned them.

Glancing out of the window, she saw Microby Dandeline approaching the cabin, her dejected old Indian pony, ears a-flop, placing one foot before the other with the extreme deliberation that characterized his every movement. Patty smiled as her eyes took in the details of the grotesque figure; the old harness bridle with patched reins and one blinder dangling, the faded gingham sunbonnet hanging at the back of the girl's neck, held in place by the strings knotted tightly beneath her chin, the misshapen calico dress caught over the saddle-horn in a manner that exposed the girl's bare legs to the knees, and the thick bare feet pressed uncomfortably into the chafing rope stirrups--truly, a grotesque, and yet, Patty frowned--a pitiable figure, too. The pony halted before the door, and Patty greeted the girl who scrambled clumsily to the ground.

"Well, well, if it isn't Microby Dandeline! You haven't been to see me lately. The last time you were here I was not at home."

"Hit wasn't me."