The Young Surveyor Part 14

Jack laughed, and started to go through the buckwheat. He had got about half-way, when a hen rose a few feet from him, at his right. He was not much accustomed to shooting on the wing; and it is much harder to hit birds rising suddenly, at random, in that way, than when they are started by a trained dog. But good luck made up for what he lacked in skill; and at his fire the hen dropped fluttering in the gra.s.s that bordered the buckwheat.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SHOT ON THE WING.]

"I'll pick her up!" cried Link; and he ran to do so; while Wad carried Jack the powder and shot for another load.

"But I ought not to use up your ammunition in this way!" Jack protested.

"I guess you can afford to," replied Wad. "It was mostly bought with money we sold that fawn-skin for."

Jack was willing enough to try another shot; and, the piece reloaded, he resumed his tramp.

He had nearly reached the fence, when a bird rose between it and him, and flew over Peakslow's pasture. Jack had brought the gun to his shoulder, and was about to pull the trigger, when he remembered Peakslow's horses, and stopped to give a hasty glance over the fence.

Down went the gun, and Jack stood astonished, the bird forgotten, and his eyes fixed on an object beyond.

What Wad said of their neighbor having brought out a new horse from Chicago, together with what the captain of the Heron said of one of Peakslow's span being a light roan, rushed through his thoughts. He ran up to the fence, and looked eagerly over; then gave a shout of joy.

After all his futile efforts to find him,--chasing about the country, offering rewards, scattering hand-bills,--there was the lost horse, the veritable Snowfoot, grazing quietly in the amiable Mr. Peakslow's pasture!

CHAPTER XIV.

SNOWFOOT'S NEW OWNER.

Jack left the gun standing by the fence, leaped over, gave a familiar whistle, and called, "Come, Snowfoot! Co' jock! co' jock!"

There were two horses feeding in the pasture, not far apart. But only one heeded the call, lifted head, p.r.i.c.ked up ears, and answered with a whinny. It was the lost Snowfoot, giving unmistakable signs of pleasure and recognition, as he advanced to meet his young master.

Jack threw his arms about the neck of his favorite, and hugged and patted and I don't know but kissed him; while the Betterson boys went up to the fence and looked wonderingly over.

In a little while, as they did not venture to go to him, Jack led Snowfoot by the forelock up to the rails, which they had climbed for a better view.

"Is he your horse?" they kept calling to him.

"Don't you see?" replied Jack, when he had come near enough to show the white feet and the scars; and his face gleamed with glad excitement.

"Look! he and the dog know each other!"

It was not a Betterson, but a Peakslow style of fence, and Lion could not leap it; but the two animals touched noses, with tokens of friendly recognition, between the rails.

"I never expected such luck!" said Jack. "I've not only found my horse, but I've saved the reward offered."

"You haven't got him yet," said Rufe. "I guess Peakslow will have something to say about that."

"What he says won't make much difference. I've only to prove property, and take possession. A stolen horse is the owner's, wherever he finds him. But of course I'll act in a fair and open way in the matter; I'll go and talk with Peakslow, and if he's a reasonable man--"

"Reasonable!" interrupted Wad. "He holds a sixpence so near to his eye, that it looks bigger to him than all the rest of the world; he can't see reason, nor anything else."

"I'll make him see it. Will you go and introduce me?"

"You'd better not have one of our family introduce you, if you want to get anything out of Dud Peakslow!" said Rufe. "We'll wait here."

Jack got over the fence, and walked quickly along on the Betterson side of it, followed by Lion, until he reached the road. A little farther down was a house; behind the house was a yard; and in the yard was a swarthy man with a high, hooked nose, pulling a wheel off a wagon, the axletree of which, on that side, was supported by a propped rail. Close by was a boy stirring some grease in a pot, with a long stick.

Jack waited until the man had got the wheel off and rested it against the wagon; then said,--

"Is this Mr. Peakslow?"

"That happens to be my name," replied the man, scarcely giving his visitor a glance, as he turned to take the stick out of the grease, and to rub it on the axletree.

The boy, on one knee in the dirt, holding the grease-pot to catch the drippings, looked up and grinned at Jack.

"I should like a few minutes' talk with you, Mr. Peakslow, when you are at leisure," said Jack, hardly knowing how to introduce his business.

"I'm at leisure now, much as I shall be to-day," said Mr. Peakslow with the air of a man who did not let words interfere with work. "I've got to grease this wagon, and then harness up and go to haulin'. I haven't had a hoss that would pull his share of a decent load till now. Tend to what you're about, Zeph!"

"I have called to say," remarked Jack as calmly as he could, though his heart was beating fast, "that there is a horse in your pasture which belongs to me."

The man straightened his bent back, and looked blackly at the speaker, while the grease dripped from the end of the stick.

"A hoss in my pastur' that belongs to you! What do ye mean by that?"

"Perhaps you haven't seen this handbill?" And Jack took the printed description of Snowfoot from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to the astonished Peakslow.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE AMIABLE MR. PEAKSLOW.]

"'Twenty dollars reward,'" he read. "'Stolen from the owner--a light, reddish roan hoss--white forefeet--scar low down on the near side, jest behind the shoulder--smaller scar on the off hip.' What's the meanin' of all this?" he said, glancing at Jack.

"Isn't it plain enough?" replied Jack, quietly standing his ground.

"That is the description of the stolen horse; the horse is down in your pasture."

"Do you mean to say _I_'ve stole your hoss?" demanded Peakslow, his voice trembling with pa.s.sion.

"Not by any means. He may have pa.s.sed through a dozen hands since the thief had him. All I know is, he is in your possession now."

"And what if he is?"

"Why, naturally a man likes to have what is his own, doesn't he? Suppose a man steals your horse; you find him after a while in my stable; is he your horse, or mine?"

"But how do I know but this is a conspyracy to cheat me out of a hoss?"

retorted Peakslow, looking again at the handbill, with a terrible frown.

"It may have all been cut and dried aforehand. You've your trap sot, and, soon as ever the animal is in my hands, ye spring it. How do I know the hoss is yourn, even if ye have got a description of him? Anybody can make a description of anybody's hoss, and then go and claim him.

Besides, how happens it a boy like you owns a hoss, anyway?"

In a few words Jack told his story, accounting at once for his ownership, and for the scars on the horse's side and hip.

"There are two other scars I can show you, under his belly. I didn't mention them in the handbill, because they are not noticeable, unless one is looking for them."