Two Wyoming Girls and Their Homestead Claim Part 14

"What?"

"The whistle of a locomotive engine; there it is again! How far off it seems!"

"Sound travels a long way over these plains; there's nothing to intercept it--but I didn't hear it."

"Listen. It will sound again, perhaps, when the train reaches another crossing. It must be way down on the Huerfano. There, didn't you hear that?"

"Yes; do keep still, Guard."

Guard, aroused from his nap, was sitting up and looking around with an occasional low growl.

"Seems to me that they must have railway crossings pretty thick down on the Huerfano," Jessie remarked, after a moment's silence. "That makes three whistles--if they are whistles--that we've heard within as many minutes."

"That's true, Jessie--I hadn't thought of that. It may not be an engine. It sounds louder, instead of diminishing as it would if--keep still, Guard! What in the world is the matter with you!"

For answer, Guard, with every hair on his back erect and standing up like the quills of a porcupine, got up, and wriggled himself under the seat on which we were sitting, making his way to the end of the wagon-box, where he stood with legs braced to keep himself steady, his chin resting on the edge of the tailboard, and his eyes fixed on the darkening roadway over which we had just pa.s.sed. Every now and then he gave a low, sullen growl, and, even from where we sat, and in the increasing gloom we could see that his white fangs were bared.

"How strangely Guard acts!" exclaimed Jessie, with a sudden catch in her voice, and a dawning fear of--she knew not what--in her eyes.

At that instant the sound that I had taken for the far-off, dying whistle of a locomotive, came again to my ears; nearer, more distinct, in increasing volume--a weird, melancholy call--a pursuing cry. The lines were in my hands, and at that instant the horses suddenly sprang forward, faster, faster, until their pace became a tearing run, and then some words of my own, spoken weeks before, flashed into my mind, bringing with them a mental illumination.

"There are wolves!" I had said. I was conscious of an effort to steady my voice, to keep it from shaking, as I thrust the lines into Jessie's hands. "Try to keep the horses in the road, Jessie; do not check them.

I am going back there by Guard."

"What for?" Jessie's tones were sharp with apprehension, and again, as if in explanation, came that pursuing chorus. I sprang over the back of the seat, and knelt in the bottom of the wagon-box, securing the rifle and cartridge-belt. Jessie, holding the lines firmly in either hand, shifted her position to look down on me. Her face gleamed white in the dusk as she breathed, rather than spoke: "Wolves, Leslie?"

"Yes." I had the gun now and staggered to my feet. "Watch the horses, Jessie." Jessie nodded.

Ralph, roused by the rapid motion, had awakened. He struggled to a sitting posture. "What for is us doin' so fas'?" he inquired, with interest.

Jessie made no reply, but she put one foot on his short skirt, holding him in place. Some intuition told him what was taking place, perhaps, what might take place. Clasping both chubby hands around Jessie's foot to steady himself, he sat in silence, making no complaint. The brave spirit within his baby body had risen to meet the crisis as gallantly as could that of any Gordon over whose head a score of years had pa.s.sed.

Reaching the end of the wagon, I crouched down beside Guard, with rifle poised and finger on the trigger, waiting for the pursuing outcry to resolve itself into tangible shape. I had not long to wait.

Dusky shadows came stealing out from either side of the roadway.

Shadows that, as I strained my eyes upon them, seemed to grow and multiply, until, in less time than it takes to tell it, we were close beset by a pack of wolves in full cry. The terrified horses were bounding along and the wagon was bouncing after them, at a rate that threatened momentarily to either shatter the wagon or set the horses free from it, but Jessie still kept them in the road. A moment more and the wolves were upon us, and had ceased howling; their quarry was at hand. I could see their eyes flaming in the darkness, and with the rifle muzzle directed toward a couple of those flaming points, I fired. There was a terrific clamor again as the report of the gun died away, and a score or more of our pursuers halted, sniffing at a fallen comrade. But one gaunt long-limbed creature disdained to stop for such a matter. He kept after the wagon. Guard was young and, moreover, this was his first experience with wolves. He had stopped growling, but his eyes seemed to dart fire, and as the wolf that had outstripped its mates sprang up, with gnashing teeth, hurling himself at the tailboard in a determined effort to spring into the wagon, Guard attempted to spring out and grapple with him. I was leaning against the dog, ready to meet the wolf's closer approach with a bullet, and, in consequence, I felt the impetus of his leap before he could accomplish it. The gun dropped from my hand with a crash as I threw both arms around Guard, intent on holding him in the wagon. I was so far successful that his leap was checked; he fell across the tailboard, his head and forelegs outside. My grip about his body tightened as I felt him slipping. I pulled back mightily, and had the satisfaction of tumbling backward with him into the wagon-box, but not before he had briefly sampled the wolf. The creature's savage head and cruel eyes appeared above the tailboard, even as I dragged at Guard, who, not to be deterred by my interference, made a vicious lunge at the enemy, and fell back with me, his mouth and throat so full of wolf-hair and hide that he was nearly strangled. But that particular wolf had drawn off. I regained my feet and admonished Guard: "Stay there, sir! Stay right there!" I gasped, and again secured the gun. The wolves, on each side of us now, were running close to the front wheels and to the galloping horses, and one was again trying to leap into the box from the rear. The rifle spoke, and he fell motionless on the road, at the same instant I heard Ralph saying, imperatively: "Do away! Do away I tells 'oo!" I looked around. Ralph was on his knees--no one could have kept footing in that wagon-box just then--a pair of wolves were leaping up wildly beside the near wheel, making futile springs and snaps at him, and just then he lifted something, some dark object from the bottom of the wagon-box, and hurled it at them with all the power of his baby hands.

Whatever the object was, its effect on the wolves was instantaneous.

The pack had not stopped to look at the wolf brought down by my second shot, but they all stopped, snarling and fighting over Ralph's missile. A few took on after us, and then Ralph threw another; they stopped again at that, and then I saw that the child was throwing out the game that Phillips had given us. With another command to Guard to remain where he was, I crept back to the pile of game yet remaining, and tossed out what was left. Then I crept on to Jessie.

"Can you slow the horses down?" I shouted in her ear. "The wolves will not follow us again; they have got what they were after."

The horses knew me, and by dint of much pulling and many soothing words I had them partially quieted, but it took so long to gain even that much control over them that the wolves were far out of sight and sound behind us when I at length ventured to look back. The horses were walking at last, but it was a walk so full of frightened starts and nervous glances that it threatened at any moment to break into a run. By the moonlight Jessie and I looked into each others' white faces, and, with Ralph cuddled between us, clung together for a breathless instant of thanksgiving. Then--"'Ose dogs was hundry,"

Ralph observed, philosophically, adding, as an afterthought: "Me hundry, too; is we mos' 'ome, 'Essie?"

"We'll be there soon," I answered, tremulously. We saw or heard nothing more of the wolves, which were of that cowardly species--a compromise between the skulking coyote and the savage gray wolf, known as "Loafers." A loafer very seldom attacks man, but he will, if numerous enough, run down and destroy cattle--sometimes horses. In this instance it was undoubtedly the scent of the game in the wagon that attracted them. Once attracted and bent on capture, they are as fiercely determined as their gray cousins, and but for the fortunate accident of Ralph's using a duck for a projectile they would have kept up the chase until the horses were exhausted, and they were able to help themselves.

It was after nine when we reached home, and never had home seemed a dearer or safer place. The ch.o.r.es all done, Ralph asleep in his little crib, and Guard sleeping the sleep of the just on the kitchen doorstep, Jessie and I sat down by the table to eat a belated supper, and count our hard-won gains. The melon crop was all sold, and it had netted us forty dollars.

CHAPTER XVI

A SLEEPLESS NIGHT

It was close upon the beginning of another day before Jessie and I got to bed, but, late as it was, I could not sleep.

Our pressing financial problem was so constantly in my thoughts that now, in my weariness, I found myself unable to dismiss it. We had collected some money, but not enough--not enough! I turned and tossed restlessly. Now that the time for proving up was so close at hand an increasing terror of failure grew upon me. It did not seem to me that I should be able to endure it if we were obliged to give up our home.

Forty dollars! In the stillness of the night that sum, as I reflected upon it, dwindled into insignificance. I reviewed all of our monetary transactions that I could think of, and, adding up the sum total, half convinced myself that we must have made a mistake in the counting that evening.

"I'm quite sure that there's more than forty dollars," I told myself, turning over my hot pillow in search of a cooler side, and giving it a vigorous shake. "I'm quite sure! There's the money for Mr. Horton's mending, that was forty cents; and Miss Jones's wrapper was two dollars; and that setting of eggs that I sold to Jennie Speers--I don't remember whether they were two dollars or only fifty cents. Oh, dear! And there was Cleo's calf; that was--I don't remember how much it was!"

The longer I remembered and added up, and remembered and subtracted, the less I really knew. By the time that my fifth reckoning had reduced our h.o.a.rd to twenty-seven dollars I would gladly have gotten up and counted the money again, but Jessie had it in charge and I did not know where she kept it. It was small consolation in the desperate state of uncertainty into which I had worked myself to reflect that I had only myself to blame for this. Being a somewhat imaginative young person, I had reasoned that if burglars were to break into the house and demand to know the whereabouts of our hidden wealth it might be possible for Jessie, who knew, to escape, taking her knowledge with her, while I, who did not know, might safely stand by that declaration. It was rather a far-fetched theory, but Jessie had willingly subscribed to it. If not actually apprehensive of robbery, she was, perhaps, more inclined to trust to her own quiet temper, in a case of emergency, than to my warmer one. At the same time she understood very well that I had an unusual talent for silence. It was this talent that induced me to stay my hand late that night just as I was on the point of rousing Jessie and asking her where she had put the money. She was sleeping soundly and she was very tired.

"I'll count it all over the first thing in the morning," I thought; and with the resolution, dropped off to sleep.

It was very late when I awoke. Ralph was still sleeping, but Jessie had risen, and was moving quietly about the house. Above the slight noise that she made I heard distinctly the pu-r--rr of falling water, and knew that it was raining heavily. With the knowledge, the recollection that Joe had gone came back to me with an unusual sense of aggravation. Joe had always done the milking, and it had not rained since he left. Dressing noiselessly, in order not to disturb Ralph, I went out into the kitchen. Jessie looked up as I entered. "I'll help you milk this morning, Leslie," she said. "It's too bad for you to have to putter around in the rain while I'm dry in the house."

"There's no use in our both getting wet," I returned, ungraciously.

"You'd much better finish getting breakfast and keep watch of Ralph.

If he were to waken and find us both gone he'd probably start out a relief expedition of one in any direction that took his fancy. He'd be glad of the chance to get out in the rain."

"Who would have thought of its raining so soon when we came home last night. There wasn't a cloud in sight."

"There's none in sight now; we're inside of one so thick that we can't see out. I dare say we'll encounter more than one rain-storm 'while the days are going by'; but it would be handy if Joe were here this morning."

"Yes, indeed! I only hope Joe's conscience acquits him, wherever he is."

"Oh, I am sure it does--if he has a conscience--for I suppose that's what you would call his feeling obliged to worry about us," I said, in quick defence of the absent friend whose actions I might secretly question, but of whom I could not bear that another should speak slightingly.

I put on my old felt hat and took up the milk-pail. Jessie was busy over something that she was cooking in a skillet on the stove, but she glanced up as I opened the door, and a dash of rain came swirling in.

"Why, Leslie Gordon! Are you going out in this storm dressed like that? Here, put on my mackintosh."

I had forgotten all about wraps, but a shawl or cape would have been better than the long mackintosh that Jessie insisted upon b.u.t.toning me into. It was too long; the skirts nearly tripped me up as I started to run down the path to the corral, and when I held it up it was little protection.

The corral where the cows were usually penned over-night was behind the barn. As I came in sight of it a feeling of almost despair swept over me. The corral bars were down, and the cows were gone! I hung the milk-pail bottom-side up on one of the bar posts. The raindrops played a lively tattoo on its resounding sides, while I dropped the mackintosh skirt, regardless of its trailing length, and stood still, trying to recollect that I had put up the bars after we had finished milking on the previous evening. Search my memory as I might, however, I could not find that I had taken this simple but necessary precaution, and, if I had forgotten it, it was useless to suppose that Jessie had not.

"It's just my negligence!" I remarked, scornfully, to my drenched surroundings; "just my negligence, and now I shall have to hunt for those cows, and in this rain that shuts everything out it will be like looking for a needle in a haymow."

I took down the pail, seeming to take down an entire chorus of singing water witches with it, and retraced my steps to the house. Even this simple act was performed with some difficulty, for again I stepped on the mackintosh and nearly fell.

"You've been very quick with the milking, and breakfast's all ready,"

Jessie remarked, cheerfully, as I entered, and then, catching sight of the empty pail, she exclaimed, "Why, what's the matter?"

When I told her, she said, reproachfully, "Leslie, of course I supposed that you would put up the bars after we had finished milking last night!"

I am afraid that I was cross as well as tired: "Why, 'of course,'

Jessie? Why is it, can you tell me, that there is always some one member of a family who is supposed, quite as a matter of course, to make good the short-comings and long-goings of all the others? To straighten out the domestic tangles, to remember, always remember, what the others forget; to be good-tempered when others are ill-tempered; to--"