Two Wyoming Girls and Their Homestead Claim Part 15

Jessie laid a brown little hand on my shoulder, checking the torrent of my eloquence; she laid her cheek against my own for a pa.s.sing instant.

"That's all easily answered, Leslie dear. The some one that you describe is the soul of a house. When a house has the misfortune not to have such an one in it, it has no soul; the other members are merely forms, moving forms, with impulses."

I knew that she meant to compliment me, but I would not appear to know it.

"I suppose, then," I returned, with affected resentment, "that I am a form with impulses. One of the impulses just now is to eat breakfast."

"Me hundry; me eat breakfuss, too," proclaimed a shrill, familiar voice at my elbow. I had already taken my seat at the table.

"Eat your breakfast, Leslie," said Jessie; "I'll dress Ralph. After breakfast, perhaps, I had better go with you after the cows?" She spoke with some hesitation. As a matter of fact, she does not begin to know the cattle trails as I know them.

"No," I said; "I'll go alone, Jessie; I can find them much quicker than you could."

"They may not have gone far." Jessie advanced this proposition hopefully.

"Far enough, I'll warrant. I believe there's nothing that a cow likes so well as to chase around on a morning like this; especially if she thinks some one is hunting for her."

"You can take one of the horses--" Jessie began, and, in the irritated state of my mind, it was some satisfaction to be able to promptly veto that proposition.

"Oh, no, indeed! I shall have to go on foot. It seems you turned them out to pasture last night. I think you must have forgotten how hard it is to catch either of the horses when they are both let out at once."

My sister had the grace to blush slightly, which consoled me a good deal. I hoped that, either as a soul or a form with impulses, she remembered that father or Joe had never made a practice of letting both horses out at once. When one was in the barn, his mate in the pasture could be easily caught. Otherwise, the catching was a work of labor and of pain. Once, indeed, when both had been inadvertently turned out together, father had been obliged to hire a cowboy to come with his lariat and rope Jim, the princ.i.p.al offender. When Jim, with the compelling noose about his neck, had been led ignominiously back to the stable, father had told us never to let them out together again, a warning that Jessie evidently recalled now for the first time.

"Dear me, Leslie! I'm dreadfully sorry!" she exclaimed, lifting Ralph into his high chair; "I just meant to save a little work, and I guess I've brought on no end of it!"

"Perhaps not; we'll leave the barn door open. It's so cold that they may go in of their own accord after a while." And that was what they did do, along in the afternoon, when it was quite too late for them to be of any service that day.

My hasty breakfast finished, I got up from the table. "I am going right away, Jessie; it will never do to let the cows lie out all day."

"No," Jessie a.s.sented. She was waiting on Ralph. I had thrown the mackintosh over a chair near the stove. I had had enough of that, but I must wear something. Picking up the big felt hat, I went into the next room and looked into a closet where a number of garments were hanging. Back in the corner, partially hidden under some other clothing, I caught a glimpse of a worn gray coat--the coat that father had loaned Joe on that fatal morning months ago. The rain dashed fiercely against the window panes as it had on that morning, too, and the sad, dull day seemed to grow sadder and grayer. With a sudden, homesick longing for father's love and sympathy, I took down the coat.

Tears sprang to my eyes at sight of the big, aggressive patch on the left sleeve. Father had praised me for that bit of clumsy workmanship at which Jessie had laughed. I resolved to wear the coat. "I shall feel as if father were with me," I thought, as I slipped it on. Going out at the front door I did not again encounter Jessie, but as I pa.s.sed the kitchen windows I saw her glance up and look at me with a startled air.

It was still raining heavily and I started out on a fast walk.

Crossing the foot-bridge below the house I ascended the hill on the other side. The cattle always crossed the river without the aid of the foot-bridge, however, and took this route to the upper range, where they were pretty sure to be now. I hoped that the pursuit would not lead me far among the hills. While thus in the open the situation was not unpleasant; I rather enjoyed the feeling of the rain drops in my face. Just as I gained the crest of the hill beyond the river I heard some one shouting, and, looking back, saw Jessie. She was out in the yard in the rain calling and waving the ap.r.o.n that she had s.n.a.t.c.hed off for the purpose. With the noise of the rain and the rushing river it was impossible to make out what she was saying. I was sure, though, that she merely wished to remonstrate with me for not wearing the mackintosh. I waved my hand to let her know that I saw her, and then hurried on down the farther slope of the hill. I walked fast for a long distance without coming upon any trace of the cattle, and then I fell gradually into the slower pace that is meant for staying. As I did so my thoughts again reverted to the money-counting problem that had vexed me over night. In the re-a.s.suring light of day it did not seem so entirely probable that Jessie had been so mistaken in her count, and it did not so much matter that I had forgotten after all to ask her where the money was kept.

CHAPTER XVII

A QUEER BANK

In spite of obliterating rain, there were plenty of fresh cattle tracks along and by the side of the trail. It did not necessarily follow that any of the tracks were made by our cattle, still, they might have been, and with this slight encouragement, I hurried along, getting gradually higher, and deeper into the mountains. As I went I reflected bitterly on the perversity of cow nature. A nature that leads these gentle seeming creatures to endure hunger, thirst, and weariness, to push for miles into a trackless wilderness, if by so doing they can put their owners to trouble and expense. It was not often that our cattle ranged so far away from home, and it was with a little unconfessed feeling of dismay that, pausing to take stock of my surroundings, I suddenly discovered that I was close upon the Hermit's cave, and no signs of the strays yet. At the same time I made another discovery as comforting as this was disquieting. Guard, whom I had forgotten to invite to accompany me, was skulking along in the underbrush beside the trail, uncertain whether to show himself or not.

When I spoke to him he bounded to my side. "Guard," I said, looking down at him thoughtfully, "it's raining harder than ever, and the wind is blowing; now that you are with me, I think we will just stop in the cave until the storm abates a little." Guard's bushy tail was wet and heavy with rain, but he wagged it approvingly, and toward the cave we started. There was a green little valley over the ridge, and I resolved when the storm slackened, to climb up and have a look into it. If the cattle were not there I should be compelled to give over the hunt for that day.

A sudden lull in the storm was followed by a blacker sweep of clouds and a resounding peal of thunder, the prelude to a pitiless burst of hail-stones. Pelted by the stinging missiles, and gasping for breath as I struggled against the rising wind, I made for the cave with Guard close at my heels, and dashed into the gloomy cavern without a thought of anything but shelter.

The entrance to the cave was merely a large opening in a pile of rocks close beside the cattle trail, and the cave itself was famous throughout the valley solely because of its imagined history and its actual equipment. Because of its nearness to the trail there was little danger of its becoming a lair for wild beasts. People said that the spot had been the dwelling place of a man, educated and wealthy, who had chosen to live and die alone in the wilderness. How they came to know this was never quite clear, for the furnishing of the cave was there, offering its mute history to the first venturesome hunter who had penetrated these wilds years and years ago, just as it was offered to the curious to-day. The educational theory could probably be traced to the torn and yellowing fragments of a book that lay on the rude table opposite the cavern entrance. How many inquisitive fingers had turned its baffling pages, how many curious eyes had vainly scanned them in the course of the slow moving years in which the cavern held its secret? The book was written in a language quite unknown to us simple folk. For the theory of wealth the rusty, crumbling old flint-lock musket, leaning against the wall beside the table, was silver mounted and heavily chased. Beside the table was a rude bench made from a section of sawed pine. That was all, but impressive legends have been handed down, from one generation to another, on less foundation than the cave furnished to our valley romanticists. It was not even odd to us that no one in all these years had stolen or desecrated the pathetic mementos of a vanished life. People on the frontier have a great respect--a respect not necessarily enforced with lock and key--for the belongings of another. The mountings of the gun were of solid silver, but I doubt if even Mr. Horton could have justified himself to himself in taking it. I had been in the place once or twice and had turned over the untelling leaves with reverent fingers, but I had never felt any inclination to linger within the gloomy walls; the sunlight on the cattle trail outside had greater allurements, but now, beaten by the hail, I rushed in headlong, and in doing so nearly fell over the body of a man lying outstretched on the stone floor, just within the entrance. The man was evidently sleeping, and very soundly, for my tumultuous rush roused him so little that he merely turned on one side, sighed, and again relapsed into deepest slumber. I stood in my tracks, trembling, undecided whether to dash out into the storm or run the risk of remaining in the cavern. The fierce rattle of the hail beating on the rocks outside decided me to do the latter. Noiselessly, step by step, I stole backward into the darkness of the cavern. My backward progress was checked at last by the corner of the table against which I brought up. I glanced down at it. It was laden with a regular cowboy equipment of spurs, quirt, revolver, cartridge-belt, and the too common accompaniment of a bottle of whiskey. If the sleeping man on the floor were called on to defend himself for any cause he need not suffer for want of ammunition. I had less fear of his awakening since seeing the half-emptied bottle, but far greater fear of what he might do when he did awake.

Surely, there never was a wiser dog than Guard! He had not made a sound since our entrance, although he had certainly c.o.c.ked a disdainful eye at the rec.u.mbent figure on the floor as we pa.s.sed it. Now, in obedience to the warning of my uplifted finger, he crept silently to my side. He watched my movements with an air of intelligent comprehension as I quietly took possession of the bottle, revolver, and cartridge-belt, and then followed me without a sound as I stole breathlessly into the deepest recess of the cavern. The rocky roof sloped down over this recess, until, at its farthest extremity, there was scarcely room for a person to crouch under it, close to the wall, and it was so dark that I could barely make out the form of the dog crouching beside me. Safe hidden in the darkness, I determined to rid the sleeping man of at least one of his enemies. Pulling the cork from the bottle, I poured its contents on the rocks, thereby, as I found, running imminent risk of a sneeze from Guard, who rolled his head from side to side in distress as the pungent liquor penetrated his nostrils. The danger pa.s.sed, luckily, without noise. We crouched in perfect silence, waiting for the hail-storm to pa.s.s. It was too violent to be of long duration, yet I could not tell, after some minutes of anxious listening, when it ceased, for the hail was followed by a fresh deluge of rain. It was comfortable in the cavern--warm and dry. The man, as his regular breathing testified, slept soundly, and I thought, while I waited, that I, too, might as well make myself easy. Softly pulling off the wet coat, I turned the dryest side outward, and, rolling it into a compact bundle, placed it under my head for a pillow. With the sleeper's armament between myself and the rock at my back, with Guard vigilantly alive to any motion of anything, inside the cavern or out, I felt entirely safe, and wearily closed my eyes. It was pleasant lying there so sheltered and guarded, to listen to the heavy rush of the rain--or was it hail?--or the far-heard cry of wolves, or the rushing swirl of the river. I had not slept well the night before, but I could not have been asleep many minutes when I was awakened by a low growl from Guard. Brief as my nap had been, it was, nevertheless, so sound that at first I was bewildered and unable to recall what had happened. I started up quickly, b.u.mping my head against the rocky roof, and so effectually recalling my scattered senses and the necessity for caution.

The sleeping cowboy had also awakened and was wandering aimlessly about the cavern. He was muttering to himself, and his incoherent talk soon told me that he was in anxious quest of the bottle that I was at that moment sitting upon.

The sound of his own voice had, apparently, drowned that of Guard's.

Seeing this I put one hand on that attendant's collar and shook the other threateningly in his face. He had been standing up, but sat down, with, I was sure from the very feel of his fur, a most discontented expression. In the silence the stranger's plaint made itself distinctly audible:

"Leff' 'em on a table; 'n' whar is they at now? Reckon I must 'a' been locoed, or, like 'nuff that ar ole hermutt's done played a trick on me. S'h'd think he'd have more principle than t' play a trick on a pore feller what's jest stopped t' rest in his hole for a few hours."

He overturned the bench to peer inquiringly at the place where it had stood, then, straightening himself as well as he could--which was not very well--he looked slowly around the cavern. "It stan's to reason,"

he muttered thoughtfully, "that if airy one had come in whilst I was asleep I'd 'a' woke up, so the hermutt must 'a' done it. What a ghost kin want of a gun beats me, too! Why in thunderation didn't he take his ole flint-lock, if he was wantin' a gun so mighty bad, instead of sneakin' back t' rob a pore feller in his sleep! I wonder if the ole thing is loaded, anyway. There's a pair of eyes shinin' back yon in the corner; I ain't afeared of 'em, but I wisht he'd 'a' left my gun.

Who's agoin' t' draw a bead on a pair of eyes in the dark with a ole flint-lock that you have to build a bonfire around before the powder'll take fire?"

Clearly, as his drunken muttering told, he had caught the gleam of Guard's angry eyes, yet, it was evident, as he had said, that he was not at all afraid. Wild beast or tame, it was all one to him, that I well knew, for now that he was on his feet, and standing in the shaft of pale light streaming in at the cavern entrance, I recognized him as Big Jim.

Big Jim was a cowboy with a more than local fame for reckless daring, as well as for his unfortunate appet.i.te for strong drink. I had seen him but once before, but I had been able on that occasion to render him a slight service. It did not seem to me, however, as I crouched trembling under the rock, watching his irresponsible movements, that the memory of that service would aid my cause with him just now, even if I were daring enough to recall it. People said that Big Jim never forgave any one who came between him and his whiskey bottle. Recalling this gossip, as the man staggered toward the corner where the rusty old musket stood, I decided that it was time to act. The flint-lock, even if loaded, would probably be as harmless in his incapable hands as any other iron rod, but under the circ.u.mstances it did not look particularly safe to linger.

As the man's back was turned I sprang suddenly to my feet. "Seek him, Guard! Take him!" I cried, and Guard literally obeyed. Startled and sobered by the sound of a voice, Big Jim whirled around, facing the direction whence the voice came, to be met by the dog's fierce charge.

Guard's leap was so impetuous that the man staggered under it, and, losing his balance, fell to the floor. Guard fastened his teeth in the skirt of his coat as he fell. There was a momentary struggle on the floor. While it was taking place I darted out of the cavern, revolver, cartridge-belt, and even the empty whiskey bottle in my hands. Safely outside, I halted, and with what little breath I had left whistled for Guard. A load was off my heart when the dog came bounding to my side, none the worse for his brief encounter with an unarmed cowboy.

I had hoped to get out of sight before Big Jim discovered me, but he came out of the cavern on Guard's heels. Evidently quite sobered, he stopped when he saw me. He glanced at the armament in my hands, at the empty bottle, and, lifting his hat with its great flapping brim, scratched his head in perplexity. It was still raining, a fact which Big Jim seemed suddenly to discover.

"Wet, ain't it?" he observed.

"Rain is usually wet," I informed him, with unnecessary explicitness.

"Yes, I reckon 'tis. Say, that's my bottle you've got in your hands."

"So I supposed."

"You're welcome to the whiskey--I see it's gone, and 'tis a good thing to take off a chill--when a body gets wet--but I'd like the bottle again."

"I am going to put the bottle and the revolver and the belt in the hollow of the big pine near the lower crossing. You can get them there."

"Oh, ain't you goin' t' give 'em to me now?"

"No, I am not."

"'Fraid of me, I reckon."

"Yes, I am."

"I won't hurt you, Miss Leslie Gordon. I remember you first-rate. Got that little white handkercher that you done up my hand in the day I burned it so at the Alton camp yet."

"You might not hurt me, but I think you would hurt my dog."

"Yes, Miss Gordon, I'm 'bleeged t' say that if I had a shootin' iron in my hands jest now I'd be mighty glad t' let daylight through that dog o' yourn. He's too fractious t' live in the same country as a white man."

I grasped the revolver tighter. "How came you in the cavern?"