THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF CAMPFIRE STORIES

[Illustration: THERE, STANDING KNEE-DEEP IN THE WATER, WAS THE BIGGESTAND BLACKEST MOOSE IN THE WORLD]

THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF CAMPFIRE STORIES

 EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES

BY

FRANKLIN K. MATHIEWS

 CHIEF SCOUT LIBRARIAN, BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA

PUBLISHED FOR

THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA

[Illustration]

 D. APPLETON-CENTURY COMPANY INCORPORATED NEW YORK 1933

 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY

 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

 All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission of the publishers. 

 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION

THE campfire for ages has been the place of council and friendship andstory-telling. The mystic glow of the fire quickens the mind, warms theheart, awakens memories of happy, glowing tales that fairly leap to thelips. The Boy Scouts of America has incorporated the "campfire" in itsprogram for council and friendship and story-telling. In one volume, the_Boy Scouts Book of Campfire Stories_ makes available to scoutmastersand other leaders a goodly number of stories worthy of their attention, and when well told likely to arrest and hold the interest of boys intheir early teens, when "stirs the blood--to bubble in the veins. "

At this time, when the boy is growing so rapidly in brain and body, hecan have no better teacher than some mighty woodsman. Now should bepresented to him stirring stories of the adventurous lives of men wholive in and love the out-of-doors. Says Professor George Walter Fiske:"Let him emulate savage woodcraft; the woodsman's keen, practicedvision; his steadiness of nerve; his contempt for pain, hardship and theweather; his power of endurance, his observation and heightened senses;his delight in out-of-door sports and joys and unfettered happiness withuntroubled sleep under the stars; his calmness, self-control, emotionalsteadiness; his utter faithfulness in friendships; his honesty, hispersonal bravery. "

The Editor likes to think that quite a few of the stories found in the_Boy Scouts Book of Campfire Stories_ present companions for the mindof this hardy sort, and hopes, whether boys read or are told thesestories, they will prove to be such as exalt and inspire while theythrill and entertain. 

CONTENTS

 CHAPTER PAGE INTRODUCTION v I. SILVERHORNS _Henry van Dyke_ 1 II. WILD HORSE HUNTER _Zane Grey_ 21 III. HYDROPHOBIC SKUNK _Irvin S. Cobb_ 90 IV. THE OLE VIRGINIA _Stewart Edward White_ 100 V. THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION _Rex Beach_ 108 VI. THAT SPOT _Jack London_ 140 VII. WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY _Irving Bacheller_ 155 VIII. THE END OF THE TRAIL _Clarence E. Mulford_ 180 IX. DEY AIN'T NO GHOSTS _Ellis Parker Butler_ 201 X. THE NIGHT OPERATOR _Frank L. Packard_ 218 XI. CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP _Ralph Connor_ 258 XII. THE STORY THAT THE KEG TOLD ME _Adirondack (W. H. H. ) Murray_ 275

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I. --Silverhorns[1]

_By Henry van Dyke_

THE railway station of Bathurst, New Brunswick, did not lookparticularly merry at two o'clock of a late September morning. There wasan easterly haze driving in from the Baie des Chaleurs and the darknesswas so saturated with chilly moisture that an honest downpour of rainwould have been a relief. Two or three depressed and somnolent travelersyawned in the waiting room, which smelled horribly of smoky lamps. Thetelegraph instrument in the ticket office clicked spasmodically for aminute, and then relapsed into a gloomy silence. The imperturbablestation master was tipped back against the wall in a wooden armchair, with his feet on the table, and his mind sunk in an old Christmas numberof the _Cowboy Magazine_. The express agent, in the baggage-room, wasgoing over his last week's waybills and accounts by the light of alantern, trying to locate an error, and sighing profanely to himself ashe failed to find it. A wooden trunk tied with rope, a couple of dingycanvas bags, a long box marked "Fresh Fish! Rush!" and two large leatherportmanteaus with brass fittings were piled on the luggage truck at thefar end of the platform; and beside the door of the waiting room, sheltered by the overhanging eaves, was a neat traveling bag, with a guncase and a rod case leaning against the wall. The wet rails glittereddimly northward and southward away into the night. A few blurred lightsglimmered from the village across the bridge. 

Dudley Hemenway had observed all these features of the landscape withsilent dissatisfaction, as he smoked steadily up and down the platform, waiting for the Maritime Express. It is usually irritating to arrive atthe station on time for a train on the Intercolonial Railway. Thearrangement is seldom mutual; and sometimes yesterday's train does notcome along until to-morrow afternoon. Moreover, Hemenway was inwardlydiscontented with the fact that he was coming out of the woods insteadof going in. "Coming out" always made him a little unhappy, whether hisexpedition had been successful or not. He did not like the thought thatit was all over; and he had the very bad habit, at such times, oflooking ahead and computing the slowly lessening number of chances thatwere left to him. 

"Sixty odd years--I may get to be that old and keep my shooting sight, "he said to himself. "That would give me a couple of dozen more campingtrips. It's a short allowance. I wonder if any of them will be morelucky than this one. This makes the seventh year I've tried to get amoose; and the odd trick has gone against me every time. "

He tossed away the end of his cigar, which made a little trail of sparksas it rolled along the sopping platform, and turned to look in throughthe window of the ticket office. Something in the agent's attitude ofliterary absorption aggravated him. He went round to the door and openedit. 

"Don't you know or care when this train is coming?"

"Nope, " said the man placidly. 

"Well, when? What's the matter with her? When is she due?"

"Doo twenty minits ago, " said the man. "Forty minits late down toMoocastle. Git here quatter to three, ef nothin' more happens. "

"But what has happened? What's wrong with the beastly old road, anyhow?"

"Freight car skipped the track, " said the man, "up to Charlo. Everythin'hung up an' kinder goin' slow till they git the line clear. Dunnonothin' more. "

With this conclusive statement the agent seemed to disclaim allresponsibility for the future of impatient travelers, and dropped hismind back into the magazine again. Hemenway lit another cigar and wentinto the baggage room to smoke with the expressman. It was nearly threeo'clock when they heard the far-off shriek of the whistle sounding upfrom the south; then, after an interval, the puffing of the engine onthe upgrade; then the faint ringing of the rails, the increasing clatterof the train, and the blazing headlight of the locomotive swept slowlythrough the darkness, past the platform. The engineer was leaning on onearm, with his head out of the cab window, and Hemenway nodded as hepassed and hurried into the ticket office, where the ticktack of aconversation by telegraph was soon under way. The black porter of thePullman car was looking out from the vestibule, and when he saw Hemenwayhis sleepy face broadened into a grin reminiscent of many generous tips. 

"Howdy, Mr. Hennigray, " he cried; "glad to see yo' ag'in, sah! I got yo'section all right, sah! Lemme take yo' things, sah! Train gwine to stophy'eh fo' some time yet, I reckon. "

"Well, Charles, " said Hemenway, "you take my things and put them in thecar. Careful with that gun now! The Lord only knows how much time thistrain's going to lose. I'm going ahead to see the engineer. "

Angus McLeod was a grizzle-bearded Scotchman who had run a locomotive onthe Intercolonial ever since the road was cut through the woods from NewBrunswick to Quebec. Every one who traveled often on that line knew him, and all who knew him well enough to get below his rough crust, likedhim for his big heart. 

"Hallo, McLeod, " said Hemenway as he came up through the darkness, "isthat you?"

"It's nane else, " answered the engineer as he stepped down from his caband shook hands warmly. "Hoo are ye, Dud, an' whaur hae ye beenmurderin' the innocent beasties noo? Hae ye kilt yer moose yet? Ye'vebeen chasin' him these mony years. "

"Not much murdering, " replied Hemenway. "I had a queer trip thistime--away up the Nepisiguit, with old McDonald. You know him, don'tyou?"

"Fine do I ken Rob McDonald, an' a guid mon he is. Hoo was it that yecouldna slaughter stacks o' moose wi' him to help ye? Did ye see nane atall?"

"Plenty, and one with the biggest horns in the world! But that's a longstory, and there's no time to tell it now. "

"Time to burrn, Dud, nae fear o' it! 'Twill be an hour afore the line'sclear to Charlo an' they lat us oot o' this. Come awa' up into the cab, mon, an' tell us yer tale. 'Tis couthy an' warm in the cab, an' I'mwillin' to leesten to yer bluidy advaintures. "

So the two men clambered up into the engineer's seat. Hemenway gaveMcLeod his longest and strongest cigar, and filled his own briar-woodpipe. The rain was now pattering gently on the roof of the cab. Theengine hissed and sizzled patiently in the darkness. The fragrant smokecurled steadily from the glowing tip of the cigar; but the pipe went outhalf a dozen times while Hemenway was telling the story of Silverhorns. 

"We went up the river to the big rock, just below Indian Falls. There wemade our main camp, intending to hunt on Forty-two Mile Brook. There'squite a snarl of ponds and bogs at the head of it, and some burned hillsover to the west, and it's very good moose country. 

"But some other party had been there before us, and we saw nothing onthe ponds, except two cow moose and a calf. Coming out the next morningwe got a fine deer on the old wood road--a beautiful head. But I haveplenty of deer heads already. "

"Bonny creature!" said McLeod. "An' what did ye do wi' it, when ye hadmurdered it?"

"Ate it, of course. I gave the head to Billy Boucher, the cook. He saidhe could get ten dollars for it. The next evening we went to one of theponds again, and Injun Pete tried to 'call' a moose for me. But it wasno good. McDonald was disgusted with Pete's calling; said it soundedlike the bray of a wild ass of the wilderness. So the next day we gaveup calling and traveled the woods over toward the burned hills. 

"In the afternoon McDonald found an enormous moose-track; he thought itlooked like a bull's track, though he wasn't quite positive. But then, you know, a Scotchman never likes to commit himself, except abouttheology or politics. "

"Humph!" grunted McLeod in the darkness, showing that the strike hadcounted. 

"Well, we went on, following that track through the woods, for an houror two. It was a terrible country, I tell you: tamarack swamps, andspruce thickets, and windfalls, and all kinds of misery. Presently wecame out on a bare rock on the burned hillside, and there, across aravine, we could see the animal lying down, just below the trunk of abig dead spruce that had fallen. The beast's head and neck were hiddenby some bushes, but the fore shoulder and side were in clear view, abouttwo hundred and fifty yards away. McDonald seemed to be inclined tothink that it was a bull and that I ought to shoot. So I shot, andknocked splinters out of the spruce log. We could see them fly. Theanimal got up quickly, and looked at us for a moment, shaking her longears; then the huge unmitigated cow vamoosed into the brush. McDonaldremarked that it was 'a varra fortunate shot, almaist providaintial!'And so it was; for if it had gone six inches lower, and the news gottenout at Bathurst, it would have cost me a fine of two hundred dollars. "

"Ye did weel, Dud, " puffed McLeod; "varra weel indeed--for the coo!"

"After that, " continued Hemenway, "of course my nerve was a littleshaken, and we went back to the main camp on the river, to rest overSunday. That was all right, wasn't it, Mac!"

"Aye!" replied McLeod, who was a strict member of the Presbyterianchurch at Moncton. "That was surely a varra safe thing to do. Even ahunter, I'm thinkin', wouldna like to be breakin' twa commandments inthe ane day--the foorth and the saxth!"

"Perhaps not. It's enough to break one, as you do once a fortnight whenyou run your train into Rivière du Loup Sunday morning. How's that, youold Calvinist?"

"Dudley, ma son, " said the engineer, "dinna airgue a point that ye cannaunderstond. There's guid an' suffeecient reasons for the train. Butye'll ne'er be claimin' that moose huntin' is a wark o' necessity ormaircy?"

"No, no, of course not; but then, you see, barring Sundays, we felt thatit was necessary to do all we could to get a moose, just for the sake ofour reputations. Billy, the cook, was particularly strong about it. Hesaid that an old woman in Bathurst, a kind of fortune teller, had toldhim that he was going to have 'la bonne chance' on this trip. He wantedto try his own mouth at 'calling. ' He had never really done it before. But he had been practicing all winter in imitation of a tame cow moosethat Johnny Moreau had, and he thought he could make the sound 'b'enbon. ' So he got the birch-bark horn and gave us a sample of his skill. McDonald told me privately that it was 'nae sa bad; a deal better thanPete's feckless bellow. ' We agreed to leave the Indian to keep the camp(after locking up the whisky flask in my bag), and take Billy with us onMonday to 'call' at Hogan's Pond. 

"It's a small bit of water, about three quarters of a mile long and fourhundred yards across, and four miles back from the river. There is notrail to it, but a blazed line runs part of the way, and for the restyou follow up the little brook that runs out of the pond. We stuck upour shelter in a hollow on the brook, half a mile below the pond, sothat the smoke of our fire would not drift over the hunting ground, andwaited till five o'clock in the afternoon. Then we went up to the pond, and took our position in a clump of birch trees on the edge of the openmeadow that runs round the east shore. Just at dark Billy began to call, and it was beautiful. You know how it goes. Three short grunts, and thena long ooooo-aaaa-ooooh, winding up with another grunt! It soundedlonelier than a love-sick hippopotamus on the house top. It rolled andechoed over the hills as if it would wake the dead. 

"There was a fine moon shining, nearly full, and a few clouds floatingby. Billy called, and called, and called again. The air grew colder andcolder; light frost on the meadow grass; our teeth were chattering, fingers numb. 

"Then we heard a bull give a short bawl, away off to the southward. Presently we could hear his horns knock against the trees, far up onthe hill. McDonald whispered, 'He's comin', ' and Billy gave anothercall. 

"But it was another bull that answered, back of the north end of thepond, and pretty soon we could hear him rapping along through the woods. Then everything was still. 'Call agen, ' says McDonald, and Billy calledagain. 

"This time the bawl came from another bull, on top of the western hill, straight across the pond. It seemed to start up the other two bulls, andwe could hear all three of them thrashing along, as fast as they couldcome, towards the pond. 'Call agen, a wee one, ' says McDonald, tremblingwith joy. And Billy called a little seducing call, with two grunts atthe end. 

"Well, sir, at that, a cow and a calf came rushing down through thebrush not two hundred yards away from us, and the three bulls wentsplash into the water, one at the south end, one at the north end, andone on the west shore. 'Land, ' whispers McDonald, 'it's a meenadgerie!'"

"Dud, " said the engineer, getting down to open the furnace door a crack, "this is mair than murder ye're comin' at; it's a buitchery--or elseit's juist a pack o' lees. "

"I give you my word, " said Hemenway, "it's all true as the catechism. But let me go on. The cow and the calf only stayed in the water a fewminutes, and then ran back through the woods. But the three bulls wentsloshing around in the pond as if they were looking for something. Wecould hear them, but we could not see any of them, for the sky hadclouded up, and they kept far away from us. Billy tried another shortcall, but they did not come any nearer. McDonald whispered that hethought the one in the south end might be the biggest, and he might befeeding, and the two others might be young bulls, and they might bekeeping away because they were afraid of the big one. This seemedreasonable; and I said that I was going to crawl around the meadow tothe south end. 'Keep near a tree, ' says Mac; and I started. 

"There was a deep trail, worn by animals, through the high grass; and inthis I crept along on my hands and knees. It was very wet and muddy. Myboots were full of cold water. After ten minutes I came to a littlepoint running out into the pond, and one young birch growing on it. Under this I crawled, and rising up on my knees looked over the top ofthe grass and bushes. 

"There, in a shallow bay, standing knee-deep in the water, and rootingup the lily stems with his long, pendulous nose, was the biggest andblackest bull moose in the world. As he pulled the roots from the mudand tossed up his dripping head I could see his horns--four and a halffeet across, if they were an inch, and the palms shining like tea traysin the moonlight. I tell you, old Silverhorns was the most beautifulmonster I ever saw. 

"But he was too far away to shoot by that dim light, so I left my birchtree and crawled along toward the edge of the bay. A breath of wind musthave blown across me to him, for he lifted his head, sniffed, grunted, came out of the water, and began to trot slowly along the trail whichled past me. I knelt on one knee and tried to take aim. A black cloudcame over the moon. I couldn't see either of the sights on the gun. Butwhen the bull came opposite to me, about fifty yards off, I blazed awayat a venture. 

"He reared straight up on his hind legs--it looked as if he rose fiftyfeet in the air--wheeled, and went walloping along the trail, around thesouth end of the pond. In a minute he was lost in the woods. Good-by, Silverhorns!"

"Ye tell it weel, " said McLeod, reaching out for a fresh cigar. "Fegs!Ah doot Sir Walter himsel' couldna impruve upon it. An, sae thot's theway ye didna murder puir Seelverhorrns? It's a tale I'm joyfu' to behearin'. "

"Wait a bit, " Hemenway answered. "That's not the end, by a long shot. There's worse to follow. The next morning we returned to the pond atday-break, for McDonald thought I might have wounded the moose. Wesearched the bushes and the woods where he went out very carefully, looking for drops of blood on his trail. "

"Bluid!" groaned the engineer. "Hech, mon, wouldna that come nigh tomak' ye greet, to find the beast's red bluid splashed over the leaves, and think o' him staggerin' on thro' the forest, drippin' the heart ooto' him wi' every step?"

"But we didn't find any blood, you old sentimentalist. That shot in thedark was a clear miss. We followed the trail by broken bushes andfootprints, for half a mile, and then came back to the pond and turnedto go down through the edge of the woods to the camp. 

"It was just after sunrise. I was walking a few yards ahead, McDonaldnext, and Billy last. Suddenly he looked around to the left, gave a lowwhistle and dropped to the ground, pointing northward. Away at the headof the pond, beyond the glitter of the sun on the water, the bigblackness of Silverhorns' head and body was pushing through the bushes, dripping with dew. 

"Each of us flopped down behind the nearest shrub as if we had beenplaying squat tag. Billy had the birch-bark horn with him, and he gave alow, short call. Silverhorns heard it, turned, and came parading slowlydown the western shore, now on the sand beach, now splashing through theshallow water. We could see every motion and hear every sound. Hemarched along as if he owned the earth, swinging his huge head from sideto side and grunting at each step. 

"You see, we were just in the edge of the woods, strung along the southend of the pond, Billy nearest the west shore, where the moose waswalking, McDonald next, and I last, perhaps fifteen yards farther tothe east. It was a fool arrangement, but we had no time to think aboutit. McDonald whispered that I should wait until the moose came close tous and stopped. 

"So I waited. I could see him swagger along the sand and step out aroundthe fallen logs. The nearer he came the bigger his horns looked; eachpalm was like an enormous silver fish fork with twenty prongs. Then hewent out of my sight for a minute as he passed around a little bay inthe southwest corner, getting nearer and nearer to Billy. But I couldstill hear his steps distinctly--slosh, slosh, slosh--thud, thud, thud(the grunting had stopped)--closer came the sound, until it was directlybehind the dense green branches of a fallen balsam tree, not twenty feetaway from Billy. Then suddenly the noise ceased. I could hear my ownheart pounding at my ribs, but nothing else. And of Silverhorns not hairnor hide was visible. It looked as if he must be a Boojum, and had thepower to 'softly and silently vanish away. '

"Billy and Mac were beckoning to me fiercely and pointing to the greenbalsam top. I gripped my rifle and started to creep toward them. Alittle twig, about as thick as the tip of a fishing rod, cracked undermy knee. There was a terrible crash behind the balsam, a plungingthrough the underbrush and a rattling among the branches, a lumberinggallop up the hill through the forest, and Silverhorns was gone into theinvisible. 

"He had stopped behind the tree because he smelled the grease onBilly's boots. As he stood there, hesitating, Billy and Mac could seehis shoulder and his side through a gap in the branches--a dead-easyshot. But so far as I was concerned, he might as well have been inAlaska. I told you that the way we had placed ourselves was a foolarrangement. But McDonald would not say anything about it, except toexpress his conviction that it was not predestinated we should get thatmoose. "

"Ah dinna ken ould Rob had sae much theology aboot him, " commentedMcLeod. "But noo I'm thinkin' ye went back to yer main camp, an' latpuir Seelverhorrns live oot his life?"

"Not much, did we! For now we knew that he wasn't badly frightened bythe adventure of the night before, and that we might get another chanceat him. In the afternoon it began to rain; and it poured for forty-eighthours. We covered in our shelter before a smoky fire, and lived on shortrations of crackers and dried prunes--it was a hungry time. "

"But wasna there slathers o' food at the main camp? Ony fule wad kenenough to gae doon to the river an' tak' a guid fill-up. "

"But that wasn't what we wanted. It was Silverhorns. Billy and I madeMcDonald stay, and Thursday afternoon, when the clouds broke away, wewent back to the pond to have a last try at turning our luck. 

"This time we took our positions with great care, among some smallspruces on a joint that ran out from the southern meadow. I was farthestto the west; McDonald (who had also brought his gun) was next; Billy, with the horn, was farthest away from the point where he thought themoose would come out. So Billy began to call, very beautifully. The longechoes went bellowing over the hills. The afternoon was still and thesetting sun shone through a light mist, like a ball of red gold. 

"Fifteen minutes after sundown Silverhorns gave a loud bawl from thewestern ridge and came crashing down the hill. He cleared the bushes twoor three hundred yards to our left with a leap, rushed into the pond, and came wading around the south shore toward us. The bank here wasrather high, perhaps four feet above the water, and the mud below it wasdeep, so that the moose sank in to his knees. I give you my word, as hecame along there was nothing visible to Mac and me except his ears andhis horns. Everything else was hidden below the bank. 

"There were we behind our little spruce trees. And there wasSilverhorns, standing still now, right in front of us. And all that Macand I could see were those big ears and those magnificent antlers, appearing and disappearing as he lifted and lowered his head. It was afearful situation. And there was Billy, with his birch-bark hooter, forty yards below us--he could see the moose perfectly. 

"I looked at Mac, and he looked at me. He whispered something aboutpredestination. Then Billy lifted his horn and made ready to give alittle soft grunt, to see if the moose wouldn't move along a bit, justto oblige us. But as Billy drew in his breath, one of those fool fliesthat are always blundering around a man's face flew straight down histhroat. Instead of a call he burst out with a furious, strangling fit ofcoughing. The moose gave a snort, and a wild leap in the water, andgalloped away under the bank, the way he had come. Mac and I both firedat his vanishing ears and horns, but of course----"

"All Aboooard!" The conductor's shout rang along the platform. 

"Line's clear, " exclaimed McLeod, rising. "Noo we'll be off! Wull yestay here wi' me, or gang awa' back to yer bed?"

"Here, " answered Hemenway, not budging from his place on the bench. 

The bell clanged, and the powerful machine puffed out on its flaring waythrough the night. Faster and faster came the big explosive breaths, until they blended in a long steady roar, and the train was sweepingnorthward at forty miles an hour. The clouds had broken; the night hadgrown colder; the gibbous moon gleamed over the vast and solitarylandscape. It was a different thing to Hemenway, riding in the cab ofthe locomotive, from an ordinary journey in the passenger car or anunconscious ride in the sleeper. Here he was on the crest of motion, atthe forefront of speed, and the quivering engine with the long trainbehind it seemed like a living creature leaping along the track. Itresponded to the labor of the fireman and the touch of the engineeralmost as if it could think and feel. Its pace quickened without a jar;its great eye pierced the silvery space of moonlight with a shaft ofblazing yellow; the rails sang before it and trembled behind it; it wasan obedient and joyful monster, conquering distance and devouringdarkness. 

On the wide level barrens beyond the Tête-á-Gouche River the locomotivereached its best speed, purring like a huge cat and running smoothly. McLeod leaned back on his bench with a satisfied air. 

"She's doin' fine, the nicht, " said he. "Ah'm thinkin', whiles, o' yerauld Seelverhorrns. Whaur is he noo? Awa' up on Higan' Pond, gallantin'around i' the licht o' the mune wi' a lady moose, an' the gladness juistbubblin' in his hairt. Ye're no sorry that he's leevin' yet, are ye, Dud?"

"Well, " answered Hemenway slowly, between the puffs of his pipe, "Ican't say I'm sorry that he's alive and happy, though I'm not glad thatI lost him. But he did his best, the old rogue; he played a good game, and he deserved to win. Where he is now nobody can tell. He wastraveling like a streak of lightning when I last saw him. By this timehe may be----"

"What's yon?" cried McLeod, springing up. Far ahead, in the narrow apexof the converging rails stood a black form, motionless, mysterious. McLeod grasped the whistle cord. The black form loomed higher in themoonlight and was clearly silhouetted against the horizon--a big moosestanding across the track. They could see his grotesque head, hisshadowy horns, high, sloping shoulders. The engineer pulled the cord. The whistle shrieked loud and long. 

The moose turned and faced the sound. The glare of the headlightfascinated, challenged, angered him. There he stood defiant, front feetplanted wide apart, head lowered, gazing steadily at the unknown enemythat was rushing toward him. He was the monarch of the wilderness. Therewas nothing in the world that he feared, except those strange-smellinglittle beasts on two legs who crept around through the woods and shotfire out of sticks. This was surely not one of those treacherousanimals, but some strange new creature that dared to shriek at him andtry to drive him out of its way. He would not move. He would try hisstrength against this big yellow-eyed beast. 

"Losh!" cried McLeod; "he's gaun' to fecht us!" and he dropped the cord, grabbed the levers, and threw the steam off and the brakes on hard. Theheavy train slid groaning and jarring along the track. The moose neverstirred. The fire smoldered in his small narrow eyes. His black crestwas bristling. As the engine bore down upon him, not a rod away, hereared high in the air, his antlers flashing in the blaze, and struckfull at the headlight with his immense fore feet. There was a shatteringof glass, a crash, a heavy shock, and the train slid on through thedarkness, lit only by the moon. 

Thirty or forty yards beyond, the momentum was exhausted and the enginecame to a stop. Hemenway and McLeod clambered down and ran back, withthe other trainmen and a few of the passengers. The moose was lying inthe ditch beside the track, stone dead and frightfully shattered. Butthe great head and the vast spreading antlers were intact. 

"Seelverhorrns, sure enough!" said McLeod, bending over him. "He wascrossin' frae the Nepisiguit to the Jacquet; but he didna get across. Weel, Dud, are ye glad? Ye hae kilt yer first moose!"

"Yes, " said Hemenway, "it's my first moose. But it's your first moose, too. And I think it's our last. Ye gods, what a fighter!"

FOOTNOTE:

[1] From _Days Off_. Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Usedby permission of the publishers. 

[Illustration]

II. --The Wild-Horse Hunter[2]

_By Zane Grey_

I

THREE wild-horse hunters made camp one night beside a little stream inthe Sevier Valley, five hundred miles, as a crow flies, from Bostil'sFord. 

These hunters had a poor outfit, excepting, of course, their horses. They were young men, rangy in build, lean and hard from life in thesaddle, bronzed like Indians, still-faced, and keen-eyed. Two of themappeared to be tired out, and lagged at the camp-fire duties. When themeager meal was prepared they sat, cross-legged, before a raggedtarpaulin, eating and drinking in silence. 

The sky in the west was rosy, slowly darkening. The valley floorbillowed away, ridged and cut, growing gray and purple and dark. Wallsof stone, pink with the last rays of the setting sun, inclosed thevalley, stretching away toward a long, low, black mountain range. 

The place was wild, beautiful, open, with something nameless that madethe desert different from any other country. It was, perhaps, aloneliness of vast stretches of valley and stone, clear to the eye, evenafter sunset. That black mountain range, which looked close enough toride to before dark, was a hundred miles distant. 

The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by the time thehunters finished the meal. Then the camp fire had burned low. One of thethree dragged branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire. Quicklyit flared up, with the white flame and crackle characteristic of drycedar. The night wind had risen, moaning through the gnarled, stuntedcedars near by, and it blew the fragrant wood smoke into the faces ofthe two hunters, who seemed too tired to move. 

"I reckon a pipe would help me make up my mind, " said one. 

"Wal, Bill, " replied the other, dryly, "your mind's made up, else you'dnot say smoke. "

"Why?"

"Because there ain't three pipefuls of thet precious tobacco left. "

"Thet's one apiece, then. . . . Lin, come an' smoke the last pipe withus. "

The tallest of the three, he who had brought the firewood, stood in thebright light of the blaze. He looked the born rider, light, lithe, powerful. 

"Sure, I'll smoke, " he replied. 

Then, presently, he accepted the pipe tendered him, and, sitting downbeside the fire, he composed himself to the enjoyment which hiscompanions evidently considered worthy of a decision they had reached. 

"So this smokin' means you both want to turn back?" queried Lin, hissharp gaze glancing darkly bright in the glow of the fire. 

"Yep, we'll turn back. An', Gee! the relief I feel!" replied one. 

"We've been long comin' to it, Lin, an' thet was for your sake, " repliedthe other. 

Lin slowly pulled at his pipe and blew out the smoke as if reluctant topart with it. "Let's go on, " he said, quietly. 

"No. I've had all I want of chasin' thet wild stallion, " returned Bill, shortly. 

The other spread wide his hands and bent an expostulating look upon theone called Lin. "We're two hundred miles out, " he said. "There's only alittle flour left in the bag. No coffee! Only a little salt! All thehosses except your big Nagger are played out. We're already in strangecountry. An' you know what we've heerd of this an' all to the south. It's all cañons, an' somewheres down there is thet awful cañon none ofour people ever seen. But we've heerd of it. An awful cut-up country. "

He finished with a conviction that no one could say a word against thecommon sense of his argument. Lin was silent, as if impressed. 

Bill raised a strong, lean, brown hand in a forcible gesture. "We can'tketch Wildfire!"

That seemed to him, evidently, a more convincing argument than hiscomrade's. 

"Bill is sure right, if I'm wrong, which I ain't, " went on the other. "Lin, we've trailed thet wild stallion for six weeks. Thet's the longestchase he ever had. He's left his old range. He's cut out his band, an'left them, one by one. We've tried every trick we know on him. An' he'stoo smart for us. There's a hoss! Why, Lin, we're all but gone to thedogs chasin' Wildfire. An' now I'm done, an' I'm glad of it. "

There was another short silence, which presently Bill opened his lips tobreak. 

"Lin, it makes me sick to quit. I ain't denyin' thet for a long timeI've had hopes of ketchin' Wildfire. He's the grandest hoss I ever laideyes on. I reckon no man, onless he was an Arab, ever seen as good aone. But now thet's neither here nor there. . . . We've got to hit theback trail. "

"Boys, I reckon I'll stick to Wildfire's tracks, " said Lin, in the samequiet tone. 

Bill swore at him, and the other hunter grew excited and concerned. 

"Lin Slone, are you gone plumb crazy over thet red hoss?"

"I--reckon, " replied Slone. The working of his throat as he swallowedcould be plainly seen by his companions. 

Bill looked at his ally as if to confirm some sudden understandingbetween them. They took Slone's attitude gravely and they wagged theirheads doubtfully. . . . It was significant of the nature of riders thatthey accepted his attitude and had consideration for his feelings. Forthem the situation subtly changed. For weeks they had been threewild-horse wranglers on a hard chase after a valuable stallion. They hadfailed to get even close to him. They had gone to the limit of theirendurance and of the outfit, and it was time to turn back. But Slone hadconceived that strange and rare longing for a horse--a passionunderstood, if not shared, by all riders. And they knew that he wouldcatch Wildfire or die in the attempt. From that moment their attitudetoward Slone changed as subtly as had come the knowledge of his feeling. The gravity and gloom left their faces. It seemed they might haveregretted what they had said about the futility of catching Wildfire. They did not want Slone to see or feel the hopelessness of his task. 

"I tell you, Lin, " said Bill, "your hoss Nagger's as good as when westarted. "

"Aw, he's better, " vouchsafed the other rider. "Nagger needed to losesome weight. Lin, have you got an extra set of shoes for him?"

"No full set. Only three left, " replied Lin, soberly. 

"Wal, thet's enough. You can keep Nagger shod. An' _mebbe_ thet redstallion will get sore feet an' go lame. Then you'd stand a chance. "

"But Wildfire keeps travelin' the valleys--the soft ground, " said Slone. 

"No matter. He's leavin' the country, an' he's bound to strike sandstonesooner or later. Then, by gosh! mebbe he'll wear off them hoofs. "

"Say, can't he ring bells offen the rocks?" exclaimed Bill. 

"Boys, do you think he's leavin' the country?" inquired Slone, anxiously. 

"Sure he is, " replied Bill. "He ain't the first stallion I've chased offthe Sevier range. An' I know. It's a stallion thet makes for newcountry, when you push him hard. "

"Yep, Lin, he's sure leavin', " added the other comrade. "Why, he'straveled a bee line for days! I'll bet he's seen us many a time. Wildfire's about as smart as any man. He was born wild, an' his dam wasborn wild, an' there you have it. The wildest of all wild creatures--awild stallion, with the intelligence of a man! A grand hoss, Lin, butone thet has killed stallions all over the Sevier range. A wildstallion thet's a killer! I never liked him for thet. Could he bebroke?"

"I'll break him, " said Lin Slone, grimly. "It's gettin' him thet's thejob. I've got patience to break a hoss. But patience can't catch astreak of lightnin'. "

"Nope; you're right, " replied Bill. "If you have some luck you'll gethim--mebbe. If he wears out his feet, or if you crowd him into a narrowcañon, or run him into a bad place where he can't get by you. Thet mighthappen. An' then, with Nagger, you stand a chance. Did you ever tirethet hoss?"

"Not yet. "

"An' how fur did you ever run him without a break? Why, when we ketchedthet sorrel last year I rode Nagger myself--thirty miles, most at a hardgallop. An' he never turned a hair!"

"I've beat thet, " replied Lin. "He could run hard fifty miles--mebbemore. Honestly, I never seen him tired yet. If only he was fast!"

"Wal, Nagger ain't so slow, come to think of thet, " replied Bill, with agrunt. "He's good enough for you not to want another hoss. "

"Lin, you're goin' to wear out Wildfire, an' then trap him somehow--isthet the plan?" asked the other comrade. 

"I haven't any plan. I'll just trail him, like a cougar trails a deer. "

"Lin, if Wildfire gives you the slip he'll have to fly. You've got thebest eyes for tracks of any wrangler in Utah. "

Slone accepted the compliment with a fleeting, doubtful smile on hisdark face. He did not reply, and no more was said by his comrades. Theyrolled with backs to the fire. Slone put on more wood, for the keen windwas cold and cutting; and then he lay down, his head on his saddle, witha goatskin under him and a saddle blanket over him. 

All three were soon asleep. The wind whipped the sand and ashes andsmoke over the sleepers. Coyotes barked from near in darkness, and fromthe valley ridge came the faint mourn of a hunting wolf. The desertnight grew darker and colder. 

 * * * * *

The Stewart brothers were wild-horse hunters for the sake of trades andoccasional sales. But Lin Slone never traded nor sold a horse he hadcaptured. The excitement of the game, and the lure of the desert, andthe love of a horse were what kept him at the profitless work. His typewas rare in the uplands. 

These were the early days of the settlement of Utah, and only a few ofthe hardiest and most adventurous pioneers had penetrated the desert inthe southern part of that vast upland. And with them came some of thatwild breed of riders to which Slone and the Stewarts belonged. Horseswere really more important and necessary than men; and this singularfact gave these lonely riders a calling. 

Before the Spaniards came there were no horses in the West. Thoseexplorers left or lost horses all over the southwest. Many of them wereArabian horses of purest blood. American explorers and travelers, at theoutset of the nineteenth century, encountered countless droves of wildhorses all over the plains. Across the Grand Cañon, however, wild horseswere comparatively few in number in the early days; and these hadprobably come in by way of California. 

The Stewarts and Slone had no established mode of catching wild horses. The game had not developed fast enough for that. Every chase of horse ordrove was different; and once in many attempts they met with success. 

A favorite method originated by the Stewarts was to find a water holefrequented by the band of horses or the stallion wanted, and to buildround this hole a corral with an opening for the horses to get in. Thenthe hunters would watch the trap at night, and if the horses went in todrink, a gate was closed across the opening. 

Another method of the Stewarts was to trail a coveted horse up on a mesaor highland, places which seldom had more than one trail of ascent anddescent, and there block the escape, and cut lines of cedars, into whichthe quarry was run till captured. Still another method, discovered byaccident, was to shoot a horse lightly in the neck and sting him. Thislast, called creasing, was seldom successful, and for that matter inany method ten times as many horses were killed as captured. 

Lin Slone helped the Stewarts in their own way, but he had no especialliking for their tricks. Perhaps a few remarkable captures of remarkablehorses had spoiled Slone. He was always trying what the brothers claimedto be impossible. He was a fearless rider, but he had the fault ofsaving his mount, and to kill a wild horse was a tragedy for him. Hewould much rather have hunted alone, and he had been alone on the trailof the stallion Wildfire when the Stewarts had joined him. 

 * * * * *

Lin Slone awoke next morning and rolled out of his blanket at his usualearly hour. But he was not early enough to say good-by to the Stewarts. They were gone. 

The fact surprised him and somehow relieved him. They had left him morethan his share of the outfit, and perhaps that was why they had slippedoff before dawn. They knew him well enough to know that he would nothave accepted it. Besides, perhaps they felt a little humiliation atabandoning a chase which he chose to keep up. Anyway, they were gone, apparently without breakfast. 

The morning was clear, cool, with the air dark like that before a storm, and in the east, over the steely wall of stone, shone a redness growingbrighter. 

Slone looked away to the west, down the trail taken by his comrades, but he saw nothing moving against that cedar-dotted waste. 

"Good-by, " he said, and he spoke as if he was saying good-by to morethan comrades. 

"I reckon I won't see Sevier Village soon again--an' maybe never, " hesoliloquized. 

There was no one to regret him, unless it was old Mother Hall, who hadbeen kind to him on those rare occasions when he got out of thewilderness. Still, it was with regret that he gazed away across the redvalley to the west. Slone had no home. His father and mother had beenlost in the massacre of a wagon train by Indians, and he had been one ofthe few saved and brought to Salt Lake. That had happened when he wasten years old. His life thereafter had been hard, and but for his sturdyTexas training he might not have survived. The last five years he hadbeen a horse hunter in the wild uplands of Nevada and Utah. 

Slone turned his attention to the pack of supplies. The Stewarts haddivided the flour and the parched corn equally, and unless he wasgreatly mistaken they had left him most of the coffee and all of thesalt. 

"Now I hold that decent of Bill an' Abe, " said Slone, regretfully. "ButI could have got along without it better 'n they could. "

Then he swiftly set about kindling a fire and getting a meal. In themidst of his task a sudden ruddy brightness fell around him. Lin Slonepaused in his work to look up. 

The sun had risen over the eastern wall. 

"Ah!" he said, and drew a deep breath. 

The cold, steely, darkling sweep of desert had been transformed. It wasnow a world of red earth and gold rocks and purple sage, with everywherethe endless straggling green cedars. A breeze whipped in, making thefire roar softly. The sun felt warm on his cheek. And at the moment heheard the whistle of his horse. 

"Good old Nagger!" he said. "I shore won't have to track you thismornin'. "

Presently he went off into the cedars to find Nagger and the mustangthat he used to carry a pack. Nagger was grazing in a little open patchamong the trees, but the pack horse was missing. Slone seemed to know inwhat direction to go to find the trail, for he came upon it very soon. The pack horse wore hobbles, but he belonged to the class that couldcover a great deal of ground when hobbled. Slone did not expect thehorse to go far, considering that the grass thereabouts was good. But ina wild-horse country it was not safe to give any horse a chance. Thecall of his wild brethren was irresistible. Slone, however, found themustang standing quietly in a clump of cedars, and, removing thehobbles, he mounted and rode back to camp. Nagger caught sight of himand came at his call. 

This horse Nagger appeared as unique in his class as Slone was rareamong riders. Nagger seemed of several colors, though blackpredominated. His coat was shaggy, almost woolly, like that of a sheep. He was huge, raw-boned, knotty, long of body and long of leg, with thehead of a war charger. His build did not suggest speed. There appearedto be something slow and ponderous about him, similar to an elephant, with the same suggestion of power and endurance. 

Slone discarded the pack saddle and bags. The latter were almost empty. He roped the tarpaulin on the back of the mustang, and, making a smallbundle of his few supplies, he tied that to the tarpaulin. His blankethe used for a saddle blanket on Nagger. Of the utensils left by theStewarts he chose a couple of small iron pans, with long handles. Therest he left. In his saddle bags he had a few extra horseshoes, somenails, bullets for his rifle, and a knife with a heavy blade. 

"Not a rich outfit for a far country, " he mused. Slone did not talk verymuch, and when he did he addressed Nagger and himself simultaneously. Evidently he expected a long chase, one from which he would not return, and light as his outfit was it would grow too heavy. 

Then he mounted and rode down the gradual slope, facing the valley andthe black, bold, flat mountain to the southeast. Some few hundred yardsfrom camp he halted Nagger and bent over in the saddle to scrutinizethe ground. 

The clean-cut track of a horse showed in the bare, hard sand. The hoofmarks were large, almost oval, perfect in shape, and manifestly theywere beautiful to Lin Slone. He gazed at them for a long time, and thenhe looked across the dotted red valley up to the vast ridgy steppes, toward the black plateau and beyond. It was the look that an Indiangives to a strange country. Then Slone slipped off the saddle and kneltto scrutinize the horse tracks. A little sand had blown into thedepressions, and some of it was wet and some of it was dry. He took histime about examining it, and he even tried gently blowing other sandinto the tracks, to compare that with what was already there. Finally hestood up and addressed Nagger. 

"Reckon we won't have to argue with Abe an' Bill this mornin', " he said, with satisfaction. "Wildfire made that track yesterday, before sunup. "

Thereupon Slone remounted and put Nagger to a trot. The pack horsefollowed with an alacrity that showed he had no desire for loneliness. 

As straight as a bee line Wildfire had left a trail down into the floorof the valley. He had not stopped to graze, and he had not looked forwater. Slone had hoped to find a water hole in one of the deep washes inthe red earth, but if there had been any water there Wildfire would havescented it. He had not had a drink for three days that Slone knew of. And Nagger had not drunk for forty hours. Slone had a canvas water baghanging over the pommel, but it was a habit of his to deny himself, asfar as possible, till his horse could drink also. Like an Indian, Sloneate and drank but little. 

It took four hours of steady trotting to reach the middle and bottom ofthat wide, flat valley. A network of washes cut up the whole center ofit, and they were all as dry as bleached bone. To cross these Slone hadonly to keep Wildfire's trail. And it was proof of Nagger's quality thathe did not have to veer from the stallion's course. 

It was hot down in the lowland. The heat struck up, reflected from thesand. But it was a March sun, and no more than pleasant to Slone. Thewind rose, however, and blew dust and sand in the faces of horse andrider. Except lizards Slone did not see any living things. 

Miles of low greasewood and sparse yellow sage led to the first almostimperceptible rise of the valley floor on that side. The distant cedarsbeckoned to Slone. He was not patient, because he was on the trail ofWildfire; but, nevertheless, the hours seemed short. 

Slone had no past to think about, and the future held nothing except ahorse, and so his thoughts revolved the possibilities connected withthis chase of Wildfire. The chase was hopeless in such country as he wastraversing, and if Wildfire chose to roam around valleys like this oneSlone would fail utterly. But the stallion had long ago left his band ofhorses, and then, one by one his favorite consorts, and now he wasalone, headed with unerring instinct for wild, untrammeled ranges. Hehad been used to the pure, cold water and the succulent grass of thecold desert uplands. Assuredly he would not tarry in such barren landsas these. 

For Slone an ever-present and growing fascination lay in Wildfire'sclear, sharply defined tracks. It was as if every hoof mark told himsomething. Once, far up the interminable ascent, he found on a ridge toptracks showing where Wildfire had halted and turned. 

"Ha, Nagger!" cried Slone, exultingly. "Look there! He's begun facin'about. He's wonderin' if we're still after him. He's worried. . . . Butwe'll keep out of sight--a day behind. "

When Slone reached the cedars the sun was low down in the west. Helooked back across the fifty miles of valley to the colored cliffs andwalls. He seemed to be above them now, and the cool air, with tang ofcedar and juniper, strengthened the impression that he had climbed high. 

A mile or more ahead of him rose a gray cliff with breaks in it and aline of dark cedars or piñons on the level rims. He believed thesebreaks to be the mouths of cañons, and so it turned out. Wildfire'strail led into the mouth of a narrow cañon with very steep and highwalls. Nagger snorted his perception of water, and the mustang whistled. Wildfire's tracks led to a point under the wall where a spring gushedforth. There were mountain lion and deer tracks also, as well as thoseof smaller game. 

Slone made camp here. The mustang was tired. But Nagger, upon taking along drink, rolled in the grass as if he had just begun the trip. Aftereating, Slone took his rifle and went out to look for deer. But thereappeared to be none at hand. He came across many lion tracks, and saw, with apprehension, where one had taken Wildfire's trail. Wildfire hadgrazed up the cañon, keeping on and on, and he was likely to go miles ina night. Slone reflected that as small as were his own chances ofgetting Wildfire, they were still better than those of a mountain lion. Wildfire was the most cunning of all animals--a wild stallion; his speedand endurance were incomparable; his scent as keen as those animals thatrelied wholly upon scent to warn them of danger; and as for sight, itwas Slone's belief that no hoofed creature, except the mountain sheepused to high altitudes, could see as far as a wild horse. 

It bothered Slone a little that he was getting into a lion country. Nagger showed nervousness, something unusual for him. Slone tied bothhorses with long halters and stationed them on patches of thick grass. Then he put a cedar stump on the fire and went to sleep. Upon awakeningand going to the spring he was somewhat chagrined to see that deer hadcome down to drink early. Evidently they were numerous. A lion countrywas always a deer country, for the lions followed the deer. 

Slone was packed and saddled and on his way before the sun reddened thecañon wall. He walked the horses. From time to time he saw signs ofWildfire's consistent progress. The cañon narrowed and the walls grewlower and the grass increased. There was a decided ascent all the time. Slone could find no evidence that the cañon had ever been traveled byhunters or Indians. The day was pleasant and warm and still. Every oncein a while a little breath of wind would bring a fragrance of cedar andpiñon, and a sweet hint of pine and sage. At every turn he looked ahead, expecting to see the green of pine and the gray of sage. Toward themiddle of the afternoon, coming to a place where Wildfire had taken to atrot, he put Nagger to that gait, and by sundown had worked up to wherethe cañon was only a shallow ravine. And finally it turned once more, tolose itself in a level where straggling pines stood high above thecedars, and great, dark-green silver spruces stood above the pines. Andhere were patches of sage, fresh and pungent, and long reaches ofbleached grass. It was the edge of a forest. Wildfire's trail went on. Slone came at length to a group of pines, and here he found the remainsof a camp fire, and some flint arrow-heads. Indians had been in there, probably having come from the opposite direction to Slone's. Thisencouraged him, for where Indians could hunt so could he. Soon he wasentering a forest where cedars and piñons and pines began to growthickly. Presently he came upon a faintly defined trail, just a dim, dark line even to an experienced eye. But it was a trail, and Wildfirehad taken it. 

Slone halted for the night. The air was cold. And the dampness of itgave him an idea there were snow banks somewhere not far distant. Thedew was already heavy on the grass. He hobbled the horses and put a bellon Nagger. A bell might frighten lions that had never heard one. Then hebuilt a fire and cooked his meal. 

It had been long since he had camped high up among the pines. The soughof the wind pleased him, like music. There had begun to be prospects ofpleasant experience along with the toil of chasing Wildfire. He wasentering new and strange and beautiful country. How far might the chasetake him? He did not care. He was not sleepy, but even if he had been itdeveloped that he must wait till the coyotes ceased their barking roundhis camp fire. They came so close that he saw their gray shadows in thegloom. But presently they wearied of yelping at him and went away. Afterthat the silence, broken only by the wind as it roared and lulled, seemed beautiful to Slone. He lost completely that sense of vague regretwhich had remained with him, and he forgot the Stewarts. And suddenly hefelt absolutely free, alone, with nothing behind to remember, with wild, thrilling, nameless life before him. Just then the long mourn of atimber wolf wailed in with the wind. Seldom had he heard the cry of oneof those night wanderers. There was nothing like it--no sound like it tofix in the lone camper's heart the great solitude and the wild. 

II

In the early morning when all was gray and the big, dark pines wereshadowy specters, Slone was awakened by the cold. His hands were so numbthat he had difficulty starting a fire. He stood over the blaze, warmingthem. The air was nipping, clear and thin, and sweet with frostyfragrance. 

Daylight came while he was in the midst of his morning meal. A whitefrost covered the ground and crackled under his feet as he went out tobring in the horses. He saw fresh deer tracks. Then he went back to campfor his rifle. Keeping a sharp lookout for game, he continued his searchfor the horses. 

The forest was open and parklike. There were no fallen trees orevidences of fire. Presently he came to a wide glade in the midst ofwhich Nagger and the pack mustang were grazing with a herd of deer. Thesize of the latter amazed Slone. The deer he had hunted back on theSevier range were much smaller than these. Evidently these were muledeer, closely allied to the elk. They were so tame they stood facing himcuriously, with long ears erect. It was sheer murder to kill a deerstanding and watching like that, but Slone was out of meat and hungryand facing a long, hard trip. He shot a buck, which leaped spasmodicallyaway, trying to follow the herd, and fell at the edge of the glade. Slone cut out a haunch, and then, catching the horses, he returned tocamp, where he packed and saddled, and at once rode out on the dimtrail. 

The wilderness of the country he was entering was evident in the factthat as he passed the glade where he had shot the deer a few minutesbefore, there were coyotes quarreling over the carcass. 

Slone could see ahead and on each side several hundred yards, andpresently he ascertained that the forest floor was not so level as hehad supposed. He had entered a valley or was traversing a wide, gentlysloping pass. He went through thickets of juniper, and had to go aroundclumps of quaking asp. The pines grew larger and farther apart. Cedarsand piñons had been left behind, and he had met with no silver sprucesafter leaving camp. Probably that point was the height of a divide. There were banks of snow in some of the hollows on the north side. Evidently the snow had very recently melted, and it was evident alsothat the depth of snow through here had been fully ten feet, judgingfrom the mutilation of the juniper trees where the deer, standing on thehard, frozen crust, had browsed upon the branches. 

The quiet of the forest thrilled Slone. And the only movement was theoccasional gray flash of a deer or coyote across a glade. No birds ofany species crossed Slone's sight. He came, presently, upon a lion trackin the trail, made probably a day before. Slone grew curious about it, seeing how it held, as he was holding, to Wildfire's tracks. After amile or so he made sure the lion had been trailing the stallion, and fora second he felt a cold contraction of his heart. Already he lovedWildfire, and by virtue of all this toil of travel considered the wildhorse his property. 

"No lion could ever get close to Wildfire, " he soliloquized, with ashort laugh. Of that he was absolutely certain. 

The sun rose, melting the frost, and a breath of warm air, laden withthe scent of pine, moved heavily under the huge, yellow trees. Slonepassed a point where the remains of an old camp fire and a pile of deerantlers were further proof that Indians visited this plateau to hunt. From this camp broader, more deeply defined trails led away to the southand east. Slone kept to the east trail, in which Wildfire's tracks andthose of the lion showed clearly. It was about the middle of theforenoon when the tracks of the stallion and lion left the trail to leadup a little draw where grass grew thick. Slone followed, reading thesigns of Wildfire's progress, and the action of his pursuer, as well asif he had seen them. Here the stallion had plowed into a snow bank, eating a hole two feet deep; then he had grazed around a little; then onand on; there his splendid tracks were deep in the soft earth. Sloneknew what to expect when the track of the lion veered from those of thehorse, and he followed the lion tracks. The ground was soft from thelate melting of snow, and Nagger sunk deep. The lion left a plain track. Here he stole steadily along; there he left many tracks at a point wherehe might have halted to make sure of his scent. He was circling on thetrail of the stallion, with cunning intent of ambush. The end of thisslow, careful stalk of the lion, as told in his tracks, came upon theedge of a knoll where he had crouched to watch and wait. From this perchhe had made a magnificent spring--Slone estimating it to be fortyfeet--but he had missed the stallion. There were Wildfire's tracksagain, slow and short, and then deep and sharp where in the impetus offright he had sprung out of reach. A second leap of the lion, and thenlessening bounds, and finally an abrupt turn from Wildfire's trail toldthe futility of that stalk. Slone made certain that Wildfire was so keenthat as he grazed along he had kept to open ground. 

Wildfire had run for a mile, then slowed down to a trot, and he hadcircled to get back to the trail he had left. Slone believed the horsewas just so intelligent. At any rate, Wildfire struck the trail again, and turned at right angles to follow it. 

Here the forest floor appeared perfectly level. Patches of snow becamefrequent, and larger as Slone went on. At length the patches closed up, and soon extended as far as he could see. It was soft, affordingdifficult travel. Slone crossed hundreds of deer tracks, and the trailhe was on evidently became a deer runway. 

Presently, far down one of the aisles between the great pines Slone sawwhat appeared to be a yellow cliff, far away. It puzzled him. And as hewent on he received the impression that the forest dropped out of sightahead. Then the trees grew thicker, obstructing his view. Presently thetrail became soggy and he had to help his horse. The mustang flounderedin the soft snow and earth. Cedars and piñons appeared again, makingtravel still more laborious. 

All at once there came to Slone a strange consciousness of light andwind and space and void. On the instant his horse halted with a snort. Slone quickly looked up. Had he come to the end of the world? An abyss, a cañon, yawned beneath him, beyond all comparison in its greatness. Hiskeen eye, educated to desert distance and dimension swept down andacross, taking in the tremendous truth, before it staggered hiscomprehension. But a second sweeping glance, slower, becomingintoxicated with what it beheld, saw gigantic cliff steppes and yellowslopes dotted with cedars, leading down to clefts filled with purplesmoke, and these led on and on to a ragged red world of rock, bare, shining, bold, uplifted in mesa, dome, peak, and crag, clear and strangein the morning light, still and sleeping like death. 

This, then, was the great cañon, which had seemed like a hunter's fablerather than truth. Slone's sight dimmed, blurring the spectacle, and hefound that his eyes had filled with tears. He wiped them away and lookedagain and again, until he was confounded by the vastness and grandeurand the vague sadness of the scene. Nothing he had ever looked at hadaffected him like this cañon, although the Stewarts had tried to preparehim for it. 

It was the horse hunter's passion that reminded him of his pursuit. Thedeer trail led down through a break in the wall. Only a few rods of itcould be seen. This trail was passable, even though choked with snow. But the depth beyond this wall seemed to fascinate Slone and hold himback, used as he was to desert trails. Then the clean mark of Wildfire'shoof brought back the old thrill. 

"This place fits you, Wildfire, " muttered Slone, dismounting. 

He started down, leading Nagger. The mustang followed. Slone kept to thewall side of the trail, fearing the horses might slip. The snow heldfirmly at first and Slone had no trouble. The gap in the rim rockwidened to a slope thickly grown over with cedars and piñons andmanzanita. This growth made the descent more laborious, yet affordedmeans at least for Slone to go down with less danger. There was nostopping. Once started, the horses had to keep on. Slone saw theimpossibility of ever climbing out while that snow was there. The trailzigzagged down and down. Very soon the yellow wall hung tremendouslyover him, straight up. The snow became thinner and softer. The horsesbegan to slip. They slid on their haunches. Fortunately the slope grewless steep, and Slone could see below where it reached out tocomparatively level ground. Still, a mishap might yet occur. Slone keptas close to Nagger as possible, helping him whenever he could do it. Themustang slipped, rolled over, and then slipped past Slone, went down theslope to bring up in a cedar. Slone worked down to him and extricatedhim. Then the huge Nagger began to slide. Snow and loose rock slid withhim, and so did Slone. The little avalanche stopped of its own accord, and then Slone dragged Nagger on down and down, presently to come to theend of the steep descent. Slone looked up to see that he had made shortwork of a thousand-foot slope. Here cedars and piñons grew thicklyenough to make a forest. The snow thinned out to patches, and thenfailed. But the going remained bad for a while as the horses sank deepin a soft red earth. This eventually grew more solid and finally dry. Slone worked out of the cedars to what appeared a grassy plateauinclosed by the great green and white slope with its yellow walloverhanging, and distant mesas and cliffs. Here his view was restricted. He was down on the first bench of the great cañon. And there was thedeer trail, a well-worn path keeping to the edge of the slope. Slonecame to a deep cut in the earth, and the trail headed it, where it beganat the last descent of the slope. It was the source of a cañon. Hecould look down to see the bare, worn rock, and a hundred yards fromwhere he stood the earth was washed from its rims and it began to showdepth and something of that ragged outline which told of violence offlood. The trail headed many cañons like this, all running down acrossthis bench, disappearing, dropping invisibly. The trail swung to theleft under the great slope, and then presently it climbed to a higherbench. Here were brush and grass and huge patches of sage, so pungentthat it stung Slone's nostrils. Then he went down again, this time tocome to a clear brook lined by willows. Here the horses drank long andSlone refreshed himself. The sun had grown hot. There was fragrance offlowers he could not see and a low murmur of a waterfall that waslikewise invisible. For most of the time his view was shut off, butoccasionally he reached a point where through some break he saw towersgleaming red in the sun. A strange place, a place of silence, and smokyveils in the distance. Time passed swiftly. Toward the waning of theafternoon he began to climb what appeared to be a saddle of land, connecting the cañon wall on the left with a great plateau, gold-rimmedand pine-fringed, rising more and more in his way as he advanced. Atsunset Slone was more shut in than for several hours. He could tell thetime was sunset by the golden light on the cliff wall again overhanginghim. The slope was gradual up to this pass to the saddle, and uponcoming to a spring and the first pine trees, he decided to halt forcamp. The mustang was almost exhausted. 

Thereupon he hobbled the horses in the luxuriant grass round the spring, and then unrolled his pack. Once as dusk came stealing down, while hewas eating his meal, Nagger whistled in fright. Slone saw a gray, pantherish form gliding away into the shadows. He took a quick shot atit, but missed. 

"It's a lion country, all right, " he said. And then he set aboutbuilding a big fire on the other side of the grassy plot, so as to havethe horses between fires. He cut all the venison into thin strips, andspent an hour roasting them. Then he lay down to rest, and he said:"Wonder where Wildfire is to-night? Am I closer to him? Where's heheadin' for?"

The night was warm and still. It was black near the huge cliff, andoverhead velvety blue, with stars of white fire. It seemed to him thathe had become more thoughtful and observing of the aspects of his wildenvironment, and he felt a welcome consciousness of loneliness. Thensleep came to him and the night seemed short. In the gray dawn he aroserefreshed. 

The horses were restive. Nagger snorted a welcome. Evidently they hadpassed an uneasy night. Slone found lion tracks at the spring and insandy places. Presently he was on his way up to the notch between thegreat wall and the plateau. A growth of thick scrub oak made traveldifficult. It had not appeared far up to that saddle, but it was far. There were straggling pine trees and huge rocks that obstructed hisgaze. But once up he saw that the saddle was only a narrow ridge, curvedto slope up on both sides. 

Straight before Slone and under him opened the cañon, blazing andglorious along the peaks and ramparts, where the rising sun struck, misty and smoky and shadowy down in those mysterious depths. 

It took an effort not to keep on gazing. But Slone turned to the grimbusiness of his pursuit. The trail he saw leading down had been made byIndians. It was used probably once a year by them; and also by wildanimals, and it was exceedingly steep and rough. Wildfire had paced toand fro along the narrow ridge of that saddle, making many tracks, before he had headed down again. Slone imagined that the great stallionhad been daunted by the tremendous chasm, but had finally faced it, meaning to put this obstacle between him and his pursuers. It neveroccurred to Slone to attribute less intelligence to Wildfire than that. So, dismounting, Slone took Nagger's bridle and started down. Themustang with the pack was reluctant. He snorted and whistled and pawedthe earth. But he would not be left alone, so he followed. 

The trail led down under cedars that fringed a precipice. Slone wasaware of this without looking. He attended only to the trail and to hishorse. Only an Indian could have picked out that course, and it wascruel to put a horse to it. But Nagger was powerful, sure-footed, andhe would go anywhere that Slone led him. Gradually Slone worked down andaway from the bulging rim wall. It was hard, rough work, and riskybecause it could not be accomplished slowly. Brush and rocks, looseshale and weathered slope, long, dusty inclines of yellow earth, andjumbles of stone--these made bad going for miles of slow, zigzag traildown out of the cedars. Then the trail entered what appeared to be aravine. 

That ravine became a cañon. At its head it was a dry wash, full ofgravel and rocks. It began to cut deep into the bowels of the earth. Itshut out sight of the surrounding walls and peaks. Water appeared fromunder a cliff and, augmented by other springs, became a brook. Hot, dry, and barren at its beginning, this cleft became cool and shady andluxuriant with grass and flowers and amber moss with silver blossoms. The rocks had changed color from yellow to deep red. Four hours ofturning and twisting, endlessly down and down, over bowlders and banksand every conceivable roughness of earth and rock, finished the packmustang; and Slone mercifully left him in a long reach of cañon wheregrass and water never failed. In this place Slone halted for the noonhour, letting Nagger have his fill of the rich grazing. Nagger's threedays in grassy upland, despite the continuous travel by day, hadimproved him. He looked fat, and Slone had not yet caught the horseresting. Nagger was iron to endure. Here Slone left all the outfitexcept what was on his saddle, and the sack containing the few poundsof meat and supplies, and the two utensils. This sack he tied on theback of his saddle, and resumed his journey. 

Presently he came to a place where Wildfire had doubled on his trail andhad turned up a side cañon. The climb out was hard on Slone, if not onNagger. Once up, Slone found himself upon a wide, barren plateau ofglaring red rock and clumps of greasewood and cactus. The plateau wasmiles wide, shut in by great walls and mesas of colored rock. Theafternoon sun beat down fiercely. A blast of wind, as if from a furnace, swept across the plateau, and it was laden with red dust. Slone walkedhere, where he could have ridden. And he made several miles ofup-and-down progress over this rough plateau. The great walls of theopposite side of the cañon loomed appreciably closer. What, Slonewondered, was at the bottom of this rent in the earth? The great desertriver was down there, of course, but he knew nothing of it. Would thatturn back Wildfire? Slone thought grimly how he had always claimedNagger to be part fish and part bird. Wildfire was not going to escape. 

By and by only isolated mescal plants with long, yellow-plumed spearsbroke the bare monotony of the plateau. And Slone passed from red sandand gravel to a red, soft shale, and from that to hard, red rock. HereWildfire's tracks were lost, the first time in seven weeks. But Slonehad his direction down that plateau with the cleavage lines of cañonsto right and left. At times Slone found a vestige of the old Indiantrail, and this made him doubly sure of being right. He did not need tohave Wildfire's tracks. He let Nagger pick the way, and the horse madeno mistake in finding the line of least resistance. But that grew harderand harder. This bare rock, like a file, would soon wear Wildfire'shoofs thin. And Slone rejoiced. Perhaps somewhere down in this awfulchasm he and Nagger would have if out with the stallion. Slone began tolook far ahead, beginning to believe that he might see Wildfire. Twicehe had seen Wildfire, but only at a distance. Then he had resembled arunning streak of fire, whence his name, which Slone had given him. 

This bare region of rock began to be cut up into gullies. It wasnecessary to head them or to climb in and out. Miles of travel reallymeant little progress straight ahead. But Slone kept on. He was hot andNagger was hot, and that made hard work easier. Sometimes on the windcame a low thunder. Was it a storm or an avalanche slipping or fallingwater? He could not tell. The sound was significant and haunting. 

Of one thing he was sure--that he could not have found his back trail. But he divined he was never to retrace his steps on this journey. Thestretch of broken plateau before him grew wilder and bolder of outline, darker in color, weirder in aspect and progress across it grew slower, more dangerous. There were many places Nagger should not have been putto--where a slip meant a broken leg. But Slone could not turn back. Andsomething besides an indomitable spirit kept him going. Again the soundresembling thunder assailed his ears, louder this time. The plateauappeared to be ending in a series of great capes or promontories. Slonefeared he would soon come out upon a promontory from which he might seethe impossibility of further travel. He felt relieved down in thegullies, where he could not see far. He climbed out of one, presently, from which there extended a narrow ledge with a slant too perilous forany horse. He stepped out upon that with far less confidence thanNagger. To the right was a bulge of low wall, and a few feet to the lefta dark precipice. The trail here was faintly outlined, and it was sixinches wide and slanting as well. It seemed endless to Slone, thatledge. He looked only down at his feet and listened to Nagger's steps. The big horse trod carefully, but naturally, and he did not slip. Thatledge extended in a long curve, turning slowly away from the precipice, and ascending a little at the further end. Slone drew a deep breath ofrelief when he led Nagger up on level rock. 

Suddenly a strange yet familiar sound halted Slone, as if he had beenstruck. The wild, shrill, high-pitched, piercing whistle of a stallion!Nagger neighed a blast in reply and pounded the rock with his iron-shodhoofs. With a thrill Slone looked ahead. 

There, some few hundred yards distant, on a promontory, stood a redhorse. 

"It's Wildfire!" breathed Slone, tensely. 

He could not believe his sight. He imagined he was dreaming. But asNagger stamped and snorted defiance Slone looked with fixed and keengaze, and knew that beautiful picture was no lie. 

Wildfire was as red as fire. His long mane, wild in the wind, was like awhipping, black-streaked flame. Silhouetted there against that cañonbackground he seemed gigantic, a demon horse, ready to plunge into fierydepths. He was looking back over his shoulder, his head very high, andevery line of him was instinct with wildness. Again he sent out thatshrill, air-splitting whistle. Slone understood it to be a clarion callto Nagger. If Nagger had been alone Wildfire would have killed him. Thered stallion was a killer of horses. All over the Utah ranges he hadleft the trail of a murderer. Nagger understood this, too, for hewhistled back in rage and terror. It took an iron arm to hold him. ThenWildfire plunged, apparently down, and vanished from Slone's sight. 

Slone hurried onward, to be blocked by a huge crack in the rockyplateau. This he had to head. And then another and like obstacle checkedhis haste to reach that promontory. He was forced to go more slowly. Wildfire had been close only as to sight. And this was the great cañonthat dwarfed distance and magnified proximity. Climbing down and up, toiling on, he at last learned patience. He had seen Wildfire at closerange. That was enough. So he plodded on, once more returning to carefulregard of Nagger. It took an hour of work to reach the point whereWildfire had disappeared. 

A promontory indeed it was, overhanging a valley a thousand feet below. A white torrent of a stream wound through it. There were lines of greencottonwoods following the winding course. Then Slone saw Wildfire slowlycrossing the flat toward the stream. He had gone down that cliff, whichto Slone looked perpendicular. 

Wildfire appeared to be walking lame. Slone, making sure of this, suffered a pang. Then, when the significance of such lameness dawnedupon him he whooped his wild joy and waved his hat. The red stallionmust have heard, for he looked up. Then he went on again and waded intothe stream, where he drank long. When he started to cross, the swiftcurrent drove him back in several places. The water wreathed whitearound him. But evidently it was not deep, and finally he crossed. Fromthe other side he looked up again at Nagger and Slone, and, going on, hesoon was out of sight in the cottonwoods. 

"How to get down!" muttered Slone. 

There was a break in the cliff wall, a bare stone slant where horses hadgone down and come up. That was enough for Slone to know. He would haveattempted the descent if he were sure no other horse but Wildfire hadever gone down there. But Slone's hair began to rise stiff on his head. A horse like Wildfire, and mountain sheep and Indian ponies, were allvery different from Nagger. The chances were against Nagger. 

"Come on, old boy. If I can do it, you can, " he said. 

Slone had never seen a trail as perilous as this. He was afraid for hishorse. A slip there meant death. The way Nagger trembled in every muscleshowed his feelings. But he never flinched. He would follow Sloneanywhere, providing Slone rode him or led him. And here, as riding wasimpossible, Slone went before. If the horse slipped there would be adouble tragedy, for Nagger would knock his master off the cliff. Sloneset his teeth and stepped down. He did not let Nagger see his fear. Hewas taking the greatest risk he had ever run. 

The break in the wall led to a ledge, and the ledge dropped from step tostep, and these had bare, slippery slants between. Nagger was splendidon a bad trail. He had methods peculiar to his huge build and greatweight. He crashed down over the stone steps, both front hoofs at once. The slants he slid down on his haunches with his forelegs stiff and theiron shoes scraping. He snorted and heaved and grew wet with sweat. Hetossed his head at some of the places. But he never hesitated and it wasimpossible for him to go slowly. Whenever Slone came to corrugatedstretches in the trail he felt grateful. But these were few. The rockwas like smooth red iron. Slone had never seen such hard rock. It tookhim long to realize that it was marble. His heart seemed a tense, painful knot in his breast, as if it could not beat, holding back in thestrained suspense. But Nagger never jerked on the bridle. He neverfaltered. Many times he slipped, often with both front feet, but neverwith all four feet. So he did not fall. And the red wall began to loomabove Sloan. Then suddenly he seemed brought to a point where it wasimpossible to descend. It was a round bulge, slanting fearfully, withonly a few rough surfaces to hold a foot. Wildfire had left a broad, clear-swept mark at that place, and red hairs on some of the sharppoints. He had slid down. Below was an offset that fortunately preventedfurther sliding. Slone started to walk down this place, but when Naggerbegan to slide Slone had to let go the bridle and jump. Both he and thehorse landed safely. Luck was with them. And they went on, down anddown, to reach the base of the great wall, scraped and exhausted, wetwith sweat, but unhurt. As Slone gazed upward he felt the impossibilityof believing what he knew to be true. He hugged and petted the horse. Then he led on to the roaring stream. 

It was green water white with foam. Slone waded in and found the watercool and shallow and very swift. He had to hold to Nagger to keep frombeing swept downstream. They crossed in safety. There in the sandshowed Wildfire's tracks. And here were signs of another Indian camp, half a year old. 

The shade of the cotton woods was pleasant. Slone found this valleyoppressively hot. There was no wind and the sand blistered his feetthrough his boots. Wildfire held to the Indian trail that had guided himdown into this wilderness of worn rock. And that trail crossed thestream at every turn of the twisting, narrow valley. Slone enjoyedgetting into the water. He hung his gun over the pommel and let thewater roll him. A dozen times he and Nagger forded the rushing torrent. Then they came to a boxlike closing of the valley to cañon walls, andhere the trail evidently followed the stream bed. There was no otherway. Slone waded in, and stumbled, rolled, and floated ahead of thesturdy horse. Nagger was wet to his breast, but he did not fall. Thisgulch seemed full of a hollow rushing roar. It opened out into a widevalley. And Wildfire's tracks took to the left side and began to climbthe slope. 

Here the traveling was good, considering what had been passed. Once upout of the valley floor Slone saw Wildfire far ahead, high on the slope. He did not appear to be limping, but he was not going fast. Slonewatched as he climbed. What and where would be the end of this chase?

Sometimes Wildfire was plain in his sight for a moment, but usually hewas hidden by rocks. The slope was one great talus, a jumble ofweathered rock, fallen from what appeared a mountain of red and yellowwall. Here the heat of the sun fell upon him like fire. The rocks wereso hot Slone could not touch them with bare hand. The close of theafternoon was approaching, and this slope was interminably long. Still, it was not steep, and the trail was good. 

At last from the height of slope Wildfire appeared, looking back anddown. Then he was gone. Slone plodded upward. Long before he reachedthat summit he heard the dull rumble of the river. It grew to be a roar, yet it seemed distant. Would the great desert river stop Wildfire in hisflight? Slone doubted it. He surmounted the ridge, to find the cañonopening in a tremendous gap, and to see down, far down, a glittering, sun-blasted slope merging into a deep, black gulch where a red riverswept and chafed and roared. 

Somehow the river was what he had expected to see. A force that had cutand ground this cañon could have been nothing but a river like that. Thetrail led down, and Slone had no doubt that it crossed the river and ledup out of the cañon. He wanted to stay there and gaze endlessly andlisten. At length he began the descent. As he proceeded it seemed thatthe roar of the river lessened. He could not understand why this was so. It took half an hour to reach the last level, a ghastly, black, andiron-ribbed cañon bed, with the river splitting it. He had not had aglimpse of Wildfire on this side of the divide, but he found his tracks, and they led down off the last level, through a notch in the black bankof marble to a sand bar and the river. 

Wildfire had walked straight off the sand into the water. Slone studiedthe river and shore. The water ran slow, heavily, in sluggish eddies. From far up the cañon came the roar of a rapid, and from below the roarof another, heavier and closer. The river appeared tremendous, in waysSlone felt rather than realized, yet it was not swift. Studying theblack, rough wall of rock above him, he saw marks where the river hadbeen sixty feet higher than where he stood on the sand. It was low, then. How lucky for him that he had gotten there before flood season! Hebelieved Wildfire had crossed easily, and he knew Nagger could make it. Then he piled and tied his supplies and weapons high on the saddle, tokeep them dry, and looked for a place to take to the water. 

Wildfire had sunk deep before reaching the edge. Manifestly he hadlunged the last few feet. Slone found a better place, and waded in, urging Nagger. The big horse plunged, almost going under, and began toswim. Slone kept upstream beside him. He found, presently, that thewater was thick and made him tired, so it was necessary to grasp astirrup and be towed. The river appeared only a few hundred feet wide, but probably it was wider than it looked. Nagger labored heavily nearthe opposite shore; still, he landed safely upon a rocky bank. Therewere patches of sand in which Wildfire's tracks showed so fresh thatthe water had not yet dried out of them. 

Slone rested his horse before attempting to climb out of that split inthe rock. However, Wildfire had found an easy ascent. On this side ofthe cañon the bare rock did not predominate. A clear trail led up adusty, gravelly slope, upon which scant greasewood and cactus appeared. Half an hour's climbing brought Slone to where he could see that he wasentering a vast valley, sloping up and narrowing to a notch in the darkcliffs, above which towered the great red wall and about that the slopesof cedar and the yellow rim rock. 

And scarcely a mile distant, bright in the westering sunlight, shone thered stallion, moving slowly. 

Slone pressed on steadily. Just before dark he came to an ideal spot tocamp. The valley had closed up, so that the lofty walls cast shadowsthat met. A clump of cottonwoods surrounding a spring, abundance of richgrass, willows and flowers lining the banks, formed an oasis in the barevalley. Slone was tired out from the day of ceaseless toil down and up, and he could scarcely keep his eyes open. But he tried to stay awake. The dead silence of the valley, the dry fragrance, the dreaming walls, the advent of night low down, when up on the ramparts the last red raysof the sun lingered, the strange loneliness--these were sweet andcomforting to him. 

And that night's sleep was as a moment. He opened his eyes to see thecrags and towers and peaks and domes, and the lofty walls of that vast, broken chaos of cañons across the river. They were now emerging from themisty gray of dawn, growing pink and lilac and purple under the risingsun. 

He arose and set about his few tasks, which, being soon finished, allowed him an early start. 

Wildfire had grazed along no more than a mile in the lead. Slone lookedeagerly up the narrowing cañon, but he was not rewarded by a sight ofthe stallion. As he progressed up a gradually ascending trail he becameaware of the fact that the notch he had long looked up to was where thegreat red walls closed in and almost met. And the trail zigzagged upthis narrow vent, so steep that only a few steps could be taken withoutrest. Slone toiled up for an hour--an age--till he was wet, burning, choked, with a great weight on his chest. Yet still he was only halfwayup that awful break between the walls. Sometimes he could have tossed astone down upon a part of the trail, only a few rods below, yet many, many weary steps of actual toil. As he got farther up the notch widened. What had been scarcely visible from the valley below was now colossal inactual dimensions. The trail was like a twisted mile of thread betweentwo bulging mountain walls leaning their ledges and fronts over thistilted pass. 

Slone rested often. Nagger appreciated this and heaved gratefully atevery halt. In this monotonous toil Slone forgot the zest of hispursuit. And when Nagger suddenly snorted in fright Slone was notprepared for what he saw. 

Above him ran a low, red wall, around which evidently the trail led. Atthe curve, which was a promontory, scarcely a hundred feet in an airline above him, he saw something red moving, bobbing, coming out intoview. It was a horse. 

Wildfire--no farther away than the length of three lassos!

There he stood looking down. He fulfilled all of Slone's dreams. Only hewas bigger. But he was so magnificently proportioned that he did notseem heavy. His coat was shaggy and red. It was not glossy. The colorwas what made him shine. His mane was like a crest, mounting, thenfalling low. Slone had never seen so much muscle on a horse. Yet hisoutline was graceful, beautiful. The head was indeed that of the wildestof all wild creatures--a stallion born wild--and it was beautiful, savage, splendid, everything but noble. Slone thought that if a horsecould express hate, surely Wildfire did then. It was certain that he didexpress curiosity and fury. 

Slone shook a gantleted fist at the stallion, as if the horse werehuman. That was a natural action for a rider of his kind. Wildfireturned away, showed bright against the dark background, and thendisappeared. 

III

That was the last Slone saw of Wildfire for three days. 

It took all of this day to climb out of the cañon. The second was a slowmarch of thirty miles into a scrub cedar and piñon forest, through whichthe great red and yellow walls of the cañon could be seen. That nightSlone found a water hole in a rocky pocket and a little grass forNagger. The third day's travel consisted of forty miles or more throughlevel pine forest, dry and odorous, but lacking the freshness and beautyof the forest on the north side of the cañon. On this south side astrange feature was that all the water, when there was any, ran awayfrom the rim. Slone camped this night at a muddy pond in the woods, where Wildfire's tracks showed plainly. 

On the following day Slone rode out of the forest into a country ofscanty cedars, bleached and stunted, and out of this to the edge of aplateau, from which the shimmering desert flung its vast and desolatedistances, forbidding and menacing. This was not the desert uplandcountry of Utah, but a naked and bony world of colored rock and sand--apainted desert of heat and wind and flying sand and waterless wastes andbarren ranges. But it did not daunt Slone. For far down on the bare, billowing ridges moved a red speck, at a snail's pace, a slowly movingdot of color which was Wildfire. 

 * * * * *

On open ground like this, Nagger, carrying two hundred and fifty pounds, showed his wonderful quality. He did not mind the heat nor the sand northe glare nor the distance nor his burden. He did not tire. He was anengine of tremendous power. 

Slone gained upon Wildfire, and toward evening of that day he reached towithin half a mile of the stallion. And he chose to keep that farbehind. That night he camped where there was dry grass, but no water. 

Next day he followed Wildfire down and down, over the endless swell ofrolling red ridges, bare of all but bleached white grass and meagergreasewood, always descending in the face of that painted desert of boldand ragged steppes. Slone made fifty miles that day, and gained thevalley bed, where a slender stream ran thin and spread over a wide sandybottom. It was salty water, but it was welcome to both man and beast. 

The following day he crossed, and the tracks of Wildfire were still weton the sand bars. The stallion was slowing down. Slone saw him, limpingalong, not far in advance. There was a ten-mile stretch of level ground, blown hard as rock, from which the sustenance had been bleached, for nota spear of grass grew there. And following that was a tortuous passagethrough a weird region of clay dunes, blue and violet and heliotrope andlavender, all worn smooth by rain and wind. Wildfire favored the softground now. He had deviated from his straight course. And he was partialto washes and dips in the earth where water might have lodged. And hewas not now scornful of a green-scummed water hole with its white marginof alkali. That night Slone made camp with Wildfire in plain sight. Thestallion stopped when his pursuers stopped. And he began to graze on thesame stretch with Nagger. How strange this seemed to Slone!

Here at this camp was evidence of Indians. Wildfire had swung round tothe north in his course. Like any pursued wild animal, he had begun tocircle. And he had pointed his nose toward the Utah he had left. 

Next morning Wildfire was not in sight, but he had left his tracks inthe sand. Slone trailed him with Nagger at a trot. Toward the head ofthis sandy flat Slone came upon old cornfields, and a broken dam wherethe water had been stored, and well-defined trails leading away to theright. Somewhere over there in the desert lived Indians. At this pointWildfire abandoned the trail he had followed for many days and cut outmore to the north. It took all the morning hours to climb three greatsteppes and benches that led up to the summit of a mesa, vast in extent. It turned out to be a sandy waste. The wind rose and everywhere weremoving sheets of sand, and in the distance circular yellow dust devils, rising high like water spouts, and back down in the sun-scorched valleya sandstorm moved along majestically, burying the desert in its yellowpall. 

Then two more days of sand and another day of a slowly rising groundgrowing from bare to gray and gray to green, and then to the purple ofsage and cedar--these three grinding days were toiled out with only onewater hole. 

And Wildfire was lame and in distress and Nagger was growing gaunt andshowing strain; and Slone, haggard and black and worn, plodded miles andmiles on foot to save his horse. 

Slone felt that it would be futile to put the chase to a test of speed. Nagger could never head that stallion. Slone meant to go on and on, always pushing Wildfire, keeping him tired, wearied, and worrying him, till a section of the country was reached where he could drive Wildfireinto some kind of a natural trap. The pursuit seemed endless. Wildfirekept to open country where he could not be surprised. 

There came a morning when Slone climbed to a cedared plateau that rosefor a whole day's travel, and then split into a labyrinthine maze ofcañons. There were trees, grass, water. It was a high country, cool andwild, like the uplands he had left. For days he camped on Wildfire'strail, always relentlessly driving him, always watching for the trap hehoped to find. And the red stallion spent much of this time of flight inlooking backward. Whenever Slone came in sight of him he had his headover his shoulder, watching. And on the soft ground of these cañons hehad begun to recover from his lameness. But this did not worry Slone. Sooner or later Wildfire would go down into a high-walled wash, fromwhich there would be no outlet; or he would wander into a box cañon; orhe would climb out on a mesa with no place to descend, unless he passedSlone; or he would get cornered on a soft, steep slope where his hoofswould sink deep and make him slow. The nature of the desert had changed. Slone had entered a wonderful region, the like of which he had notseen--a high plateau criss-crossed in every direction by narrow cañonswith red walls a thousand feet high. 

And one of the strange turning cañons opened into a vast valley ofmonuments. 

The plateau had weathered and washed away, leaving huge sections ofstone walls, all standing isolated, different in size and shape, but allclean-cut, bold, with straight lines. They stood up everywhere, monumental, towering, many-colored, lending a singular and beautifulaspect to the great green and gray valley, billowing away to the north, where dim, broken battlements mounted to the clouds. 

The only living thing in Slone's sight was Wildfire. He shone red downon the green slope. 

Slone's heart swelled. This was the setting for that grand horse--aperfect wild range. But also it seemed the last place where there mightbe any chance to trap the stallion. Still that did not alter Slone'spurpose, though it lost to him the joy of former hopes. He rode down theslope, out upon the billowing floor of the valley. Wildfire looked backto see his pursuers, and then the solemn stillness broke to a wild, piercing whistle. 

 * * * * *

Day after day, camping where night found him, Slone followed thestallion, never losing sight of him till darkness had fallen. The valleywas immense and the monuments miles apart. But they always seemed closetogether and near him. The air magnified everything. Slone lost track oftime. The strange, solemn, lonely days and the silent, lonely nights, and the endless pursuit, and the wild, weird valley--these completed thework of years on Slone and he became satisfied, unthinking, almostsavage. 

The toil and privation had worn him down and he was like iron. Hisgarments hung in tatters; his boots were ripped and soleless. Long sincehis flour had been used up, and all his supplies except the salt. Helived on the meat of rabbits, but they were scarce, and the time camewhen there were none. Some days he did not eat. Hunger did not make himsuffer. He killed a desert bird now and then, and once a wildcatcrossing the valley. Eventually he felt his strength diminishing, andthen he took to digging out the pack rats and cooking them. But these, too, were scarce. At length starvation faced Slone. But he knew he wouldnot starve. Many times he had been within rifle shot of Wildfire. Andthe grim, forbidding thought grew upon him that he must kill thestallion. The thought seemed involuntary, but his mind rejected it. Nevertheless, he knew that if he could not catch the stallion he wouldkill him. That had been the end of many a desperate rider's pursuit of acoveted horse. 

While Slone kept on his merciless pursuit, never letting Wildfire restby day, time went on just as relentlessly. Spring gave way to earlysummer. The hot sun bleached the grass; water holes failed out in thevalley, and water could be found only in the cañons; and the dry windsbegan to blow the sand. It was a sandy valley, green and gray only at adistance, and out toward the north there were no monuments, and the slowheave of sand lifted toward the dim walls. 

Wildfire worked away from this open valley, back to the south end, wherethe great monuments loomed, and still farther back, where they grewcloser, till at length some of them were joined by weathered ridges tothe walls of the surrounding plateau. For all that Slone could see, Wildfire was in perfect condition. But Nagger was not the horse he hadbeen. Slone realized that in one way or another the pursuit wasnarrowing down to the end. 

He found a water hole at the head of a wash in a split in the walls, andhere he let Nagger rest and graze one whole day--the first day for along time that he had not kept the red stallion in sight. That day wasmarked by the good fortune of killing a rabbit, and while eating it hisgloomy, fixed mind admitted that he was starving. He dreaded the nextsunrise. But he could not hold it back. There, behind the darkmonuments, standing sentinel-like, the sky lightened and reddened andburnt into gold and pink, till out of the golden glare the sun roseglorious. And Slone, facing the league-long shadows of the monuments, rode out again into the silent, solemn day, on his hopeless quest. 

For a change Wildfire had climbed high up a slope of talus, through anarrow pass, rounded over with drifting sand. And Slone gazed down intoa huge amphitheater full of monuments, like all that strange country. Abasin three miles across lay beneath him. Walls and weathered slants ofrock and steep slopes of reddish-yellow sand inclosed this ovaldepression. The floor was white, and it seemed to move gently or radiatewith heat waves. Studying it, Slone made out that the motion was causedby wind in long bleached grass. He had crossed small areas of this grassin different parts of the region. 

Wildfire's tracks led down into this basin, and presently Slone, bystraining his eyes, made out the red spot that was the stallion. 

"He's lookin' to quit the country, " soliloquized Slone, as he surveyedthe scene. 

With keen, slow gaze Slone studied the lay of wall and slope, and whenhe had circled the huge depression he made sure that Wildfire could notget out except by the narrow pass through which he had gone in. Slonesat astride Nagger in the mouth of this pass--a wash a few yards wide, walled by broken, rough rock on one side and an insurmountable slope onthe other. 

"If this hole was only little, now, " sighed Slone, as he gazed at thesweeping, shimmering oval floor, "I might have a chance. But downthere--we couldn't get near him. "

There was no water in that dry bowl. Slone reflected on the uselessnessof keeping Wildfire down there, because Nagger could not go withoutwater as long as Wildfire. For the first time Slone hesitated. It seemedmerciless to Nagger to drive him down into this hot, windy hole. Thewind blew from the west, and it swooped up the slope, hot, with the odorof dry, dead grass. 

But that hot wind stirred Slone with an idea, and suddenly he was tense, excited, glowing, yet grim and hard. 

"Wildfire, I'll make you run with your namesake in that high grass, "called Slone. The speech was full of bitter failure, of regret, of thehardness of a rider who could not give up the horse to freedom. 

Slone meant to ride down there and fire the long grass. In that windthere would indeed be wildfire to race with the red stallion. It wouldperhaps mean his death; at least it would chase him out of that hole, where to follow him would be useless. 

"I'd make you hump now to get away if I could get behind you, " mutteredSlone. He saw that if he could fire the grass on the other side the windof flame would drive Wildfire straight toward him. The slopes and wallsnarrowed up to the pass, but high grass grew to within a few rods ofwhere Slone stood. But it seemed impossible to get behind Wildfire. 

"At night--then--I could get round him, " said Slone, thinking hard andnarrowing his gaze to scan the circle of wall and slope. "Why not? . . . No wind at night. That grass would burn slow till mornin'--till the windcame up--an' it's been west for days. "

Suddenly Slone began to pound the patient Nagger and to cry out to himin wild exultance. 

"Old horse, we've got him! We've got him! We'll put a rope on him beforethis time to-morrow!"

Slone yielded to his strange, wild joy, but it did not last long, soonsucceeding to sober, keen thought. He rode down into the bowl a mile, making absolutely certain that Wildfire could not climb out on thatside. The far end, beyond the monuments, was a sheer wall of rock. Thenhe crossed to the left side. Here the sandy slope was almost too steepfor even him to go up. And there was grass that would burn. He returnedto the pass assured that Wildfire had at last fallen into a trap thelike Slone had never dreamed of. The great horse was doomed to run intoliving flame or the whirling noose of a lasso. 

Then Slone reflected. Nagger had that very morning had his fill of goodwater--the first really satisfying drink for days. If he was rested thatday, on the morrow he would be fit for the grueling work possibly instore for him. Slone unsaddled the horse and turned him loose, and witha snort he made down the gentle slope for the grass. Then Slone carriedhis saddle to a shady spot afforded by a slab of rock and a dwarf cedar, and here he composed himself to rest and watch and think and wait. 

Wildfire was plainly in sight no more than two miles away. Gradually hewas grazing along toward the monuments and the far end of the greatbasin. Slone believed, because the place was so large, that Wildfirethought there was a way out on the other side or over the slopes orthrough the walls. Never before had the farsighted stallion made amistake. Slone suddenly felt the keen, stabbing fear of an outletsomewhere. But it left him quickly. He had studied those slopes andwalls. Wildfire could not get out, except by the pass he had entered, unless he could fly. 

Slone lay in the shade, his head propped on his saddle, and while gazingdown into the shimmering hollow he began to plan. He calculated that hemust be able to carry fire swiftly across the far end of the basin, sothat he would not be absent long from the mouth of the pass. Fire wasalways a difficult matter, since he must depend only on flint and steel. He decided to wait till dark, build a fire with dead cedar sticks, andcarry a bundle of them with burning ends. He felt assured that the windcaused by riding would keep them burning. After he had lighted the grassall he had to do was to hurry back to his station and there awaitdevelopments. 

The day passed slowly, and it was hot. The heat-waves rose in dark, wavering lines and veils from the valley. The wind blew almost a gale. Thin, curling sheets of sand blew up over the crests of the slopes, andthe sound it made was a soft, silken rustling, very low. The sky was asteely blue above and copper close over the distant walls. 

That afternoon, toward the close, Slone ate the last of the meat. Atsunset the wind died away and the air cooled. There was a strip of redalong the wall of rock and on the tips of the monuments, and it lingeredthere for long, a strange, bright crown. Nagger was not far away, butWildfire had disappeared, probably behind one of the monuments. 

When twilight fell Slone went down after Nagger and, returning with him, put on bridle and saddle. Then he began to search for suitable sticks ofwood. Farther back in the pass he found stunted dead cedars, and fromthese secured enough for his purpose. He kindled a fire and burned theends of the sticks into red embers. Making a bundle of these, he putthem under his arm, the dull, glowing ends backward, and then mountedhis horse. 

It was just about dark when he faced down into the valley. When hereached level ground he kept to the edge of the left slope and putNagger to a good trot. The grass and brush were scant here, and thecolor of the sand was light, so he had no difficulty in traveling. Fromtime to time his horse went through grass, and its dry, cracklingrustle, showing how it would burn, was music to Slone. Gradually themonuments began to loom up, bold and black against the blue sky, withstars seemingly hanging close over them. Slone had calculated that thebasin was smaller than it really was, in both length and breadth. Thisworried him. Wildfire might see or hear or scent him, and make a breakback to the pass and thus escape. Slone was glad when the huge, darkmonuments were indistinguishable from the black, frowning wall. He hadto go slower here, because of the darkness. But at last he reached theslow rise of jumbled rock that evidently marked the extent of weatheringon that side. Here he turned to the right and rode out into the valley. The floor was level and thickly overgrown with long, dead grass and deadgreasewood, as dry as tinder. It was easy to account for the dryness;neither snow nor rain had visited that valley for many months. Slonewhipped one of the sticks in the wind and soon had the smouldering endred and showering sparks. Then he dropped the stick in the grass, withcurious intent and a strange feeling of regret. 

Instantly the grass blazed with a little sputtering roar. Naggersnorted. "Wildfire!" exclaimed Slone. That word was a favorite one withriders, and now Slone used it both to call out his menace to thestallion and to express his feeling for that blaze, already runningwild. 

Without looking back, Slone rode across the valley, dropping a glowingstick every quarter of a mile. When he reached the other side there werea dozen fires behind him, burning slowly, with white smoke risinglazily. Then he loped Nagger along the side back to the sandy ascent, and on up to the mouth of the pass. There he searched for tracks. Wildfire had not gone out, and Slone experienced relief and exultation. He took up a position in the middle of the narrowest part of the pass, and there, with Nagger ready for anything, he once more composed himselfto watch and wait. 

Far across the darkness of the valley, low down, twelve lines of fire, widely separated, crept toward one another. They appeared thin and slow, with only an occasional leaping flame. And some of the black spaces musthave been monuments, blotting out the creeping snail lines of red. Slonewatched, strangely fascinated. 

"What do you think of that?" he said, aloud, and he meant his query forWildfire. 

As he watched the lines perceptibly lengthened and brightened and paleshadows of smoke began to appear. Over at the left of the valley the twobrightest fires, the first he had started, crept closer and closertogether. They seemed long in covering distance. But not a breath ofwind stirred, and besides they really might move swiftly, withoutlooking so to Slone. When the two lines met a sudden and larger blazerose. 

"Ah!" said the rider, and then he watched the other lines creepingtogether. How slowly fire moved, he thought. The red stallion would haveevery chance to run between those lines, if he dared. But a wild horsefears nothing like fire. This one would not run the gantlet of flames. Nevertheless Slone felt more and more relieved as the lines closed. Thehours of the night dragged past until at length one long, continuousline of fire spread level across the valley, its bright, red line brokenonly where the monuments of stone were silhouetted against it. 

The darkness of the valley changed. The light of the moon changed. Theradiance of the stars changed. Either the line of fire was findingdenser fuel to consume or it was growing appreciably closer, for theflames began to grow, to leap, and to flare. 

Slone strained his ears for the thud of hoofs on sand. 

The time seemed endless in its futility of results, but fleeting afterit had passed; and he could tell how the hours fled by theever-recurring need to replenish the little fire he kept burning in thepass. 

A broad belt of valley grew bright in the light, and behind it loomedthe monuments, weird and dark, with columns of yellow and white smokewreathing them. 

Suddenly Slone's sensitive ear vibrated to a thrilling sound. He leaneddown to place his ear to the sand. Rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs madehim leap to his feet, reaching for his lasso with right hand and a gunwith his left. 

Nagger lifted his head, sniffed the air, and snorted. Slone peered intothe black belt of gloom that lay below him. It would be hard to see ahorse there, unless he got high enough to be silhouetted against thatline of fire now flaring to the sky. But he heard the beat of hoofs, swift, sharp, louder--louder. The night shadows were deceptive. Thatwonderful light confused him, made the place unreal. Was he dreaming? Orhad the long chase and his privations unhinged his mind? He reached forNagger. No! The big black was real, alive, quivering, pounding the sand. He scented an enemy. 

Once more Slone peered down into the void or what seemed a void. But it, too, had changed, lightened. The whole valley was brightening. Greatpalls of curling smoke rose white and yellow, to turn back as themonuments met their crests, and then to roll upward, blotting out thestars. It was such a light as he had never seen, except in dreams. Palemoonlight and dimmed starlight and wan dawn all vague and strange andshadowy under the wild and vivid light of burning grass. 

In the pale path before Slone, that fanlike slope of sand which openeddown into the valley, appeared a swiftly moving black object, like afleeing phantom. It was a phantom horse. Slone felt that his eyes, deceived by his mind, saw racing images. Many a wild chase he had livedin dreams on some far desert. But what was that beating in hisears--sharp, swift, even, rhythmic? Never had his ears played him false. Never had he heard things in his dreams. That running object was a horseand he was coming like the wind. Slone felt something grip his heart. All the time and endurance and pain and thirst and suspense and longingand hopelessness--the agony of the whole endless chase--closed tight onhis heart in that instant. 

The running horse halted just in the belt of light cast by the burninggrass. There he stood sharply defined, clear as a cameo, not a hundredpaces from Slone. It was Wildfire. 

Slone uttered an involuntary cry. Thrill on thrill shot through him. Delight and hope and fear and despair claimed him in swift, successiveflashes. And then again the ruling passion of a rider held him--thesheer glory of a grand and unattainable horse. For Slone gave upWildfire in that splendid moment. How had he ever dared to believe hecould capture that wild stallion? Slone looked and looked, filling hismind, regretting nothing, sure that the moment was reward for all he hadendured. 

The weird lights magnified Wildfire and showed him clearly. He seemedgigantic. He shone black against the fire. His head was high, his maneflying. Behind him the fire flared and the valley-wide column of smokerolled majestically upward, and the great monuments seemed to retreatdarkly and mysteriously as the flames advanced beyond them. It was abeautiful, unearthly spectacle, with its silence the strangest feature. 

But suddenly Wildfire broke that silence with a whistle which to Slone'soverstrained faculties seemed a blast as piercing as the splitting soundof lightning. And with the whistle Wildfire plunged up toward the pass. 

Slone yelled at the top of his lungs and fired his gun before he couldterrorize the stallion and drive him back down the slope. Soon Wildfirebecame again a running black object, and then he disappeared. 

The great line of fire had gotten beyond the monuments and now stretchedunbroken across the valley from wall to slope. Wildfire could neverpierce that line of flames. And now Slone saw, in the paling sky to theeast, that dawn was at hand. 

IV

Slone looked grimly glad when simultaneously with the first red flash ofsunrise a breeze fanned his cheek. All that was needed now was a westwind. And here came the assurance of it. 

The valley appeared hazy and smoky, with slow, rolling clouds low downwhere the line of fire moved. The coming of daylight paled the blaze ofthe grass, though here and there Slone caught flickering glimpses ofdull red flame. The wild stallion kept to the center of the valley, restlessly facing this way and that, but never toward the smoke. Slonemade sure that Wildfire gradually gave ground as the line of smokeslowly worked toward him. 

Every moment the breeze freshened, grew steadier and stronger, untilSlone saw that it began to clear the valley of the low-hanging smoke. There came a time when once more the blazing line extended across fromslope to slope. 

Wildfire was cornered, trapped. Many times Slone nervously uncoiled andrecoiled his lasso. Presently the great chance of his life wouldcome--the hardest and most important throw he would ever have with arope. He did not miss often, but then he missed sometimes, and here hemust be swift and sure. It annoyed him that his hands perspired andtrembled and that something weighty seemed to obstruct his breathing. Hemuttered that he was pretty much worn out, not in the best of conditionfor a hard fight with a wild horse. Still he would capture Wildfire; hismind was unalterably set there. He anticipated that the stallion wouldmake a final and desperate rush past him; and he had his plan of actionall outlined. What worried him was the possibility of Wildfire's doingsome unforeseen feat at the very last. Slone was prepared for hours ofstrained watching, and then a desperate effort, and then a shock thatmight kill Wildfire and cripple Nagger, or a long race and fight. 

But he soon discovered that he was wrong about the long watch and wait. The wind had grown strong and was driving the fire swiftly. The flames, fanned by the breeze, leaped to a formidable barrier. In less than anhour, though the time seemed only a few moments to the excited Slone, Wildfire had been driven down toward the narrowing neck of the valley, and he had begun to run, to and fro, back and forth. Any moment, then, Slone expected him to grow terrorized and to come tearing up toward thepass. 

Wildfire showed evidence of terror, but he did not attempt to make thepass. Instead he went at the right-hand slope of the valley and began toclimb. The slope was steep and soft, yet the stallion climbed up and up. The dust flew in clouds; the gravel rolled down, and the sand followedin long streams. Wildfire showed his keenness by zigzagging up theslope. 

"Go ahead, you red devil!" yelled Slone. He was much elated. In thatsoft bank Wildfire would tire out while not hurting himself. 

Slone watched the stallion in admiration and pity and exultation. Wildfire did not make much headway, for he slipped back almost as muchas he gained. He attempted one place after another where he failed. There was a bank of clay, some few feet high, and he could not round itat either end or surmount it in the middle. Finally he literally pawedand cut a path, much as if he were digging in the sand for water. Whenhe got over that he was not much better off. The slope above was endlessand grew steeper, more difficult toward the top. Slone knew absolutelythat no horse could climb over it. He grew apprehensive, however, forWildfire might stick up there on the slope until the line of firepassed. The horse apparently shunned any near proximity to the fire, andperformed prodigious efforts to escape. 

"He'll be ridin' an avalanche pretty soon, " muttered Slone. 

Long sheets of sand and gravel slid down to spill thinly over the lowbank. Wildfire, now sinking to his knees, worked steadily upward till hehad reached a point halfway up the slope, at the head of a long, yellowbank of treacherous-looking sand. Here he was halted by a low bulge, which he might have surmounted had his feet been free. But he stood deepin the sand. For the first time he looked down at the sweeping fire, andthen at Slone. 

Suddenly the bank of sand began to slide with him. He snorted in fright. The avalanche started slowly and was evidently no mere surface slide. Itwas deep. It stopped--then started again--and again stopped. Wildfireappeared to be sinking deeper and deeper. His struggles only embeddedhim more firmly. Then the bank of sand, with an ominous, low roar, beganto move once more. This time it slipped swiftly. The dust rose in acloud, almost obscuring the horse. Long streams of gravel rattled down, and waterfalls of sand waved over the steppes of the slope. 

Just as suddenly the avalanche stopped again. Slone saw, from the greatoval hole it had left above, that it was indeed deep. That was thereason it did not slide readily. When the dust cleared away Slone sawthe stallion, sunk to his flanks in the sand, utterly helpless. 

With a wild whoop Slone leaped off Nagger, and, a lasso in each hand, heran down the long bank. The fire was perhaps a quarter of a miledistant, and, since the grass was thinning out, it was not coming sofast as it had been. The position of the stallion was halfway betweenthe fire and Slone, and a hundred yards up the slope. 

Like a madman Slone climbed up through the dragging, loose sand. He wasbeside himself with a fury of excitement. He fancied his eyes werefailing him, that it was not possible the great horse really was upthere, helpless in the sand. Yet every huge stride Slone took broughthim closer to a fact he could not deny. In his eagerness he slipped, andfell, and crawled, and leaped, until he reached the slide which heldWildfire prisoner. 

The stallion might have been fast in quicksand, up to his body, for allthe movement he could make. He could move only his head. He held thatup, his eyes wild, showing the whites, his foaming mouth wide open, histeeth gleaming. A sound like a scream rent the air. Terrible fear andhate were expressed in that piercing neigh. And shaggy, wet, dusty red, with all of brute savageness in the look and action of his head, heappeared hideous. 

As Slone leaped within roping distance the avalanche slipped a foot ortwo, halted, slipped once more, and slowly started again with that lowroar. He did not care whether it slipped or stopped. Like a wolf heleaped closer, whirling his rope. The loop hissed round his head andwhistled as he flung it. And when fiercely he jerked back on the rope, the noose closed tight round Wildfire's neck. 

"I--got--a rope--on him!" cried Slone, in hoarse pants. 

He stared, unbelieving. It was unreal, that sight--unreal like the slow, grinding movement of the avalanche under him. Wildfire's head seemed ademon head of hate. It reached out, mouth agape, to bite, to rend. Thathorrible scream could not be the scream of a horse. 

Slone was a wild-horse hunter, a rider, and when that second ofincredulity flashed by, then came the moment of triumph. No moment couldever equal that one, when he realized he stood there with a rope aroundthat grand stallion's neck. All the days and the miles and the toil andthe endurance and the hopelessness and the hunger were paid for in thatmoment. His heart seemed too large for his breast. 

"I tracked--you!" he cried, savagely. "I stayed--with you! An' I got arope--on you! An'--I'll ride you--you red devil!"

The passion of the man was intense. That endless, racking pursuit hadbrought out all the hardness the desert had engendered in him. Almosthate, instead of love, spoke in Slone's words. He hauled on the lasso, pulling the stallion's head down and down. The action was the lust ofcapture as well as the rider's instinctive motive to make the horse fearhim. Life was unquenchably wild and strong in that stallion; it showedin the terror which made him hideous. And man and beast somehowresembled each other in that moment which was inimical to noble life. 

The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacherously loosing itshold for a long plunge. The line of fire below ate at the bleached grassand the long column of smoke curled away on the wind. 

Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with the right heswung the other rope, catching the noose round Wildfire's nose. Thenletting go of the first rope he hauled on the other, pulling the head ofthe stallion far down. Hand over hand Slone closed in on the horse. Heleaped on Wildfire's head, pressed it down, and, holding it down on thesand with his knees, with swift fingers he tied the nose in ahackamore--an improvised halter. Then, just as swiftly, he bound hisscarf tight round Wildfire's head, blindfolding him. 

"All so easy!" exclaimed Slone, under his breath. "Who would believe it!Is it a dream?"

He rose and let the stallion have a free head. 

"Wildfire, I got a rope on you--an' a hackamore--an' a blinder, " saidSlone. "An' if I had a bridle I'd put that on you. Who'd ever believeyou'd catch yourself, draggin' in the sand?"

Slone, finding himself falling on the sand, grew alive to the augmentedmovement of the avalanche. It had begun to slide, to heave and bulge andcrack. Dust rose in clouds from all around. The sand appeared to openand let him sink to his knees. The rattle of gravel was drowned in asoft roar. Then he shot down swiftly, holding the lassos, keepinghimself erect, and riding as if in a boat. He felt the successivesteppes of the slope, and then the long incline below, and then thechecking and rising and spreading of the avalanche as it slowed down onthe level. All movement then was checked violently. He appeared to behalf buried in sand. While he struggled to extricate himself the thickdust blew away and, settled so that he could see. Wildfire lay beforehim, at the edge of the slide, and now he was not so deeply embedded ashe had been up on the slope. He was struggling and probably soon wouldhave been able to get out. The line of fire was close now, but Slone didnot fear that. 

At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, obedient, but snorting, with ears laid back. He halted. A second whistle started him again. Slone finally dug himself out of the sand, pulled the lassos out, andran the length of them toward Nagger. The black showed both fear andfight. His eyes rolled and he half shied away. 

"Come on!" called Slone, harshly. 

He got a hand on the horse, pulled him round, and, mounting in a flash, wound both lassos round the pommel of the saddle. 

"Haul him out, Nagger, old boy!" cried Slone, and he dug spurs into theblack. 

One plunge of Nagger's slid the stallion out of the sand. Snorting, wild, blinded, Wildfire got up, shaking in every limb. He could not seehis enemies. The blowing smoke, right in his nose, made scentimpossible. But in the taut lassos he sensed the direction of hiscaptors. He plunged, rearing at the end of the plunge, and struck outviciously with his hoofs. Slone, quick with spur and bridle, swervedNagger aside and Wildfire, off his balance, went down with a crash. Slone dragged him, stretched him out, pulled him over twice before hegot forefeet planted. Once up, he reared again, screeching his rage, striking wildly with his hoofs. Slone wheeled aside and toppled him overagain. 

"Wildfire, it's no fair fight, " he called, grimly. "But you led me achase. An' you learn right now I'm boss!"

FOOTNOTE:

[2] From _Wildfire_. Copyright, 1916, by Harper and Brothers, New Yorkand London. Reprinted by special permission of author and publisher. 

[Illustration]

III. --The Hydrophobic Skunk[3]

_By Irvin S. Cobb_

THE Hydrophobic Skunk resides at the extreme bottom of the Grand Cañonand, next to a Southern Republican who never asked for a Federal office, is the rarest of living creatures. He is so rare that nobody ever sawhim--that is, nobody except a native. I met plenty of tourists who hadseen people who had seen him, but never a tourist who had seen him withhis own eyes. In addition to being rare, he is highly gifted. 

I think almost anybody will agree with me that the common, ordinaryskunk has been most richly dowered by Nature. To adorn a skunk with anyextra qualifications seems as great a waste of the raw material aspainting the lily or gilding refined gold. He is already amply equippedfor outdoor pursuits. Nobody intentionally shoves him round; everybodygives him as much room as he seems to need. He commands respect--nay, more than that, respect and veneration--wherever he goes. Joy ridersnever run him down and foot passengers avoid crowding him into a corner. You would think Nature had done amply well by the skunk; but no--theHydrophobic Skunk comes along and upsets all these calculations. Besidescarrying the traveling credentials of an ordinary skunk, he is rabid inthe most rabidissimus form. He is not mad just part of the time, likeone's relatives by marriage--and not mad most of the time, like theold-fashioned railroad ticket agent--but mad all the time--incurably, enthusiastically and unanimously mad! He is mad and he is glad of it. 

We made the acquaintance of the Hydrophobic Skunk when we rode downHermit Trail. The casual visitor to the Grand Cañon first of all takesthe rim drive; then he essays Bright Angel Trail, which is sufficientlyscary for his purposes until he gets used to it; and after that he growsmore adventurous and tackles Hermit Trail, which is a marvel ofcorkscrew convolutions, gimleting its way down this red abdominal woundof a cañon to the very gizzard of the world. Here, Johnny, our guide, felt moved to speech, and we hearkened to his words and hungered formore, for Johnny knows the ranges of the Northwest as a city dwellerknows his own little side street. In the fall of the year Johnny comesdown to the Cañon and serves as a guide a while; and then, when he getsso he just can't stand associating with tourists any longer, he packshis war bags and journeys back to the Northern Range and enjoys thecompany of cows a spell. Cows are not exactly exciting, but they don'task fool questions. 

A highly competent young person is Johnny and a cow-puncher of parts. Most of the Cañon guides are cow-punchers--accomplished ones, too, andof high standing in the profession. With a touch of reverence Johnnypointed out to us Sam Scovel, the greatest bronco buster of his time, now engaged in piloting tourists. 

"Can he ride?" echoed Johnny in answer to our question. "Scovel couldride an earthquake if she stood still long enough for him to mount! Herode Steamboat--not Young Steamboat, but Old Steamboat! He rode RockingChair, and he's the only man that ever did that and was not called on ina couple of days to attend his own funeral. "

We went on and on at a lazy mule trot, hearing the unwritten annals ofthe range from one who had seen them enacted at first hand. Pretty soonwe passed a herd of burros with mealy, dusty noses and spotty hides, feeding on prickly pears and rock lichens; and just before sunset weslid down the last declivity out upon the plateau and came to a camp aswas a camp!

This was roughing it de luxe with a most de-luxey vengeance! Here werethree tents, or rather three canvas houses, with wooden half walls; andthey were spick-and-span inside and out, and had glass windows in themand doors and matched wooden floors. . . . The mess tent was providedwith a table with a clean cloth to go over it, and there were chinadishes and china cups and shiny knives, forks and spoons. . . . Bill wasin charge of the camp--a dark, rangy, good-looking leading man of acowboy, wearing his blue shirt and his red neckerchief with an air. 

That Johnny certainly could cook! Served on china dishes upon acloth-covered table, we had mounds of fried steaks and shoals of friedbacon; and a bushel, more or less, of sheepherder potatoes; and greenpeas and sliced peaches out of cans; and sour-dough biscuits as light askisses and much more filling; and fresh butter and fresh milk; andcoffee as black as your hat and strong as sin. How easy it is forcivilized man to become primitive and comfortable in his way of eating, especially if he has just ridden ten miles on a buckboard and nine moreon a mule and is away down at the bottom of the Grand Cañon--and thereis nobody to look on disapprovingly when he takes a bite that would be acredit to a steam shovel!

Despite all reports to the contrary, I wish to state that it is notrouble at all to eat green peas off a knife-blade--you merely mix themin with potatoes for a cement; and fried steak--take it from an oldsteak eater--tastes best when eaten with those tools of Nature's ownproviding, both hands and your teeth. An hour passed--busy, yetpleasant--and we were both gorged to the gills and had reared back withour cigars lit to enjoy a third jorum of black coffee apiece, whenJohnny, speaking in an offhand way to Bill, who was still hiding awaybiscuits inside of himself like a parlor prestidigitator, said:

"Seen any of them old Hydrophobies the last day or two?"

"Not so many, " said Bill casually. "There was a couple out last nightpirootin' round in the moonlight. I reckon, though, there'll be quite aflock of 'em out to-night. A new moon always seems to fetch 'em up fromthe river. "

Both of us quit blowing on our coffee and we put the cups down. I thinkI was the one who spoke. 

"I beg your pardon, " I asked, "but what did you say would be outto-night?"

"We were just speakin' to one another about them Hydrophoby Skunks, "said Bill apologetically. "This here Cañon is where they mostly hang outand frolic 'round. "

I laid down my cigar, too. I admit I was interested. 

"Oh!" I said softly--like that. "Is it? Do they?"

"Yes, " said Johnny. "I reckin there's liable to be one come shovin' hisold nose into that door any minute. Or probably two--they mostly travelsin pairs--sets, as you might say. "

"You'd know one the minute you saw him, though, " said Bill. "They'resmaller than a regular skunk and spotted where the other kind isstriped. And they got little red eyes. You won't have no trouble at allrecognizin' one. "

It was at this juncture that we both got up and moved back by the stove. It was warmer there and the chill of evening seemed to be settling downnoticeably. 

"Funny thing about Hydrophoby Skunks, " went on Johnny after a moment ofpensive thought--"mad, you know!"

"What makes them mad?" The two of us asked the question together. 

"Born that way!" explained Bill--"mad from the start, and won't never donothin' to get shut of it. "

"Ahem--they never attack humans, I suppose?"

"Don't they?" said Johnny, as if surprised at such ignorance. "Why, humans is their favorite pastime! Humans is just pie to a HydrophobySkunk. It ain't really any fun to be bit by a Hydrophoby Skunk neither. "He raised his coffee cup to his lips and imbibed deeply. 

"Which you certainly said something then, Johnny, " stated Bill. "Yousee, " he went on, turning to us, "they aim to catch you asleep and theycreep up right soft and take holt of you--take holt of a yearusually--and clamp their teeth and just hang on for further orders. Somesays they hang on till it thunders, same as snappin' turtles. But that'sa lie, I judge, because there's weeks on a stretch down here when itdon't thunder. All the cases I ever heard of they let go at sunup. "

"It is right painful at the time, " said Johnny, taking up the thread ofthe narrative; "and then in nine days you go mad yourself. Remember thatfellow the Hydrophoby Skunk bit down here by the rapids, Bill? Let's seenow--what was that hombre's name?"

"Williams, " supplied Bill--"Heck Williams. I saw him at Flagstaff whenthey took him there to the hospital. That guy certainly did carry onregardless. First he went mad and his eyes turned red, and he got so hedidn't have no real use for water--well, them prospectors don't nevercare much about water anyway--and then he got to snappin' and bitin' andfoamin' so's they had to strap him down to his bed. He got loosethough. "

"Broke loose, I suppose?" I said. 

"No, he bit loose, " said Bill with the air of one who would not deceiveyou even in a matter of small details. 

"Do you mean to say he bit those leather straps in two?"

"No, sir; he couldn't reach them, " explained Bill, "so he bit the bed intwo. Not in one bite, of course, " he went on. "It took him several. Isaw him after he was laid out. He really wasn't no credit to himself asa corpse. "

I'm not sure, but I think my companion and I were holding hands by now. Outside we could hear that little lost echo laughing to itself. It wasno time to be laughing either. Under certain circumstances I don't knowof a lonelier place anywhere on earth than that Grand Cañon. 

Presently my friend spoke, and it seemed to me his voice was a mitehusky. Well, he had a bad cold. 

"You said they mostly attack persons who are sleeping out, didn't you?"

"That's right, too, " said Johnny, and Bill nodded in affirmation. 

"Then, of course, since we sleep indoors everything will be all right, "I put in. 

"Well, yes and no, " answered Johnny. "In the early part of the evening aHydrophoby is liable to do a lot of prowlin' round outdoors; but towardmornin' they like to get into camps--they dig up under the side walls orcome up through the floor--and they seem to prefer to get in bed withyou. They're cold-blooded, I reckin, same as rattlesnakes. Cool nightsalways do drive 'em in, seems like. "

"It's going to be sort of coolish to-night, " said Bill casually. 

It certainly was. I don't remember a chillier night in years. My teethwere chattering a little--from cold--before we turned in. I retired withall my clothes on, including my boots and leggings, and I wished I hadbrought along my ear muffs. I also buttoned my watch into my lefthandshirt pocket, the idea being if for any reason I should conclude to moveduring the night I would be fully equipped for traveling. The door wouldnot stay closely shut--the door-jamb had sagged a little and the windkept blowing the door ajar. But after a while we dozed off. 

It was one twenty-seven A. M. When I woke with a violent start. I knowthis was the exact time because that was when my watch stopped. I peeredabout me in the darkness. The door was wide open--I could tell that. Down on the floor there was a dragging, scuffling sound, and from almostbeneath me a pair of small red eyes peered up phosphorescently. 

"He's here!" I said to my companion as I emerged from my blankets; andhe, waking instantly, seemed instinctively to know whom I meant. I usedto wonder at the ease with which a cockroach can climb a perfectlysmooth wall and run across the ceiling. I know now that to do this isthe easiest thing in the world--if you have the proper incentive behindyou. I had gone up one wall of the tent and had crossed over and was inthe act of coming down the other side when Bill burst in, his eyesblurred with sleep, a lighted lamp in one hand and a gun in the other. 

I never was so disappointed in my life because it wasn't a HydrophobicSkunk at all. It was a pack rat, sometimes called a trade rat, paying usa visit. The pack or trade rat is also a denizen of the Grand Cañon. Heis about four times as big as an ordinary rat and has an appetite tocorrespond. He sometimes invades your camp and makes free with yourthings, but he never steals anything outright--he merely trades withyou; hence his name. He totes off a side of meat or a bushel of meal andbrings a cactus stalk in; or he will confiscate your saddlebags andleave you in exchange a nice dry chip. He is honest, but from what I cangather he never gets badly stuck on a deal. 

Next morning at breakfast Johnny and Bill were doing a lot of laughingbetween them over something or other. 

FOOTNOTE:

[3] From _Roughing It de Luxe_. Copyright, 1914, by George H. DoranCompany. Reprinted by special permission of author and publisher. 

[Illustration]

IV. --The Ole Virginia[4]

_By Stewart Edward White_

THE ring around the sun had thickened all day long, and the turquoiseblue of the Arizona sky had filmed. Storms in the dry countries areinfrequent, but heavy; and this surely meant storm. We had ridden sincesunup over broad mesas, down and out of deep cañons, along the base ofthe mountains in the wildest parts of the territory. The cattle werewinding leisurely toward the high country; the jack rabbits haddisappeared; the quail lacked; we did not see a single antelope in theopen. 

"It's a case of hold up, " the Cattleman ventured his opinion. "I have aranch over in the Double R. Charley and Windy Bill hold it down. We'lltackle it. What do you think?"

The four cowboys agreed. We dropped into a low, broad watercourse, ascended its bed to big cottonwoods and flowing water, followed it intobox cañons between rim rock carved fantastically and painted like aMoorish façade, until at last in a widening below a rounded hill, wecame upon an adobe house, a fruit tree, and a round corral. This was theDouble R. 

Charley and Windy Bill welcomed us with soda biscuits. We turned ourhorses out, spread our beds on the floor, filled our pipes, and squattedon our heels. Various dogs of various breeds investigated us. It wasvery pleasant, and we did not mind the ring around the sun. 

"Somebody else coming, " announced the Cattleman finally. 

"Uncle Jim, " said Charley, after a glance. 

A hawk-faced old man with a long white beard and long white hair rodeout from the cottonwoods. He had on a battered broad hat abnormally highof crown, carried across his saddle a heavy "eight square" rifle, andwas followed by a half-dozen lolloping hounds. 

The largest and fiercest of the latter, catching sight of our group, launched himself with lightning rapidity at the biggest of the ranchdogs, promptly nailed that canine by the back of the neck, shook himviolently a score of times, flung him aside, and pounced on the next. During the ensuing few moments that hound was the busiest thing in theWest. He satisfactorily whipped four dogs, pursued two cats up a tree, upset the Dutch oven and the rest of the soda biscuits, stampeded thehorses, and raised a cloud of dust adequate to represent the smoke ofbattle. We others were too paralyzed to move. Uncle Jim sat placidly onhis white horse, his thin knees bent to the ox-bow stirrups, smoking. 

In ten seconds the trouble was over, principally because there was nomore trouble to make. The hound returned leisurely, licking from hischops the hair of his victims. Uncle Jim shook his head. 

"Trailer, " said he sadly, "is a little severe. "

We agreed heartily, and turned in to welcome Uncle Jim with a freshbatch of soda biscuits. 

The old man was one of the typical "long hairs. " He had come to theGaliuro Mountains in '69, and since '69 he had remained in the GaliuroMountains, spite of man or the devil. At present he possessed somehundreds of cattle, which he was reputed to water, in a dry season, froman ordinary dish pan. In times past he had prospected. 

That evening, the severe Trailer having dropped to slumber, he heldforth on big-game hunting and dogs, quartz claims and Apaches. 

"Did you ever have any very close calls?" I asked. 

He ruminated a few moments, refilled his pipe with some awful tobacco, and told the following experience:

"In the time of Geronimo I was living just about where I do now; andthat was just about in line with the raiding. You see, Geronimo, and Ju, and old Loco used to pile out of the reservation at Camp Apache, raidsouth to the line, slip over into Mexico when the soldiers got toopromiscuous, and raid there until they got ready to come back. Thenthere was always a big medicine talk. Says Geronimo:

"'I am tired of the warpath. I will come back from Mexico with all mywarriors, if you will escort me with soldiers and protect my people. '

"'All right, ' says the General, being only too glad to get him back atall. 

"So, then, in ten minutes there wouldn't be a buck in camp, but nextmorning they shows up again, each with about fifty head of hosses. 

"'Where'd you get those hosses?' asks the General, suspicious. 

"'Had 'em pastured in the hills, ' answers Geronimo. 

"'I can't take all those hosses with me; I believe they're stolen!' saysthe General. 

"'My people cannot go without their hosses, ' says Geronimo. 

"So, across the line they goes, and back to the reservation. In about aweek there's fifty-two frantic Greasers wanting to know where's theirhosses. The army is nothing but an importer of stolen stock, and knowsit, and can't help it. 

"Well, as I says, I'm between Camp Apache and the Mexican line, so thatevery raiding party goes right on past me. The point is that I'm athousand feet or so above the valley, and the renegades is in such ahurry about that time that they never stop to climb up and collect me. Often I've watched them trailing down the valley in a cloud of dust. Then, in a day or two, a squad of soldiers would come up and camp at myspring for a while. They used to send soldiers to guard every water holein the country so the renegades couldn't get water. After a while, fromnot being bothered none, I got to thinking I wasn't worth while withthem. 

"Me and Johnny Hooper were pecking away at the Ole Virginia mine then. We'd got down about sixty feet, all timbered, and was thinking ofcrosscutting. One day Johnny went to town, and that same day I got in ahurry and left my gun at camp. 

"I worked all the morning down at the bottom of the shaft, and when Isee by the sun it was getting along towards noon, I put in three goodshots, tamped 'em down, lit the fuses, and started to climb out. 

"It ain't noways pleasant to light a fuse in a shaft, and then have toclimb out a fifty-foot ladder, with it burning behind you. I never didget used to it. You keep thinking, 'Now, suppose there's a flaw in thatfuse, or something, and she goes off in six seconds instead of twominutes? Where'll you be then?' It would give you a good boost towardsyour home on high, anyway. 

"So I climbed fast, and stuck my head out the top without looking--andthen I froze solid enough. There, about fifty feet away, climbing upthe hill on mighty tired hosses, was a dozen of the ugliest Chiricahuasyou ever don't want to meet, and in addition a Mexican renegade namedMaria, who was worse than any of 'em. I see at once their hosses wastired out, and they had a notion of camping at my water hole, notknowing nothing about the Ole Virginia mine. 

"For two bits I'd have let go all holts and dropped backwards, trustingto my thick head for easy lighting. Then I heard a little fizz andsputter from below. At that my hair riz right up so I could feel thebreeze blow under my hat. For about six seconds I stood there like animbecile, grinning amiably. Then one of the Chiricahuas made a sort ofgrunt, and I sabed that they'd seen the original exhibit your Uncle Jimwas making of himself. 

"Then that fuse gave another sputter and one of the Apaches said, 'Undah. ' That means 'white man. ' It was harder to turn my head than if I'dhad a stiff neck; but I managed to do it, and I see that my ore dumpwasn't more than ten foot away. I mighty near overjumped it; and thenext I knew I was on one side of it and those Apaches on the other. Probably I flew; leastways I don't seem to remember jumping. 

"That didn't seem to do me much good. The renegades were grinning andlaughing to think how easy a thing they had; and I couldn't rightlythink up any arguments against the notion--at least from theirstandpoint. They were chattering away to each other in Mexican for thebenefit of Maria. Oh, they had me all distributed, down to my suspenderbuttons! And me squatting behind that ore dump about as formidable as abrush rabbit!

"Then, all at once, one of my shots went off down in the shaft. 

"'Boom!' says she, plenty big; and a slather of rocks and stones comeout of the mouth, and began to dump down promiscuous on the scenery. Igot one little one in the shoulder blade, and found time to wish my oredump had a roof. But those renegades caught it square in the thick oftrouble. One got knocked out entirely for a minute, by a nice piece ofcountry rock in the head. 

"'Otra vez!' yells I, which means 'again. '

"'Boom!' goes the Ole Virginia prompt as an answer. 

"I put in my time dodging, but when I gets a chance to look, the Apacheshas all got to cover and is looking scared. 

"'Otra vez!' yells I again. 

"'Boom!' says the Ole Virginia. 

"This was the biggest shot of the lot, and she surely cut loose. I oughtto have been halfway up the hill watching things from a safe distance, but I wasn't. Lucky for me the shaft was a little on the drift, so shedidn't quite shoot my way. But she distributed about a ton over thoserenegades. They sort of half got to their feet uncertain. 

"'Otra vez!' yells I once more, as bold as if I could keep her shootingall day. 

"It was just a cold, raw blazer; and if it didn't go through I could seeme as an Apache parlor ornament. But it did. Those Chiricahuas give oneyell and skipped. It was surely a funny sight, after they got aboardtheir war ponies, to see them trying to dig out on horses too tired totrot. 

"I didn't stop to get all the laughs, though. In fact, I give one jumpoff that ledge, and I lit a-running. A quarter-hoss couldn't have beatme to that shack. There I grabbed my good old gun, old Meat-in-the-pot, and made a climb for the tall country. "

Uncle Jim stopped with an air of finality, and began lazily to refillhis pipe. From the open mud fireplace he picked a coal. Outside, therain, faithful to the prophecy of the wide-ringed sun, beat fitfullyagainst the roof. 

"That was the closest call I ever had, " said he at last. 

FOOTNOTE:

[4] From _Arizona Nights_. Reprinted by special permission of publisherand author. Copyright, 1907, by Doubleday, Page and Company. 

[Illustration]

V. --The Weight of Obligation[5]

_By Rex Beach_

THIS is the story of a burden, the tale of a load that irked a strongman's shoulders. To those who do not know the North it may seem strange, but to those who understand the humors of men in solitude, and theextravagant vagaries that steal in upon their minds, as fog drifts withthe night, it will not appear unusual. There are spirits in thewilderness, eerie forces which play pranks; some droll or whimsical, others grim. 

Johnny Cantwell and Mortimer Grant were partners, trail mates, brothersin soul if not in blood. The ebb and flood of frontier life had broughtthem together, its hardships had united them until they were as one. They were something of a mystery to each other, neither havingsurrendered all his confidence, and because of this they retained theirmutual attraction. They had met by accident, but they remained togetherby desire. 

The spirit of adventure bubbled merrily within them, and it led theminto curious byways. It was this which sent them northward from theStates in the dead of winter, on the heels of the Stony River strike; itwas this which induced them to land at Katmai instead of Illiamna, whither their land journey should have commenced. 

"There are two routes over the coast range, " the captain of the _Dora_told them, "and only two. Illiamna Pass is low and easy, but thedistance is longer than by way of Katmai. I can land you at eitherplace. "

"Katmai is pretty tough, isn't it?" Grant inquired. 

"We've understood it's the worst pass in Alaska. " Cantwell's eyes wereeager. 

"It's awful! Nobody travels it except natives, and they don't like it. Now, Illiamna--"

"We'll try Katmai. Eh, Mort?"

"Sure! They don't come hard enough for us, Cap. We'll see if it's as badas it's painted. "

So, one gray January morning they were landed on a frozen beach, theiroutfit was flung ashore through the surf, the lifeboat pulled away, andthe _Dora_ disappeared after a farewell toot of her whistle. Their lastglimpse of her showed the captain waving good-by and the purser flappinga red tablecloth at them from the after-deck. 

"Cheerful place, this, " Grant remarked, as he noted the desolatesurroundings of dune and hillside. 

The beach itself was black and raw where the surf washed it, butelsewhere all was white, save for the thickets of alder and willow whichprotruded nakedly. The bay was little more than a hollow scooped out ofthe Alaskan range; along the foothills behind there was a belt of spruceand cottonwood and birch. It was a lonely and apparently unpeopledwilderness in which they had been set down. 

"Seems good to be back in the North again, doesn't it?" said Cantwell, cheerily. "I'm tired of the booze, and the street cars, and the dames, and all that civilized stuff. I'd rather be broke in Alaska--withyou--than a banker's son, back home. "

Soon a globular Russian half-breed, the Katmai trader, appeared amongthe dunes, and with him were some native villagers. That night thepartners slept in a snug log cabin, the roof of which was chained downwith old ships' cables. Petellin, the fat little trader, explained thatroofs in Katmai had a way of sailing off to seaward when the wind blew. He listened to their plan of crossing the divide and nodded. 

It could be done, of course, he agreed, but they were foolish to try it, when the Illiamna route was open. Still, now that they were here, hewould find dogs for them, and a guide. The village hunters were outafter meat, however, and until they returned the white men would need towait in patience. 

There followed several days of idleness, during which Cantwell and Grantamused themselves around the village, teasing the squaws, playing gameswith the boys, and flirting harmlessly with the girls, one of whom, inparticular, was not unattractive. She was perhaps three-quarters Aleut, the other quarter being plain coquette, and, having been educated at thetown of Kodiak, she knew the ways and the wiles of the white man. 

Cantwell approached her, and she met his extravagant advances more thanhalfway. They were getting along nicely together when Grant, in a spiritof fun, entered the game and won her fickle smiles for himself. He jokedhis partner unmercifully, and Johnny accepted defeat gracefully, nevergiving the matter a second thought. 

When the hunters returned, dogs were bought, a guide was hired, and, aweek after landing, the friends were camped at timber line awaiting afavorable moment for their dash across the range. Above them, whitehillsides rose in irregular leaps to the gash in the saw-toothed barrierwhich formed the pass; below them a short valley led down to Katmai andthe sea. The day was bright, the air clear, nevertheless after the guidehad stared up at the peaks for a time he shook his head, then reënteredthe tent and lay down. The mountains were "smoking"; from their topsstreamed a gossamer veil which the travelers knew to be drifting snowclouds carried by the wind. It meant delay, but they were patient. 

They were up and going on the following morning, however, with theIndian in the lead. There was no trail; the hills were steep; in placesthey were forced to unload the sled and hoist their outfit by means ofropes, and as they mounted higher the snow deepened. It lay like loosesand, only lighter; it shoved ahead of the sled in a feathery mass; thedogs wallowed in it and were unable to pull, hence the greater part ofthe work devolved upon the men. Once above the foothills and into therange proper, the going became more level, but the snow remainedknee-deep. 

The Indian broke trail stolidly; the partners strained at the sled, which hung back like a leaden thing. By afternoon the dogs had becomedisheartened and refused to heed the whip. There was neither fuel norrunning water, and therefore the party did not pause for luncheon. Themen were sweating profusely from their exertions and had long sincebecome parched with thirst, but the dry snow was like chalk and scouredtheir throats. 

Cantwell was the first to show the effects of his unusual exertions, fornot only had he assumed a lion's share of the work, but the last fewmonths of easy living had softened his muscles, and in consequence hisvitality was quickly spent. His undergarments were drenched; he wasfearfully dry inside; a terrible thirst seemed to penetrate his wholebody; he was forced to rest frequently. 

Grant eyed him with some concern, finally inquiring, "Feel bad, Johnny?"

Cantwell nodded. Their fatigue made both men economical of language. 

"What's the matter?"

"Thirsty!" The former could barely speak. 

"There won't be any water till we get across. You'll have to stand it. "

They resumed their duties; the Indian "swish-swished" ahead, as ifwading through a sea of swan's-down; the dogs followed listlessly; thepartners leaned against the stubborn load. 

A faint breath finally came out of the north, causing Grant and theguide to study the sky anxiously. Cantwell was too weary to heed theincreasing cold. The snow on the slopes above began to move; here andthere, on exposed ridges, it rose in clouds and puffs; the cleancutoutlines of the hills became obscured as by a fog; the languid wind bitcruelly. 

After a time Johnny fell back upon the sled and exclaimed: "I'm--all in, Mort. Don't seem to have the--guts. " He was pale, his eyes weretortured. He scooped a mitten full of snow and raised it to his lips, then spat it out, still dry. 

"Here! Brace up!" In a panic of apprehension at this collapse Grantshook him; he had never known Johnny to fail like this. "Take a drink;it'll do you good. " He drew a bottle from one of the dunnage bags andCantwell seized it avidly. It was wet; it would quench his thirst, hethought. Before Mort could check him he had drunk a third of thecontents. 

The effect was almost instantaneous, for Cantwell's stomach was emptyand his tissues seemed to absorb the liquor like a dry sponge; hisfatigue fell away, he became suddenly strong and vigorous again. Butbefore he had gone a hundred yards the reaction followed. First his mindgrew thick, then his limbs became unmanageable and his muscles flabby. He was drunk. Yet it was a strange and dangerous intoxication, againstwhich he struggled desperately. He fought it for perhaps a quarter of amile before it mastered him; then he gave up. 

Both men knew that stimulants are never taken on the trail, but they hadnever stopped to reason why, and even now they did not attributeJohnny's breakdown to the brandy. After a while he stumbled and fell, then, the cool snow being grateful to his face, he sprawled theremotionless until Mort dragged him to the sled. He stared at his partnerin perplexity and laughed foolishly. The wind was increasing, darknesswas near, they had not yet reached the Bering slope. 

Something in the drunken man's face frightened Grant and, extracting aship's biscuit from the grub box, he said, hurriedly: "Here, Johnny. Getsomething under your belt, quick. "

Cantwell obediently munched the hard cracker, but there was no moistureon his tongue; his throat was paralyzed; the crumbs crowded themselvesfrom the corners of his lips. He tried with limber fingers to stuffthem down, or to assist the muscular action of swallowing, but finallyexpelled them in a cloud. Mort drew the parka hood over his partner'shead, for the wind cut like a scythe and the dogs were turning tail toit, digging holes in the snow for protection. The air about them waslike yeast; the light was fading. 

The Indian snowshoed his way back, advising a quick camp until the stormabated, but to this suggestion Grant refused to listen, knowing only toowell the peril of such a course. Nor did he dare take Johnny on thesled, since the fellow was half asleep already, but instead whipped upthe dogs and urged his companion to follow as best he could. 

When Cantwell fell, for a second time, he returned, dragged him forward, and tied his wrists firmly, yet loosely, to the load. 

The storm was pouring over them now, like water out of a spout; itseared and blinded them; its touch was like that of a flame. Nevertheless they struggled on into the smother, making what headwaythey could. The Indian led, pulling at the end of a rope; Grant strainedat the sled and hoarsely encouraged the dogs; Cantwell stumbled andlurched in the rear like an unwilling prisoner. When he fell hiscompanion lifted him, then beat him, cursed him, tried in every way torouse him from his lethargy. 

After an interminable time they found they were descending and this gavethem heart to plunge ahead more rapidly. The dogs began to trot as thesled overran them; they rushed blindly into gullies, fetching up at thebottom in a tangle, and Johnny followed in a nerveless, stupefiedcondition. He was dragged like a sack of flour for his legs were limpand he lacked muscular control, but every dash, every fall, every quickdescent drove the sluggish blood through his veins and cleared his brainmomentarily. Such moments were fleeting, however; much of the time hismind was a blank, and it was only by a mechanical effort that he foughtoff unconsciousness. 

He had vague memories of many beatings at Mort's hands, of the slipperyclean-swept ice of a stream over which he limply skidded, of beingcarried into a tent where a candle flickered and a stove roared. Grantwas holding something hot to his lips, and then--

It was morning. He was weak and sick; he felt as if he had awakened froma hideous dream. "I played out, didn't I?" he queried, wonderingly. 

"You sure did, " Grant laughed. "It was a tight squeak, old boy. I neverthought I'd get you through. "

"Played out! I--can't understand it. " Cantwell prided himself on hisstrength and stamina, therefore the truth was unbelievable. He and Morthad long been partners, they had given and taken much at each other'shands, but this was something altogether different. Grant had saved hislife, at risk of his own; the older man's endurance had been the greaterand he had used it to good advantage. It embarrassed Johnny tremendouslyto realize that he had proved unequal to his share of the work, for hehad never before experienced such an obligation. He apologizedrepeatedly during the few days he lay sick, and meanwhile Mort waitedupon him like a mother. 

Cantwell was relieved when at last they had abandoned camp, changedguides at the next village, and were on their way along the coast, forsomehow he felt very sensitive about his collapse. He was, in fact, extremely ashamed of himself. 

Once he had fully recovered he had no further trouble, but soon roundedinto fit condition and showed no effects of his ordeal. Day after day heand Mort traveled through the solitudes, their isolation broken only byoccasional glimpses of native villages, where they rested briefly andrenewed their supply of dog feed. 

But although the younger man was now as well and strong as ever, he wasuncomfortably conscious that his trail mate regarded him as the weakerof the two and shielded him in many ways. Grant performed most of theunpleasant tasks, and occasionally cautioned Johnny about overdoing. This protective attitude at first amused, then offended Cantwell, itgalled him until he was upon the point of voicing his resentment, butreflected that he had no right to object, for, judging by pastperformances, he had proved his inferiority. This uncomfortablerealization forever arose to prevent open rebellion, but he assertedhimself secretly by robbing Grant of his self-appointed tasks. He rosefirst in the mornings, he did the cooking, he lengthened his turnsahead of the dogs, he mended harness after the day's hike had ended. Ofcourse the older man objected, and for a time they had a good-naturedrivalry as to who should work and who should rest--only it was not quiteso good-natured on Cantwell's part as he made it appear. 

Mort broke out in friendly irritation one day: "Don't try to doeverything, Johnny. Remember I'm no cripple. "

"Humph! You proved that. I guess it's up to me to do your work. "

"Oh, forget that day on the pass, can't you?"

Johnny grunted a second time, and from his tone it was evident that hewould never forget, unpleasant though the memory remained. Sensing hissullen resentment, the other tried to rally him, but made a bad job ofit. The humor of men in the open is not delicate; their wit and theirwords become coarsened in direct proportion as they revert to theprimitive; it is one effect of the solitudes. 

Grant spoke extravagantly, mockingly, of his own superiority in a waywhich ordinarily would have brought a smile to Cantwell's lips, but thelatter did not smile. He taunted Johnny humorously on his lack ofphysical prowess, his lack of good looks and manly qualities--somethingwhich had never failed to result in a friendly exchange of badinage; heeven teased him about his defeat with the Katmai girl. 

Cantwell did respond finally, but afterward he found himself wonderingif Mort could have been in earnest. He dismissed the thought with someimpatience. But men on the trail have too much time for their thoughts;there is nothing in the monotonous routine of the day's work to distractthem, so the partner who had played out dwelt more and more upon hisdebt and upon his friend's easy assumption of preëminence. The weight ofobligation began to chafe him, lightly at first, but withever-increasing discomfort. He began to think that Grant honestlyconsidered himself the better man, merely because chance had played intohis hands. 

It was silly, even childish, to dwell on the subject, he reflected, andyet he could not banish it from his mind. It was always before him, inone form or another. He felt the strength in his lean muscles, andsneered at the thought that Mort should be deceived. If it came to aphysical test he felt sure he could break his slighter partner with hisbare hands, and as for endurance--well, he was hungry for a chance todemonstrate it. 

They talked little; men seldom converse in the wastes, for there issomething about the silence of the wilderness which discourages speech. And no land is so grimly silent, so hushed and soundless, as the frozenNorth. For days they marched through desolation, without glimpse ofhuman habitation, without sight of track or trail, without sound of ahuman voice to break the monotony. There was no game in the country, with the exception of an occasional bird or rabbit, nothing but thewhite hills, the fringe of alder tops along the watercourses, and thethickets of gnarled, unhealthy spruce in the smothered valleys. 

Their destination was a mysterious stream at the headwaters of theunmapped Kuskokwim, where rumor said there was gold, and whither theyfeared other men were hastening from the mining country far to thenorth. 

Now it is a penalty of the White Country that men shall think of women;Cantwell began to brood upon the Katmai girl, for she was the last; hereyes were haunting and distance had worked its usual enchantment. Hereflected that Mort had shouldered him aside and won her favor, thenboasted of it. Johnny awoke one night with a dream of her, and layquivering. 

"She was only a squaw, " he said, half aloud. "If I'd really tried--"

Grant lay beside him, snoring, the heat of their bodies intermingled. The waking man tried to compose himself, but his partner's stertorousbreathing irritated him beyond measure; for a long time he remainedmotionless, staring into the gray blurr of the tent top. He had playedout. He owed his life to the man who had cheated him of the Katmai girl, and that man knew it. He had become a weak, helpless thing, dependentupon another's strength, and that other now accepted his superiority asa matter of course. The obligation was insufferable, and--it wasunjust. The North had played him a devilish trick, it had betrayed him, it had bound him to his benefactor with chains of gratitude which wereirksome. Had they been real chains they could have galled him no morethan at this moment. 

As time passed the men spoke less frequently to each other. Grant joshedhis mate roughly, once or twice, masking beneath an assumption ofjocularity his own vague irritation at the change that had come overthem. It was as if he had probed at an open wound with clumsy fingers. 

Cantwell had by this time assumed most of those petty camp tasks whichprovoke tired trailers, those humdrum duties which are so trying toexhausted nerves, and of course they wore upon him as they wear uponevery man. But, once he had taken them over, he began to resent Grant'seasy relinquishment; it rankled him to realize how willingly the otherallowed him to do the cooking, the dish-washing, the fire-building, thebed-making. Little monotonies of this kind form the hardest part ofwinter travel, they are the rocks upon which friendships founder andpartnerships are wrecked. Out on the trail, nature equalizes the work toa great extent, and no man can shirk unduly, but in camp, inside thecramped confines of a tent pitched on boughs laid over the snow, it isvery different. There one must busy himself while the other rests andkeeps his legs out of the way if possible. One man sits on the beddingat the rear of the shelter, and shivers, while the other squats over atantalizing fire of green wood, blistering his face and parboiling hislimbs inside his sweaty clothing. Dishes must be passed, food divided, and it is poor food, poorly prepared at best. Sometimes men criticizeand voice longings for better grub and better cooking. Remarks of thiskind have been known to result in tragedies, bitter words and flamingcurses--then, perhaps, wild actions, memories of which the later yearscan never erase. 

It is but one prank of the wilderness, one grim manifestation of itssilent forces. 

Had Grant been unable to do his part Cantwell would have willinglyaccepted the added burden, but Mort was able, he was nimble and "handy, "he was the better cook of the two; in fact, he was the better man inevery way--or so he believed. Cantwell sneered at the last thought, andthe memory of his debt was like bitter medicine. 

His resentment--in reality nothing more than a phase of insanity begotof isolation and silence--could not help but communicate itself to hiscompanion, and there resulted a mutual antagonism, which grew into adislike, then festered into something more, something strange, reasonless, yet terribly vivid and amazingly potent for evil. Neitherman ever mentioned it--their tongues were clenched between their teethand they held themselves in check with harsh hands--but it wasconstantly in their minds, nevertheless. No man who has not suffered themanifold irritations of such an intimate association can appreciate thegnawing canker of animosity like this. It was dangerous because therewas no relief from it: the two were bound together as by gyves; theyshared each other's every action and every plan; they trod in eachother's tracks, slept in the same bed, ate from the same plate. Theywere like prisoners ironed to the same staple. 

Each fought the obsession in his own way, but it is hard to fight theimpalpable, hence their sick fancies grew in spite of themselves. Theirminds needed food to prey upon, but found none. Each began to criticizethe other silently, to sneer at his weaknesses, to meditate derisivelyupon his peculiarities. After a time they no longer resisted the advanceof these poisonous thoughts, but welcomed it. 

On more than one occasion the embers of their wrath were upon the pointof bursting into flame, but each realized that the first ill-consideredword would serve to slip the leash from those demons that were strainingto go free, and so managed to restrain himself. 

The crisis came one crisp morning when a dog team whirled around a bendin the river and a white man hailed them. He was the mail carrier, onhis way out from Nome, and he brought news of the "inside. "

"Where are you boys bound for?" he inquired when greetings were overand gossip of the trail had passed. 

"We're going to the Stony River strike, " Grant told him. 

"Stony River? Up the Kuskokwim?"

"Yes!"

The mail man laughed. "Can you beat that? Ain't you heard about StonyRiver?"

"No!"

"Why, it's a fake--no such place. "

There was a silence; the partners avoided each other's eyes. 

"MacDonald, the fellow that started it, is on his way to Dawson. There'sa gang after him, too, and if he's caught it'll go hard with him. Hewrote the letters--to himself--and spread the news just to raise agrubstake. He cleaned up big before they got onto him. He peddled histips for real money. "

"Yes!" Grant spoke quietly. "Johnny bought one. That's what brought usfrom Seattle. We went out on the last boat and figured we'd come in fromthis side before the break-up. So--fake!"

"Gee! You fellers bit good. " The mail carrier shook his head. "Well!You'd better keep going now; you'll get to Nome before the season opens. Better take dogfish from Bethel--it's four bits a pound on the Yukon. Sorry I didn't hit your camp last night; we'd 'a' had a visit. Tell thegang that you saw me. " He shook hands ceremoniously, yelled at hispanting dogs, and went swiftly on his way, waving a mitten on high as hevanished around the next bend. 

The partners watched him go, then Grant turned to Johnny, and repeated:"Fake! MacDonald stung you. "

Cantwell's face went as white as the snow behind him, his eyes blazed. "Why did you tell him I bit?" he demanded harshly. 

"Hunh! _Didn't_ you bite? Two thousand miles afoot; three months ofHades; for nothing. That's biting some. "

"_Well!_" The speaker's face was convulsed, and Grant's flamed with ananswering anger. They glared at each other for a moment. "Don't blameme. You fell for it, too. "

"I----" Mort checked his rushing words. 

"Yes, _you_! Now, what are you going to do about it? Welsh?"

"I'm going through to Nome. " The sight of his partner's rage had setMort to shaking with a furious desire to fly at his throat, butfortunately, he retained a spark of sanity. 

"Then shut up, and quit chewing the rag. You--talk too much. "

Mort's eyes were bloodshot; they fell upon the carbine under the sledlashings, and lingered there, then wavered. He opened his lips, reconsidered, spoke softly to the team, then lifted the heavy dog whipand smote the Malemutes with all his strength. 

The men resumed their journey without further words, but each wascursing inwardly. 

"So! I talk too much, " Grant thought. The accusation struck in his mindand he determined to speak no more. 

"He blames me, " Cantwell reflected, bitterly. "I'm in wrong again and hecouldn't keep his mouth shut. A fine partner, he is!"

All day they plodded on, neither trusting himself to speak. They atetheir evening meal like mutes; they avoided each other's eyes. Even theguide noticed the change and looked on curiously. 

There were two robes and these the partners shared nightly, but theirhatred had grown so during the past few hours that the thought of lyingside by side, limb to limb, was distasteful. 

Yet neither dared suggest a division of the bedding, for that would havebrought further words and resulted in the crash which they longed for, but feared. They stripped off their furs, and lay down beside each otherwith the same repugnance they would have felt had there been a serpentin the couch. 

This unending malevolent silence became terrible. The strain of itincreased, for each man now had something definite to cherish in thewords and the looks that had passed. They divided the camp work withscrupulous nicety, each man waited upon himself and asked no favors. Theknowledge of his debt forever chafed Cantwell; Grant resented hiscompanion's lack of gratitude. 

Of course they spoke occasionally--it was beyond human endurance toremain entirely dumb--but they conversed in monosyllables, about trivialthings, and their voices were throaty, as if the effort choked them. Meanwhile they continued to glow inwardly at a white heat. 

Cantwell no longer felt the desire merely to match his strength againstGrant's; the estrangement had become too wide for that; a physicalvictory would have been flat and tasteless; he craved some deepersatisfaction. He began to think of the ax--just how or when or why henever knew. It was a thin-bladed, polished thing of frosty steel, andthe more he thought of it the stronger grew his impulse to rid himselfonce for all of that presence which exasperated him. It would be veryeasy, he reasoned; a sudden blow, with the weight of his shouldersbehind it--he fancied he could feel the bit sink into Grant's flesh, cleaving bone and cartilages in its course--a slanting downward stroke, aimed at the neck where it joined the body, and he would be foreversatisfied. It would be ridiculously simple. He practiced in the gloom ofevening as he felled spruce trees for firewood; he guarded the axreligiously; it became a living thing which urged him on to violence. Hesaw it standing by the tent fly when he closed his eyes to sleep; hedreamed of it; he sought it out with his eyes when he first awoke. Heslid it loosely under the sled lashings every morning, thinking that itsuse could not long be delayed. 

As for Grant, the carbine dwelt forever in his mind, and his fingersitched for it. He secretly slipped a cartridge into the chamber, andwhen an occasional ptarmigan offered itself for a target he saw thewhite spot on the breast of Johnny's reindeer parka, dancing ahead ofthe Lyman bead. 

The solitude had done its work; the North had played its grim comedy tothe final curtain, making sport of men's affections and turning love torankling hate. But into the mind of each man crept a certain craftiness. Each longed to strike, but feared to face the consequences. It waslonesome, here among the white hills and the deathly silences, yet theyreflected that it would be still more lonesome if they were left to keepstep with nothing more substantial than a memory. They determined, therefore, to wait until civilization was nearer, meanwhile rehearsingthe moment they knew was inevitable. Over and over in their thoughtseach of them enacted the scene, ending it always with the picture of aprostrate man in a patch of trampled snow which grew crimson as theother gloated. 

They paused at Bethel Mission long enough to load with dried salmon, then made the ninety-mile portage over lake and tundra to the Yukon. There they got their first touch of the "inside" world. They camped in abarabora where white men had slept a few nights before, and heard theirown language spoken by native tongues. The time was growing short now, and they purposely dismissed their guide, knowing that the trail wasplain from there on. When they hitched up, on the next morning, Cantwellplaced the ax, bit down, between the tarpaulin and the sled rail, leaving the helve projecting where his hand could reach it. Grant thrustthe barrel of the rifle beneath a lashing, with the butt close by thehandle-bars, and it was loaded. 

A mile from the village they were overtaken by an Indian and his squaw, traveling light behind hungry dogs. The natives attached themselves tothe white men and hung stubbornly to their heels, taking advantage oftheir tracks. When night came they camped alongside, in the hope offood. They announced that they were bound for St. Michaels, and in spiteof every effort to shake them off they remained close behind thepartners until that point was reached. 

At St. Michaels there were white men, practically the first Johnny andMort had encountered since landing at Katmai, and for a day at leastthey were sane. But there were still three hundred miles to be traveled, three hundred miles of solitude and haunting thoughts. Just as they wereabout to start, Cantwell came upon Grant and the A. C. Agent, and heardhis name pronounced, also the word "Katmai. " He noted that Mort fellsilent at his approach, and instantly his anger blazed afresh. Hedecided that the latter had been telling the story of their experienceon the pass and boasting of his service. So much the better, hethought, in a blind rage; that which he planned doing would appear allthe more like an accident, for who would dream that a man could kill theperson to whom he owed his life?

That night he waited for a chance. 

They were camped in a dismal hut on a wind-swept shore; they were alone. But Grant was waiting also, it seemed. They lay down beside each other, ostensibly to sleep; their limbs touched; the warmth from their bodiesintermingled, but they did not close their eyes. 

They were up and away early, with Nome drawing rapidly nearer. They hadskirted an ocean, foot by foot; Bering Sea lay behind them, now, and itsnorthern shore swung westward to their goal. For two months they hadlived in silent animosity, feeding on bitter food while their elbowsrubbed. 

Noon found them floundering through one of those unheralded storms whichmake coast travel so hazardous. The morning had turned off gray, the skywas of a leaden hue which blended perfectly with the snow underfoot, there was no horizon, it was impossible to see more than a few yards inany direction. The trail soon became obliterated and their eyes began toplay tricks. For all they could distinguish, they might have beensuspended in space; they seemed to be treading the measures of anendless dance in the center of a whirling cloud. Of course it was cold, for the wind off the open sea was damp, but they were not men to turnback. 

They soon discovered that their difficulty lay not in facing the storm, but in holding to the trail. That narrow, two-foot causeway, packed by awinter's travel and frozen into a ribbon of ice by a winter's frosts, afforded their only avenue of progress, for the moment they left it thesled plowed into the loose snow, well-nigh disappearing and bringing thedogs to a standstill. It was the duty of the driver, in such case, towallow forward, right the load if necessary, and lift it back intoplace. These mishaps were forever occurring, for it was impossible todistinguish the trail beneath its soft covering. However, if thedriver's task was hard it was no more trying than that of the man ahead, who was compelled to feel out and explore the ridge of hardened snow andice with his feet, after the fashion of a man walking a plank in thedark. Frequently he lunged into the drifts with one foot, or both; hisglazed mukluk soles slid about, causing him to bestride the invisiblehogback, or again his legs crossed awkwardly, throwing him off hisbalance. At times he wandered away from the path entirely and had tosearch it out again. These exertions were very wearing and they weredangerous, also, for joints are easily dislocated, muscles twisted, andtendons strained. 

Hour after hour the march continued, unrelieved by any change, unbrokenby any speck or spot of color. The nerves of their eyes, wearied byconstant nearsighted peering at the snow, began to jump so that visionbecame untrustworthy. Both travelers appreciated the necessity ofclinging to the trail, for, once they lost it, they knew they mightwander about indefinitely until they chanced to regain it or found theirway to the shore, while always to seaward was the menace of open water, of air holes, or cracks which might gape beneath their feet like jaws. Immersion in this temperature, no matter how brief, meant death. 

The monotony of progress through this unreal, leaden world became almostunbearable. The repeated strainings and twistings they suffered inwalking the slippery ridge reduced the men to weariness; their legs grewclumsy and their feet uncertain. Had they found a camping place theywould have stopped, but they dared not forsake the thin thread thatlinked them with safety to go and look for one, not knowing where theshore lay. In storms of this kind men have lain in their sleeping bagsfor days within a stone's throw of a road-house or village. Bodies havebeen found within a hundred yards of shelter after blizzards haveabated. 

Cantwell and Grant had no choice, therefore, except to bore into thewelter of drifting flakes. 

It was late in the afternoon when the latter met with an accident. Johnny, who had taken a spell at the rear, heard him cry out, saw himstagger, struggle to hold his footing, then sink into the snow. Thedogs paused instantly, lay down, and began to strip the ice pelletsfrom between their toes. 

Cantwell spoke harshly, leaning upon the handle-bars: "Well! What's theidea?"

It was the longest sentence of the day. 

"I've--hurt myself. " Mort's voice was thin and strange; he raisedhimself to a sitting posture, and reached beneath his parka, then layback weakly. He writhed, his face was twisted with pain. He continued tolie there, doubled into a knot of suffering. A groan was wrenched frombetween his teeth. 

"Hurt? How?" Johnny inquired, dully. 

It seemed very ridiculous to see that strong man kicking around in thesnow. 

"I've ripped something loose--here. " Mort's palms were pressed in uponhis groin, his fingers were clutching something. "Ruptured--I guess. " Hetried again to rise, but sank back. His cap had fallen off and hisforehead glistened with sweat. 

Cantwell went forward and lifted him. It was the first time in many daysthat their hands had touched, and the sensation affected him strangely. He struggled to repress a devilish mirth at the thought that Grant hadplayed out--it amounted to that and nothing less; the trail haddelivered him into his enemy's hands, his hour had struck. Johnnydetermined to square the debt now, once for all, and wipe his own mindclean of that poison which corroded it. His muscles were strong, hisbrain clear, he had never felt his strength so irresistible as at thismoment, while Mort, for all his boasted superiority, was nothing but anerveless thing hanging limp against his breast. Providence had arrangedit all. The younger man was impelled to give raucous voice to his glee, and yet--his helpless burden exerted an odd effect upon him. 

He deposited his foe upon the sled and stared at the face he had not metfor many days. He saw how white it was, how wet and cold, how weak anddazed, then as he looked he cursed inwardly, for the triumph of hismoment was spoiled. 

The ax was there, its polished bit showed like a piece of ice, its helveprotruded handily, but there was no need of it now; his fingers were allthe weapons Johnny needed; they were more than sufficient, in fact, forMort was like a child. 

Cantwell was a strong man, and, although the North had coarsened him, yet underneath the surface was a chivalrous regard for all things weak, and this the trail madness had not affected. He had longed for thisinstant, but now that it had come he felt no enjoyment, since he couldnot harm a sick man and waged no war on cripples. Perhaps, when Mort hadrested, they could settle their quarrel; this was as good a place asany. The storm hid them, they would leave no traces, there could be nointerruption. 

But Mort did not rest. He could not walk; movement brought excruciatingpain. 

Finally Cantwell heard himself saying: "Better wrap up and lie stillfor a while. I'll get the dogs underway. " His words amazed him dully. They were not at all what he had intended to say. 

The injured man demurred, but the other insisted gruffly, then broughthim his mittens and cap, slapping the snow out of them before rousingthe team to motion. The load was very heavy now, the dogs had nofootprints to guide them, and it required all of Cantwell's efforts toprevent capsizing. Night approached swiftly, the whirling snow particlescontinued to flow past upon the wind, shrouding the earth in animpenetrable pall. 

The journey soon became a terrible ordeal, a slow, halting progress thatled nowhere and was accomplished at the cost of tremendous exertion. Time after time Johnny broke trail, then returned and urged the huskiesforward to the end of his tracks. When he lost the path he sought itout, laboriously hoisted the sledge back into place, and coaxed hisfour-footed helpers to renewed effort. He was drenched withperspiration, his inner garments were steaming, his outer ones werefrozen into a coat of armor; when he paused he chilled rapidly. Hisvision was untrustworthy, also, and he felt snow blindness coming on. Grant begged him more than once to unroll the bedding and prepare tosleep out the storm; he even urged Johnny to leave him and make a dashfor his own safety, but at this the younger man cursed and told him tohold his tongue. 

Night found the lone driver slipping, plunging, lurching ahead of thedogs, or shoving at the handle-bars and shouting at the dogs. Finally, during a pause for rest he heard a sound which roused him. Out of thegloom to the right came the faint complaining howl of a malemute; it wasanswered by his own dogs, and the next moment they had caught a scentwhich swerved them shoreward and led them scrambling through the drifts. Two hundred yards, and a steep bank loomed above, up and over which theyrushed, with Cantwell yelling encouragement; then a light showed, andthey were in the lee of a low-roofed hut. 

A sick native, huddled over a Yukon stove, made them welcome to his meanabode, explaining that his wife and son had gone to Unalaklik forsupplies. 

Johnny carried his partner to the one unoccupied bunk and stripped hisclothes from him. With his own hands he rubbed the warmth back intoMortimer's limbs, then swiftly prepared hot food, and, holding him inthe hollow of his aching arm, fed him, a little at a time. He was liketo drop from exhaustion, but he made no complaint. With one folded robehe made the hard boards comfortable, then spread the other as acovering. For himself he sat beside the fire and fought his weariness. When he dozed off and the cold awakened him, he renewed the fire; heheated beef tea, and, rousing Mort, fed it to him with a teaspoon. Allnight long, at intervals, he tended the sick man, and Grant's eyesfollowed him with an expression that brought a fierce pain to Cantwell'sthroat. 

"You're mighty good--after the rotten way I acted, " the former whisperedonce. 

And Johnny's big hand trembled so that he spilled the broth. 

His voice was low and tender as he inquired, "Are you resting easiernow?"

The other nodded. 

"Maybe you're not hurt badly, after--all. God! That would be awful----"Cantwell choked, turned away, and, raising his arms against the logwall, buried his face in them. 

 * * * * *

The morning broke clear; Grant was sleeping. As Johnny stiffly mountedthe creek bank with a bucket of water he heard a jingle of sleighbellsand saw a sled with two white men swing in toward the cabin. 

"Hello!" he called, then heard his own name pronounced. 

"Johnny Cantwell, by all that's holy!"

The next moment he was shaking hands vigorously with two old friendsfrom Nome. 

"Martin and me are bound for Saint Mikes, " one of them explained. "Wherethe deuce did you come from, Johnny?"

"The 'outside. ' Started for Stony River, but--"

"Stony River!" The newcomers began to laugh loudly and Cantwell joinedthem. It was the first time he had laughed for weeks. He realized thefact with a start, then recollected also his sleeping partner, and said:

"Sh-h! Mort's inside, asleep!"

During the night everything had changed for Johnny Cantwell; his mentalattitude, his hatred, his whole reasonless insanity. Everything wasdifferent now, even his debt was canceled, the weight of obligation wasremoved, and his diseased fancies were completely cured. 

"Yes! Stony River, " he repeated, grinning broadly. "I bit!"

Martin burst forth, gleefully: "They caught MacDonald at Holy Cross andran him out on a limb. He'll never start another stampede. Old man Bakergun-branded him. "

"What's the matter with Mort?" inquired the second traveler. 

"He's resting up. Yesterday, during the storm he--" Johnny was upon thepoint of saying "played out, " but changed it to "had an accident. Wethought it was serious, but a few days' rest'll bring him around allright. He saved me at Katmai, coming in. I petered out and threw up mytail, but he got me through. Come inside and tell him the news. "

"Sure thing. "

"Well, well!" Martin said. "So you and Mort are still partners, eh?"

"_Still_ partners?" Johnny took up the pail of water. "Well, rather!We'll always be partners. " His voice was young and full and hearty as hecontinued: "Why, Mort's the best fellow in the world. I'd lay down mylife for him. "

FOOTNOTE:

[5] From _The Crimson Garden_. Copyright, 1911, 1912, 1913, 1916, byHarper and Brothers. Reprinted by special permission of publisher andauthor. 

[Illustration]

VI. --That Spot[6]

_By Jack London_

I DON'T think much of Stephen Mackaye any more, though I used to swearby him. I know that in those days I loved him more than my brother. Ifever I meet Stephen Mackaye again, I shall not be responsible for myactions. It passes beyond me that a man with whom I shared food andblanket, and with whom I mushed over the Chilcoot Trail, should turn outthe way he did. I always sized Steve up as a square man, a kindlycomrade, without an iota of anything vindictive or malicious in hisnature. I shall never trust my judgment in men again. Why, I nursed thatman through typhoid fever; we starved together on the headwaters of theStewart; and he saved my life on the Little Salmon. And now, after theyears we were together, all I can say of Stephen Mackaye is that he isthe meanest man I ever knew. 

We started for the Klondike in the fall rush of 1897, and we startedtoo late to get over Chilcoot Pass before the freeze-up. We packed ouroutfit on our backs part way over, when the snow began to fly, and thenwe had to buy dogs in order to sled it the rest of the way. That was howwe came to get that Spot. Dogs were high, and we paid one hundred andten dollars for him. He looked worth it. I say _looked_, because he wasone of the finest-appearing dogs I ever saw. He weighed sixty pounds, and he had all the lines of a good sled animal. We never could make outhis breed. He wasn't husky, nor Malemute, nor Hudson Bay; he looked likeall of them and he didn't look like any of them; and on top of it all hehad some of the white man's dog in him, for on one side, in the thick ofthe mixed yellow-brown-red-and-dirty-white that was his prevailingcolor, there was a spot of coal-black as big as a water bucket. That waswhy we called him Spot. 

He was a good looker all right. When he was in condition his musclesstood out in bunches all over him. And he was the strongest-lookingbrute I ever saw in Alaska, also the most intelligent-looking. To runyour eyes over him, you'd think he could outpull three dogs of his ownweight. Maybe he could, but I never saw it. His intelligence didn't runthat way. He could steal and forage to perfection; he had an instinctthat was positively gruesome for divining when work was to be done andfor making a sneak accordingly; and for getting lost and not stayinglost he was nothing short of inspired. But when it came to work, theway that intelligence dribbled out of him and left him a mere clot ofwobbling, stupid jelly would make your heart bleed. 

There are times when I think it wasn't stupidity. Maybe, like some men Iknow, he was too wise to work. I shouldn't wonder if he put it all overus with that intelligence of his. Maybe he figured it all out anddecided that a licking now and again and no work was a whole lot betterthan work all the time and no licking. He was intelligent enough forsuch a computation. I tell you, I've sat and looked into that dog's eyestill the shivers ran up and down my spine and the marrow crawled likeyeast, what of the intelligence I saw shining out. I can't expressmyself about that intelligence. It is beyond mere words. I saw it, that's all. At times it was like gazing into a human soul, to look intohis eyes; and what I saw there frightened me and started all sorts ofideas in my own mind of reincarnation and all the rest. I tell you Isensed something big in that brute's eyes; there was a message there, but I wasn't big enough myself to catch it. Whatever it was (I know I'mmaking a fool of myself)--whatever it was, it baffled me. I can't givean inkling of what I saw in that brute's eyes; it wasn't light, itwasn't color; it was something that moved, away back, when the eyesthemselves weren't moving. And I guess I didn't see it move, either; Ionly sensed that it moved. It was an expression, --that's what itwas, --and I got an impression of it. No; it was different from a mereexpression; it was more than that. I don't know what it was, but it gaveme a feeling of kinship just the same. Oh, no, not sentimental kinship. It was, rather, a kinship of equality. Those eyes never pleaded like adeer's eyes. They challenged. No, it wasn't defiance. It was just a calmassumption of equality. And I don't think it was deliberate. My beliefis that it was unconscious on his part. It was there because it wasthere, and it couldn't help shining out. No, I don't mean shine. Itdidn't shine; it _moved_. I know I'm talking rot, but if you'd lookedinto that animal's eyes the way I have, you'd understand. Steve wasaffected the same way I was. Why, I tried to kill that Spot once--he wasno good for anything; and I fell down on it. I led him out into thebrush, and he came along slow and unwilling. He knew what was going on. I stopped in a likely place, put my foot on the rope, and pulled my bigColt's. And that dog sat down and looked at me. I tell you he didn'tplead. He just looked. And I saw all kinds of incomprehensible thingsmoving, yes, _moving_, in those eyes of his. I didn't really see themmove; I thought I saw them, for, as I said before, I guess I only sensedthem. And I want to tell you right now that it got beyond me. It waslike killing a man, a conscious, brave man who looked calmly into yourgun as much as to say, "Who's afraid?" Then, too, the message seemed sonear that, instead of pulling the trigger quick, I stopped to see if Icould catch the message. There it was, right before me, glimmering allaround in those eyes of his. And then it was too late. I got scared. Iwas trembly all over, and my stomach generated a nervous palpitationthat made me seasick. I just sat down and looked at that dog, and helooked at me, till I thought I was going crazy. Do you want to know whatI did? I threw down the gun and ran back to camp with the fear of God inmy heart. Steve laughed at me. But I notice that Steve led Spot into thewoods, a week later, for the same purpose, and that Steve came backalone, and a little later Spot drifted back, too. 

At any rate, Spot wouldn't work. We paid a hundred and ten dollars forhim from the bottom of our sack, and he wouldn't work. He wouldn't eventighten the traces. Steve spoke to him the first time we put him inharness, and he sort of shivered, that was all. Not an ounce on thetraces. He just stood still and wobbled, like so much jelly. Stevetouched him with the whip. He yelped, but not an ounce. Steve touchedhim again, a bit harder, and he howled--the regular long wolf howl. ThenSteve got mad and gave him half a dozen, and I came on the run from thetent. 

I told Steve he was brutal with the animal, and we had some words--thefirst we'd ever had. He threw the whip down in the snow and walked awaymad. I picked it up and went to it. That Spot trembled and wobbled andcowered before ever I swung the lash, and with the first bite of it hehowled like a lost soul. Next he lay down in the snow. I started therest of the dogs, and they dragged him along, while I threw the whipinto him. He rolled over on his back and bumped along, his four legswaving in the air, himself howling as though he was going through asausage machine. Steve came back and laughed at me, and I apologized forwhat I'd said. 

There was no getting any work out of that Spot; and to make up for it, he was the biggest pig-glutton of a dog I ever saw. On top of that, hewas the cleverest thief. These was no circumventing him. Many abreakfast we went without our bacon because Spot had been there first. And it was because of him that we nearly starved to death up theStewart. He figured out the way to break into our meat cache, and whathe didn't eat, the rest of the team did. But he was impartial. He stolefrom everybody. He was a restless dog, always very busy snooping aroundor going somewhere. And there was never a camp within five miles that hedidn't raid. The worst of it was that they always came back on us to payhis board bill, which was just, being the law of the land; but it wasmighty hard on us, especially that first winter on the Chilcoot, when wewere busted, paying for whole hams and sides of bacon that we never ate. He could fight, too, that Spot. He could do everything but work. Henever pulled a pound, but he was the boss of the whole team. The way hemade those dogs stand around was an education. He bullied them, andthere was always one or more of them fresh-marked with his fangs. But hewas more than a bully. He wasn't afraid of anything that walked on fourlegs; and I've seen him march, single-handed, into a strange team, without any provocation whatever, and put the _kibosh_ on the wholeoutfit. Did I say he could eat? I caught him eating the whip once. That's straight. He started in at the lash, and when I caught him he wasdown to the handle, and still going. 

But he was a good looker. At the end of the first week we sold him forseventy-five dollars to the Mounted Police. They had experienced dogdrivers, and we knew that by the time he'd covered the six hundred milesto Dawson he'd be a good sled dog. I say we _knew_, for we were justgetting acquainted with that Spot. A little later we were not brashenough to know anything where he was concerned. A week later we woke upin the morning to the dangedest dog fight we'd ever heard. It was thatSpot come back and knocking the team into shape. We ate a prettydepressing breakfast, I can tell you; but cheered up two hours afterwardwhen we sold him to an official courier, bound in to Dawson withgovernment dispatches. That Spot was only three days in coming back, and, as usual, celebrated his arrival with a rough-house. 

We spent the winter and spring, after our own outfit was across thepass, freighting other people's outfits; and we made a fat stake. Also, we made money out of Spot. If we sold him once, we sold him twentytimes. He always came back, and no one asked for their money. We didn'twant the money. We'd have paid handsomely for any one to take him offour hands for keeps. We had to get rid of him, and we couldn't give himaway, for that would have been suspicious. But he was such a fine lookerthat we never had any difficulty in selling him. "Unbroke, " we'd say, and they'd pay any old price for him. We sold him as low as twenty-fivedollars, and once we got a hundred and fifty for him. That particularparty returned him in person, refused to take his money back, and theway he abused us was something awful. He said it was cheap at the priceto tell us what he thought of us; and we felt he was so justified thatwe never talked back. But to this day I've never quite regained all theold self-respect that was mine before that man talked to me. 

When the ice cleared out of the lakes and river, we put our outfit in aLake Bennet boat and started for Dawson. We had a good team of dogs, andof course we piled them on top the outfit. That Spot was along--therewas no losing him; and a dozen times, the first day, he knocked one oranother of the dogs overboard in the course of fighting with them. Itwas close quarters, and he didn't like being crowded. 

"What that dog needs is space, " Steve said the second day. "Let's maroonhim. "

We did, running the boat in at Caribou Crossing for him to jump ashore. Two of the other dogs, good dogs, followed him; and we lost two wholedays trying to find them. We never saw those two dogs again; but thequietness and relief we enjoyed made us decide, like the man who refusedhis hundred and fifty, that it was cheap at the price. For the firsttime in months Steve and I laughed and whistled and sang. We were ashappy as clams. The dark days were over. The nightmare had been lifted. That Spot was gone. 

Three weeks later, one morning, Steve and I were standing on the riverbank at Dawson. A small boat was just arriving from Lake Bennett. I sawSteve give a start, and heard him say something that was not nice andthat was not under his breath. Then I looked; and there, in the bow ofthe boat, with ears pricked up, sat Spot. Steve and I sneakedimmediately, like beaten curs, like cowards, like absconders fromjustice. It was this last that the lieutenant of police thought when hesaw us sneaking. He surmised that there were law officers in the boatwho were after us. He didn't wait to find out, but kept us in sight, andin the M. &. M. Saloon got us in a corner. We had a merry time explaining, for we refused to go back to the boat and meet Spot; and finally he heldus under guard of another policeman while he went to the boat. After wegot clear of him, we started for the cabin, and when we arrived, therewas that Spot sitting on the stoop waiting for us. Now how did he knowwe lived there? There were forty thousand people in Dawson that summer, and how did he _savvy_ our cabin out of all the cabins? How did he knowwe were in Dawson, anyway? I leave it to you. But don't forget what Ihave said about his intelligence and that immortal something I have seenglimmering in his eyes. 

There was no getting rid of him any more. There were too many people inDawson who had bought him up on Chilcoot, and the story got around. Halfa dozen times we put him on board steamboats going down the Yukon; buthe merely went ashore at the first landing and trotted back up the bank. We couldn't sell him, we couldn't kill him (both Steve and I had tried), and nobody else was able to kill him. He bore a charmed life. I've seenhim go down in a dog fight on the main street with fifty dogs on top ofhim, and when they were separated, he'd appear on all his four legs, unharmed, while two of the dogs that had been on top of him would belying dead. 

I saw him steal a chunk of moose meat from Major Dinwiddie's cache soheavy that he could just keep one jump ahead of Mrs. Dinwiddie's squawcook, who was after him with an ax. As he went up the hill, after thesquaw gave out, Major Dinwiddie himself came out and pumped hisWinchester into the landscape. He emptied his magazine twice, and nevertouched that Spot. Then a policeman came along and arrested him fordischarging firearms inside the city limits. Major Dinwiddie paid hisfine, and Steve and I paid him for the moose meat at the rate of adollar a pound, bones and all. That was what he paid for it. Meat washigh that year. 

I am only telling what I saw with my own eyes. And now I'll tell yousomething, also. I saw that Spot fall through a water hole. The ice wasthree and a half feet thick, and the current sucked him under like astraw. Three hundred yards below was the big water hole used by thehospital. Spot crawled out of the hospital water hole, licked off thewater, bit out the ice that had formed between his toes, trotted up thebank, and whipped a big Newfoundland belonging to the Gold Commissioner. 

In the fall of 1898, Steve and I poled up the Yukon on the last water, bound for Stewart River. We took the dogs along, all except Spot. Wefigured we'd been feeding him long enough. He'd cost us more time andtrouble and money and grub than we'd got by selling him on theChilcoot--especially grub. So Steve and I tied him down in the cabin andpulled our freight. We camped that night at the mouth of Indian River, and Steve and I were pretty facetious over having shaken him. Steve wasa funny cuss, and I was just sitting up in the blankets and laughingwhen a tornado hit camp. The way that Spot walked into those dogs andgave them what-for was hair-raising. Now how did he get loose? It's upto you. I haven't any theory. And how did he get across the KlondikeRiver? That's another facer. And anyway, how did he know we had gone upthe Yukon? You see, we went by water, and he couldn't smell our tracks. Steve and I began to get superstitious about that dog. He got on ournerves, too; and, between you and me, we were just a mite afraid of him. 

The freeze-up came on when we were at the mouth of Henderson Creek, andwe traded him off for two sacks of flour to an outfit that was bound upWhite River after copper. Now that whole outfit was lost. Never tracenor hide nor hair of men, dogs, sleds, or anything was ever found. Theydropped clean out of sight. It became one of the mysteries of thecountry. Steve and I plugged away up the Stewart, and six weeksafterward that Spot crawled into camp. He was a perambulating skeleton, and could just drag along; but he got there. And what I want to know iswho told him we were up the Stewart? We could have gone a thousand otherplaces. How did he know? You tell me, and I'll tell you. 

No losing him. At the Mayo he started a row with an Indian dog. The buckwho owned the dog took a swing at Spot with an ax, missed him, andkilled his own dog. Talk about magic and turning bullets aside--I, forone, consider it a blamed sight harder to turn an ax aside with a bigbuck at the other end of it. And I saw him do it with my own eyes. Thatbuck didn't want to kill his own dog. You've got to show me. 

I told you about Spot breaking into our meat cache. It was nearly thedeath of us. There wasn't any more meat to be killed, and meat was allwe had to live on. The moose had gone back several hundred miles and theIndians with them. There we were. Spring was on, and we had to wait forthe river to break. We got pretty thin before we decided to eat thedogs, and we decided to eat Spot first. Do you know what that dog did?He sneaked. Now how did he know our minds were made up to eat him? Wesat up nights laying for him, but he never came back, and we ate theother dogs. We ate the whole team. 

And now for the sequel. You know what it is when a big river breaks upand a few billion tons of ice go out, jamming and milling and grinding. Just in the thick of it, when the Stewart went out, rumbling androaring, we sighted Spot out in the middle. He'd got caught as he wastrying to cross up above somewhere. Steve and I yelled and shouted andran up and down the bank, tossing our hats in the air. Sometimes we'dstop and hug each other, we were that boisterous, for we saw Spot'sfinish. He didn't have a chance in a million. He didn't have any chanceat all. After the ice-run, we got into a canoe and paddled down to theYukon, and down the Yukon to Dawson, stopping to feed up for a week atthe cabins at the mouth of Henderson Creek. And as we came in to thebank at Dawson, there sat that Spot, waiting for us, his ears prickedup, his tail wagging, his mouth smiling, extending a hearty welcome tous. Now how did he get out of that ice? How did he know we were comingto Dawson, to the very hour and minute, to be out there on the bankwaiting for us?

The more I think of that Spot, the more I am convinced that there arethings in this world that go beyond science. On no scientific groundscan that Spot be explained. It's psychic phenomena, or mysticism, orsomething of that sort, I guess, with a lot of theosophy thrown in. TheKlondike is a good country. I might have been there yet, and become amillionaire, if it hadn't been for Spot. He got on my nerves. I stoodhim for two years altogether, and then I guess my stamina broke. It wasthe summer of 1899 when I pulled out. I didn't say anything to Steve. Ijust sneaked. But I fixed it up all right. I wrote Steve a note, andenclosed a package of "rough-on-rats, " telling him what to do with it. Iwas worn down to skin and bone by that Spot, and I was that nervous thatI'd jump and look around when there wasn't anybody within hailingdistance. But it was astonishing the way I recuperated when I got quitof him. I got back twenty pounds before I arrived in San Francisco, andby the time I'd crossed the ferry to Oakland I was my old self again, sothat even my wife looked in vain for any change in me. 

Steve wrote to me once, and his letter seemed irritated. He took it kindof hard because I'd left him with Spot. Also, he said he'd used the"rough-on-rats, " per directions, and that there was nothing doing. Ayear went by. I was back in the office and prospering in all ways--evengetting a bit fat. And then Steve arrived. He didn't look me up. I readhis name in the steamer list, and wondered why. But I didn't wonderlong. I got up one morning and found that Spot chained to the gate-postand holding up the milkman. Steve went north to Seattle, I learned, thatvery morning. I didn't put on any more weight. My wife made me buy him acollar and tag, and within an hour he showed his gratitude by killingher pet Persian cat. There is no getting rid of that Spot. He will bewith me until I die, for he'll never die. My appetite is not so goodsince he arrived, and my wife says I am looking peaked. Last night thatSpot got into Mr. Harvey's hen house (Harvey is my next door neighbor)and killed nineteen of his fancy-bred chickens. I shall have to pay forthem. My neighbors on the other side quarreled with my wife and thenmoved out. Spot was the cause of it. And that is why I am disappointedin Stephen Mackaye. I had no idea he was so mean a man. 

FOOTNOTE:

[6] From _Lost Face_. Copyright, 1910, by the Macmillan Company. Reprinted by special permission of the publisher. 

[Illustration]

VII. --When Lincoln Licked a Bully[7]

_By Irving Bacheller_

 _In "A Man For the Ages" Irving Bacheller tells the story of Abraham Lincoln's life and career in the form of a novel. He represents that the book is written by the grandson of one Samson Traylor, who is presented as a friend of Lincoln's. The story that follows is an abbreviation of the account of the journey of Samson Traylor and his wife and two children and their dog, Sambo, in 1831, from Vergennes, Vermont, to the Illinois country; and the part "Abe" Lincoln, a clerk in Denton Offut's store at New Salem, had in building a log cabin for them upon their arrival there; and concludes by telling how Lincoln licked a bully. _--THE EDITOR. 

IN the early summer of 1831 Samson Traylor and his wife, Sarah, and twochildren left their old home near the village of Vergennes, Vermont, andbegan their travels toward the setting sun with four chairs, a breadboard and rolling-pin, a feather bed and blankets, a smalllooking-glass, a skillet, an ax, a pack basket with a pad of soleleather on the same, a water pail, a box of dishes, a tub of salt pork, a rifle, a teapot, a sack of meal, sundry small provisions and a violin, in a double wagon drawn by oxen. . . . A young black shepherd dog withtawny points and the name of Sambo followed the wagon or explored thefields and woods it passed. 

The boy Josiah--familiarly called Joe--sits beside his mother. He is aslender, sweet-faced boy. He is looking up wistfully at his mother. Thelittle girl Betsey sits between him and her father. 

That evening they stopped at the house of an old friend some miles upthe dusty road to the north. 

"Here we are--goin' west, " Samson shouted to the man at the doorstep. 

He alighted and helped his family out of the wagon. 

"You go right in--I'll take care o' the oxen, " said the man. 

Samson started for the house with the girl under one arm and the boyunder the other. A pleasant-faced woman greeted them with a heartywelcome at the door. 

"You poor man! Come right in, " she said. 

"Poor! I'm the richest man in the world, " said he. "Look at the gold onthat girl's head--curly, fine gold, too--the best there is. She'sBetsey--my little toy woman--half past seven years old--blue eyes--helpsher mother get tired every day. Here's my toy man Josiah--yes, brownhair and brown eyes like Sarah--heart o' gold--helps his mother, too--six times one year old. "

"What pretty faces!" said the woman as she stooped and kissed them. 

"Yes, ma'am. Got 'em from the fairies, " Samson went on. "They have allkinds o' heads for little folks, an' I guess they color 'em up with theblood o' roses an' the gold o' buttercups an' the blue o' violets. Here's this wife o' mine. She's richer'n I am. She owns all of us. We'reher slaves. "

"Looks as young as she did the day she was married--nine years ago, "said the woman. 

"Exactly!" Samson exclaimed. "Straight as an arrow and proud! I don'tblame her. She's got enough to make her proud I say. I fall in loveagain every time I look into her big brown eyes. "

The talk and laughter brought the dog into the house. 

"There's Sambo, our camp follower, " said Samson. "He likes us, one andall, but he often feels sorry for us because we cannot feel the joy thatlies in buried bones and the smell of a liberty pole or a gate post. "

They had a joyous evening and a restful night with these old friends andresumed their journey soon after daylight. They ferried across the lakeat Burlington and fared away over the mountains and through the deepforest on the Chateaugay trail. . . . 

They had read a little book called _The Country of the Sangamon_. Thelatter was a word of the Pottawatomies meaning "land of plenty. " It wasthe name of a river in Illinois draining "boundless, flowery meadows ofunexampled beauty and fertility, belted with timber, blessed with shadygroves, covered with game and mostly level, without a stick or a stoneto vex the plowman. " Thither they were bound to take up a section ofgovernment land. 

They stopped for a visit with Elisha Howard and his wife, old friends oftheirs, who lived in the village of Malone, which was in FranklinCounty, New York. There they traded their oxen for a team of horses. They were large gray horses named Pete and Colonel. The latter was fatand good-natured. His chief interest in life was food. Pete was alwayslooking for food and perils. Colonel was the near horse. Now and thenSamson threw a sheepskin over his back and put the boy on it and trampedalong within arm's reach of Joe's left leg. This was a great delight tothe little lad. 

They proceeded at a better pace to the Black River country, towardwhich, in the village of Canton, they tarried again for a visit withCaptain Moody and Silas Wright, both of whom had taught school in thetown of Vergennes. 

They proceeded through DeKalb, Richville and Gouverneur and Antwerp andon to the Sand Plains. They had gone far out of their way for a look atthese old friends of theirs. 

Every day the children would ask many questions, as they rode along, mainly about the beasts and birds in the dark shadows of the forestthrough which they passed. These were answered patiently by their fatherand mother and every answer led to other queries. 

"You're a funny pair, " said their father one day. "You have to turn overevery word we say to see what's under it. I used to be just like ye, used to go out in the lot and tip over every stick and stone I couldlift to see the bugs and crickets run. You're always hopin' to see abear or a panther or a fairy run out from under my remarks. "

"Wonder why we don't see no bears?" Joe asked. 

"'Cause they always see us first or hear us comin', " said his father. "If you're goin' to see ol' Uncle Bear ye got to pay the price ofadmission. "

"What's that?" Joe asked. 

"Got to go still and careful so you'll see him first. If this old wagondidn't talk so loud and would kind o' go on its tiptoes maybe we'd seehim. He don't like to be seen. Seems so he was kind o' shamed ofhimself, an' I wouldn't wonder if he was. He's done a lot o' things tobe 'shamed of. "

"What's he done?" Joe asked. 

"Ketched sheep and pigs and fawns and run off with 'em. "

"What does he do with 'em?"

"Eats 'em up. Now you quit. Here's a lot o' rocks and mud and I got totend to business. You tackle yer mother and chase her up and down thehills a while and let me get my breath. "

 * * * * *

On the twenty-ninth day after their journey began they came in sight ofthe beautiful green valley of the Mohawk. As they looked from the hillsthey saw the roof of the forest dipping down to the river shores andstretching far to the east and west and broken, here and there, by smallclearings. Soon they could see the smoke and spires of the thrivingvillage of Utica. 

Here they bought provisions and a tin trumpet for Joe, and a doll with areal porcelain face for Betsey, and turned into the great mainthoroughfare of the north leading eastward to Boston and westward to ashore of the midland seas. This road was once the great trail of theIroquois, by them called the Long House, because it had reached from theHudson to Lake Erie, and in their day had been well roofed with foliage. Here the travelers got their first view of a steam engine. The latterstood puffing and smoking near the village of Utica, to the horror andamazement of the team and the great excitement of those in the wagon. The boy clung to his father for fear of it. 

Samson longed to get out of the wagon and take a close look at the noisymonster, but his horses were rearing in their haste to get away, andeven a short stop was impossible. Sambo, with his tail between hislegs, ran ahead, in a panic, and took refuge in some bushes by theroadside. 

"What was that, father?" the boy asked when the horses had ceased toworry over this new peril. 

"A steam engyne, " he answered. "Sarah, did ye get a good look at it?"

"Yes; if that don't beat all the newfangled notions I ever heard of, "she exclaimed. 

"It's just begun doin' business, " said Samson. 

"What does it do?" Joe asked. 

"On a railroad track it can grab hold of a house full o' folks and runoff with it. Goes like the wind, too. "

"Does it eat 'em up?" Joe asked. 

"No. It eats wood and oil and keeps yellin' for more. I guess it couldeat a cord o' wood and wash it down with half a bucket o' castor oil inabout five minutes. It snatches folks away to some place and drops 'em. I guess it must make their hair stand up and their teeth chatter. "

"Does it hurt anybody?" Joe asked hopefully. 

"Well, sir, if anybody wanted to be hurt and got in its way, I ratherguess he'd succeed purty well. It's powerful. Why, if a man was to ketchhold of the tail of a locomotive, and hang on, it would jerk the toenails right off him. "

Joe began to have great respect for locomotives. 

Soon they came in view of the famous Erie Canal, hard by the road. Through it the grain of the far West had just begun moving eastward in atide that was flowing from April to December. Big barges, drawn by mulesand horses on its shore, were cutting the still waters of the canal. They stopped and looked at the barges and the long tow ropes and thetugging animals. 

"There is a real artificial river, hundreds o' miles long, handmade ofthe best material, water tight, no snags or rocks or otherimperfections, durability guaranteed, " said Samson. "It has made thename of DeWitt Clinton known everywhere. "

"I wonder what next!" Sarah exclaimed. 

They met many teams and passed other movers going west, and someprosperous farms on a road wider and smoother than any they hadtraveled. They camped that night, close by the river, with a Connecticutfamily on its way to Ohio with a great load of household furniture onone wagon and seven children in another. There were merry hours for theyoung, and pleasant visiting between the older folk that evening at thefireside. There was much talk among the latter about the great ErieCanal. 

So they fared along through Canandaigua and across the Genesee to thevillage of Rochester and on through Lewiston and up the Niagara River tothe Falls, and camped where they could see the great water flood andhear its muffled thunder. . . . 

"Children, " said Samson, "I want you to take a good look at that. It'sthe most wonderful thing in the world and maybe you'll never see itagain. "

"The Indians used to think that the Great Spirit was in this river, "said Sarah. 

"Kind o' seems to me they were right, " Samson remarked thoughtfully. "Kind o' seems as if the great spirit of America was in that water. Itmoves on in the way it wills and nothing can stop it. Everything in itscurrent goes along with it. . . . "

They had the lake view and its cool breeze on their way to Silver Creek, Dunkirk and Erie, and a rough way it was in those days. 

 * * * * *

They fared along through Indiana and over the wide savannas of Illinois, and on the ninety-seventh day of their journey they drove throughrolling, grassy, flowering prairies and up a long, hard hill to thesmall log cabin settlement of New Salem, Illinois, on the shore of theSangamon. They halted about noon in the middle of this little prairievillage, opposite a small clapboarded house. A sign hung over its doorwhich bore the rudely lettered words: "Rutledge's Tavern. "

A long, slim, stoop-shouldered young man sat in the shade of an oak treethat stood near a corner of the tavern, with a number of childrenplaying around him. He had sat leaning against the tree trunk reading abook. He had risen as they came near and stood looking at them, with thebook under his arm. . . . 

He wore a hickory shirt without a collar or coat or jacket. Onesuspender held up his coarse, linsey trousers, the legs of which fittedclosely and came only to a blue yarn zone above his heavy cowhide shoes. Samson writes that he "fetched a sneeze and wiped his big nose with ared handkerchief" as he stood surveying them in silence, while Dr. JohnAllen, who had sat on the doorstep reading a paper--a kindly-faced manof middle age with a short white beard under his chin--greeted themcheerfully. 

The withering sunlight of a day late in August fell upon the dustystreet, now almost deserted. Faces at the doors and windows of thelittle houses were looking out at them. Two ragged boys and aginger-colored dog came running toward the wagon. The latter and Sambosurveyed each other with raised hair and began scratching the earth, straight-legged, whining meanwhile, and in a moment began to playtogether. A man in blue jeans who sat on the veranda of a storeopposite, leaning against its wall, stopped whittling and shut hisjacknife. 

"Where do ye hail from?" the Doctor asked. 

"Vermont, " said Samson. 

"All the way in that wagon?"

"Yes, sir. "

"I guess you're made o' the right stuff, " said the Doctor. "Where yebound?"

"Don't know exactly. Going to take up a claim somewhere. "

"There's no better country than right here. This is the Canaan ofAmerica. We need people like you. Unhitch your team and have some dinnerand we'll talk things over after you're rested. I'm the doctor here andI ride all over this part o' the country. I reckon I know it prettywell. "

A woman in a neat calico dress came out of the door--a strong built andrather well favored woman with blond hair and dark eyes. 

"Mrs. Rutledge, these are travelers from the East, " said the Doctor. "Give 'em some dinner, and if they can't pay for it, I can. They've comeall the way from Vermont. "

"Good land! Come right in an' rest yerselves. Abe, you show thegentleman where to put his horses an' lend him a hand. "

Abe extended his long arm toward Samson and said "Howdy" as they shookhands. 

"When his big hand got hold of mine, I kind of felt his timber, " Samsonwrites. "I says to myself, 'There's a man it would be hard to tip overin a rassle. '"

"What's yer name? How long ye been travelin'? My conscience! Ain't yewore out?" the hospitable Mrs. Rutledge was asking as she went into thehouse with Sarah and the children. "You go and mix up with the littleones and let yer mother rest while I git dinner, " she said to Joe andBetsey, and added as she took Sarah's shawl and bonnet: "You lop downan' rest yerself while I'm flyin' around the fire. "

"Come all the way from Vermont?" Abe asked as he and Samson wereunhitching. 

"Yes, sir. "

"By jing!" the slim giant exclaimed. "I reckon you feel like throwin'off yer harness an' takin' a roll in the grass. "

 * * * * *

The tavern was the only house in New Salem with stairs in it. Stairs sosteep, as Samson writes, that "they were first cousins to the ladder. "There were four small rooms above them. Two of these were parted by apartition of cloth hanging from the rafters. In each was a bed andbedstead and smaller beds on the floor. In case there were a number ofadult guests the bedstead was screened with sheets hung upon strings. 

In one of these rooms the travelers had a night of refreshing sleep. 

After riding two days with the Doctor, Samson bought the claim of oneIsaac Gollaher to a half section of land a little more than a mile fromthe western end of the village. He chose a site for his house on theedge of an open prairie. 

"Now we'll go over and see Abe, " said Dr. Allen, after the deal wasmade. "He's the best man with an ax and a saw in this part of thecountry. He clerks for Mr. Offut. Abe Lincoln is one of the best fellowsthat ever lived--a rough diamond just out of the great mine of theWest, that only needs to be cut and polished. "

Denton Offut's store was a small log structure about twenty by twentywhich stood near the brow of the hill east of Rutledge's Tavern. Whenthey entered it Abe lay at full length on the counter, his head restingon a bolt of blue denim as he studied a book in his hand. He wore thesame shirt and one suspender and linsey trousers which he had worn inthe dooryard of the tavern, but his feet were covered only by his blueyarn socks. 

Abe laid aside his book and rose to a sitting posture. 

"Mr. Traylor, " said Doctor Allen, "has just acquired an interest in allour institutions. He has bought the Gollaher tract and is going to builda house and some fences. Abe, couldn't you help get the timber out in ahurry so we can have a raising within a week? You know the art of the axbetter than any of us. "

Abe looked at Samson. 

"I reckon he and I would make a good team with the ax, " he said. "Helooks as if he could push a house down with one hand and build it upwith the other. You can bet I'll be glad to help in any way I can. "

Next morning at daylight two parties went out in the woods to cut timberfor the home of the newcomers. In one party were Harry Needles carryingtwo axes and a well-filled luncheon pail; Samson with a saw in his handand the boy Joe on his back; Abe with saw and ax and a small jug of rootbeer and a book tied in a big red handkerchief and slung around hisneck. When they reached the woods Abe cut a pole for the small boy andcarried him on his shoulder to the creek and said:

"Now you sit down here and keep order in this little frog city. If youhear a frog say anything improper you fetch him a whack. Don't allow anynonsense. We'll make you Mayor of Frog City. "

The men fell to with axes and saws while Harry limbed the logs andlooked after the Mayor. Their huge muscles flung the sharp axes into thetimber and gnawed through it with a saw. Many big trees fell beforenoontime when they stopped for luncheon. While they were eating Abesaid:

"I reckon we better saw out a few boards this afternoon. Need 'em forthe doors. We'll tote a couple of logs up on the side o' that knoll, put'em on skids an' whip 'em up into boards with the saw. "

Samson took hold of the middle of one of the logs and raised it from theground. 

"I guess we can carry 'em, " he said. 

"Can ye shoulder it?" Abe asked. 

"Easy, " said Samson as he raised an end of the log, stepped beneath itand, resting its weight on his back, soon got his shoulder near itscenter and swung it clear of the ground and walked with it to theknollside where he let it fall with a resounding thump that shook theground. Abe stopped eating and watched every move in this remarkableperformance. The ease with which the big Vermonter had so defied the lawof gravitation with that unwieldly stick amazed him. 

"That thing'll weigh from seven to eight hundred pounds, " said he. "Ireckon you're the stoutest man in this part o' the state an' I'm quite aman myself. I've lifted a barrel o' whisky and put my mouth to the bunghole. I never drink it. "

"Say, " he added as he sat down and began eating a doughnut. "If you everhit anybody take a sledge hammer or a crowbar. It wouldn't be decent touse your fist. "

"Don't talk when you've got food in your mouth, " said Joe who seemed tohave acquired a sense of responsibility for the manners of Abe. 

"I reckon you're right, " Abe laughed. "A man's ideas ought not to bemingled with cheese and doughnuts. "

"Once in a while I like to try myself in a lift, " said Samson. "It feelsgood. I don't do it to show off. I know there's a good many men stouterthan I be. I guess you're one of 'em. "

"No, I'm too stretched out--my neck is too far from the ground, " Abeanswered. "I'm like a crowbar. If I can get my big toe or my fingersunder anything I can pry some. "

After luncheon he took off his shoes and socks. 

"When I'm working hard I always try to give my feet a rest and my braina little work at noontime, " he remarked. "My brain is so far behind theprocession I have to keep putting the gad on it. Give me twenty minutesof Kirkham and I'll be with you again. "

He lay down on his back under a tree with his book in hand and his feetresting on the tree trunk well above him. Soon he was up and at workagain. 

 * * * * *

When they were getting ready to go home that afternoon Joe got into agreat hurry to see his mother. It seemed to him that ages had elapsedsince he had seen her--a conviction which led to noisy tears. 

Abe knelt before him and comforted the boy. Then he wrapped him in hisjacket and swung him in the air and started for home with Joe astridehis neck. 

Samson says in his diary: "His tender play with the little lad gave meanother look at the man Lincoln. "

"Some one proposed once that we should call that stream the Minnehaha, "said Abe as he walked along. "After this Joe and I are going to call itthe Minneboohoo. "

The women of the little village had met at a quilting party at teno'clock with Mrs. Martin Waddell. There Sarah had had a seat at theframe and heard all the gossip of the countryside. . . . 

So the day passed with them and was interrupted by the noisy entrance ofJoe, soon after candlelight, who climbed on the back of his mother'schair and kissed her and in breathless eagerness began to relate thehistory of his own day. 

That ended the quilting party and Sarah and Mrs. Rutledge and herdaughter Ann joined Samson and Abe and Harry Needles who were waitingoutside and walked to the tavern with them. 

John McNeil, whom the Traylors had met on the road near Niagara Fallsand who had shared their camp with them, arrived on the stage thatevening. . . . Abe came in, soon after eight o'clock, and was introducedto the stranger. All noted the contrast between the two young men asthey greeted each other. Abe sat down for a few minutes and looked sadlyinto the fire but said nothing. He rose presently, excused himself andwent away. 

Soon Samson followed him. Over at Offut's store he did not find Abe, butBill Berry was drawing liquor from the spigot of a barrel set on blocksin a shed connected with the rear end of the store and serving it to anumber of hilarious young Irishmen. The young men asked Samson to jointhem. 

"No, thank you. I never touch it, " he said. 

"We'll come over here an' learn ye how to enjoy yerself some day, " oneof them said. 

"I'm pretty well posted on that subject now, " Samson answered. 

It is likely that they would have begun his schooling at once but whenthey came out into the store and saw the big Vermonter standing in thecandlelight their laughter ceased for a moment. Bill was among themwith a well-filled bottle in his hand. 

He and the others got into a wagon which had been waiting at the doorand drove away with a wild Indian whoop from the lips of one of theyoung men. 

Samson sat down in the candlelight and Abe in a moment arrived. 

"I'm getting awful sick o' this business, " said Abe. 

"I kind o' guess you don't like the whisky part of it, " Samson remarked, as he felt a piece of cloth. 

"I hate it, " Abe went on. "It don't seem respectable any longer. "

"Back in Vermont we don't like the whisky business. "

"You're right, it breeds deviltry and disorder. In my youth I wassurrounded by whisky. Everybody drank it. A bottle or a jug of liquorwas thought to be as legitimate a piece of merchandise as a pound of teaor a yard of calico. That's the way I've always thought of it. Butlately I've begun to get the Yankee notion about whisky. When it getsinto bad company it can raise the devil. "

Soon after nine o'clock Abe drew a mattress filled with corn husks fromunder the counter, cleared away the bolts of cloth and laid it wherethey had been and covered it with a blanket. 

"This is my bed, " said he. "I'll be up at five in the morning. Then I'llbe making tea here by the fireplace to wash down some jerked meat and ahunk o' bread. At six or a little after I'll be ready to go with youagain. Jack Kelso is going to look after the store to-morrow. "

He began to laugh. 

"Ye know when I went out of the tavern that little vixen stood peekin'into the window--Bim, Jack's girl, " said Abe. "I asked her why shedidn't go in and she said she was scared. 'Who you 'fraid of?' I asked. 'Oh, I reckon that boy, ' says she. And honestly her hand trembled whenshe took hold of my arm and walked to her father's house with me. "

Abe snickered as he spread another blanket. "What a cut-up she is! Say, we'll have some fun watching them two I reckon, " he said. 

The logs were ready two days after the cutting began. Martin Waddell andSamuel Hill sent teams to haul them. John Cameron and Peter Lukins hadbrought the window sash and some clapboards from Beardstown in a smallflat boat. Then came the day of the raising--a clear, warm day early inSeptember. All the men from the village and the near farms gathered tohelp make a home for the newcomers. Samson and Jack Kelso went out for ahunt after the cutting and brought in a fat buck and many grouse for thebee dinner, to which every woman of the neighborhood made a contributionof cake or pie or cookies or doughnuts. 

"What will be my part?" Samson had inquired of Kelso. 

"Nothing but a jug of whisky and a kind word and a house warming, " Kelsohad answered. 

They notched and bored the logs and made pins to bind them and cut thosethat were to go around the fireplace and window spaces. Strong, willingand well-trained hands hewed and fitted the logs together. AlexanderFerguson lined the fireplace with a curious mortar made of clay in whichhe mixed grass for a binder. This mortar he rolled into layers called"cats, " each eight inches long and three inches thick. Then he laid themagainst the logs and held them in place with a woven network of sticks. The first fire--a slow one--baked the clay into a rigid stonelike sheathinside the logs and presently the sticks were burned away. The women hadcooked the meats by an open fire and spread the dinner on a table ofrough boards resting on poles set in crotches. At noon one of themsounded a conch shell. Then with shouts of joy the men hurried to thefireside and for a moment there was a great spluttering over the washbasins. Before they ate every man except Abe and Samson "took a pull atthe jug--long or short"--to quote a phrase of the time. 

It was a cheerful company that sat down upon the grass around the tablewith loaded plates. Their food had its extra seasoning of merry jestsand loud laughter. Sarah was a little shocked at the forthrightdirectness of their eating, no knives or forks or napkins being neededin that process. Having eaten, washed and packed away their dishes thewomen went home at two. Before they had gone Samson's ears caught athunder of horses' feet in the distance. Looking in its direction he sawa cloud of dust in the road and a band of horsemen riding toward them atfull speed. Abe came to him and said:

"I see the boys from Clary's Grove are coming. If they get mean let medeal with 'em. It's my responsibility. I wouldn't wonder if they hadsome of Offut's whisky with them. "

The boys arrived in a cloud of dust and a chorus of Indian whoops anddismounted and hobbled their horses. They came toward the workers, ledby burly Jack Armstrong, a stalwart, hard-faced blacksmith of abouttwenty-two with broad, heavy shoulders, whose name has gone intohistory. They had been drinking some but no one of them was in the leastdegree off his balance. They scuffled around the jug for a moment inperfect good nature and then Abe and Mrs. Waddell provided them with thebest remnants of the dinner. They were rather noisy. Soon they went upon the roof to help with the rafters and the clapboarding. They workedwell a few minutes and suddenly they came scrambling down for anotherpull at the jug. They were out for a spree and Abe knew it and knewfurther that they had reached the limit of discretion. 

"Boys, there are ladies here and we've got to be careful, " he said. "DidI ever tell you what Uncle Jerry Holman said of his bull calf? He saidthe calf was such a _suckcess_ that he didn't leave any milk for thefamily and that while the calf was growin' fat the children was growin'poor. In my opinion you're about fat enough for the present. Let's stickto the job till four o'clock. Then we'll knock off for refreshments. "

The young revelers gathered in a group and began to whisper together. Samson writes that it became evident then they were going to maketrouble and says:

 "We had left the children at Rutledge's in the care of Ann. I went to Sarah and told her she had better go on and see if they were all right. 

 "'Don't you get in any fight, ' she said, which shows that the women knew what was in the air. 

 "Sarah led the way and the others followed her. "

Those big, brawny fellows from the grove when they got merry werelooking always for a chance to get mad at some man and turn him into aplaything. A victim had been a necessary part of their sprees. Many apoor fellow had been fastened in a barrel and rolled down hill or nearlydrowned in a ducking for their amusement. A chance had come to get madand they were going to make the most of it. They began to growl withresentment. Some were wigging their leader Jack Armstrong to fight Abe. One of them ran to his horse and brought a bottle from his saddlebag. Itbegan passing from mouth to mouth. Jack Armstrong got the bottle beforeit was half emptied, drained it and flung it high in the air. Anothercalled him a hog and grappled him around the waist and there was adesperate struggle which ended quickly. Armstrong got a hold on the neckof his assailant and choked him until he let go. This was not enough forthe sturdy bully of Clary's Grove. He seized his follower and flung himso roughly on the ground that the latter lay for a moment stunned. Armstrong had got his blood warm and was now ready for action. With awild whoop he threw off his coat, unbuttoned his right shirtsleeve androlled it to the shoulder and declared in a loud voice, as he swung hisarm in the air, that he could "outjump, outhop, outrun, throw down, dragout an' lick any man in New Salem. "

In a letter to his father Samson writes:

 "Abe was working at my elbow. I saw him drop his hammer and get up and make for the ladder. I knew something was going to happen and I followed him. In a minute every one was off the roof and out of the building. I guess they knew what was coming. The big lad stood there swinging his arm and yelling like an Injun. It was a big arm and muscled and corded up some but I guess if I'd shoved the calico off mine and held it up he'd a pulled down his sleeve. I suppose the feller's arm had a kind of a mule's kick in it, but, good gracious! If he'd a seen as many arms as you an' I have that have growed up on a hickory helve he'd a known that his was nothing to brag of. I didn't know just how good a man Abe was and I was kind o' scairt for a minute. I never found it so hard work to do nothin' as I did then. Honest my hands kind o' ached. I wanted to go an' cuff that feller's ears an' grab hold o' him an' toss him over the ridge pole. Abe went right up to him an' said:

 "'Jack, you ain't half so bad or half so cordy as ye think ye are. You say you can throw down any man here. I reckon I'll have to show ye that you're mistaken. I'll rassle with ye. We're friends an' we won't talk about lickin' each other. Le's have a friendly rassle. '

 "In a second the two men were locked together. Armstrong had lunged at Abe with a yell. There was no friendship in the way he took hold. He was going to do all the damage he could in any way he could. He tried to butt with his head and ram his knee into Abe's stomach as soon as they came together. Half-drunk Jack is a man who would bite your ear off. It was no rassle; it was a fight. Abe moved like lightning. He acted awful limber an' well-greased. In a second he had got hold of the feller's neck with his big right hand and hooked his left into the cloth on his hip. In that way he held him off and shook him as you've seen our dog shake a woodchuck. Abe's blood was hot. If the whole crowd had piled on him I guess he would have come out all right, for when he's roused there's something in Abe more than bones and muscles. I suppose it's what I feel when he speaks a piece. It's a kind of lightning. I guess it's what our minister used to call the power of the spirit. Abe said to me afterwards that he felt as if he was fighting for the peace and honor of New Salem. 

 "A friend of the bully jumped in and tried to trip Abe. Harry Needles stood beside me. Before I could move he dashed forward and hit that feller in the middle of his forehead and knocked him flat. Harry had hit Bap McNoll the cock fighter. I got up next to the kettle then and took the scum off it. Fetched one of them devils a slap with the side of my hand that took the skin off his face and rolled him over and over. When I looked again Armstrong was going limp. His mouth was open and his tongue out. With one hand fastened to his right leg and the other on the nape of his neck Abe lifted him at arm's length and gave him a toss in the air. Armstrong fell about ten feet from where Abe stood and lay there for a minute. The fight was all out of him and he was kind of dazed and sick. Abe stood up like a giant and his face looked awful solemn. 

 "'Boys, if there's any more o' you that want trouble you can have some off the same piece, ' he said. 

 "They hung their heads and not one of them made a move or said a word. Abe went to Armstrong and helped him up. 

 "'Jack, I'm sorry that I had to hurt you, ' he said. 'You get on to your horse and go home. '

 "'Abe, you're a better man than me, ' said the bully, as he offered his hand to Abe. 'I'll do anything you say. '"

So the Clary's Grove gang was conquered. They were to make more troublebut not again were they to imperil the foundations of law and order inthe little community of New Salem. 

FOOTNOTE:

[7] From _A Man For the Ages_. Copyright, 1919, by the Bobbs-MerrillCompany. Used by special permission of the publishers. 

[Illustration]

VIII. --The End of the Trail[8]

_By Clarence E. Mulford_

 _Buck Peters, foreman of Bar-20 Ranch had many cowboys; Pete Wilson, Red Connors, Billy Williams, Johnny Nelson, and a goodly number more, but chief among them was Hopalong Cassidy. Many interesting stories are told about him in "Bar-20 Days" but none of his thrilling experiences ever ended as did the one recited in this most unusual story, "The End of the Trail. "_--THE EDITOR. 

WHEN one finds on his ranch the carcasses of two cows on the same day, and both are skinned, there can be only one conclusion. The killing andskinning of two cows out of herds that are numbered by thousands neednot, in themselves, bring lines of worry to any foreman's brow; butthere is the sting of being cheated, the possibility of the losses goinghigher unless a sharp lesson be given upon the folly of fooling with avery keen and active buzz-saw, --and it was the determination of theoutfit of the Bar-20 to teach that lesson, and as quickly ascircumstances would permit. 

It was common knowledge that there was a more or less organized band ofshiftless malcontents making its headquarters in and near Perry's Bend, some distance up the river, and the deduction in this case was easy. TheBar-20 cared very little about what went on at Perry's Bend--that was amatter which concerned only the ranches near that town--so long as novexatious happenings sifted too far south. But they had so sifted, andPerry's Bend, or rather the undesirable class hanging out there, was dueto receive a shock before long. 

About a week after the finding of the first skinned cows, Pete Wilsontornadoed up to the bunk house with a perforated arm. Pete was on foot, having lost his horse at the first exchange of shots, which accounts forthe expression describing his arrival. Pete hated to walk, he hatedstill more to get shot, and most of all he hated to have to admit thathis rifle-shooting was so far below par. He had seen the thief at workand, too eager to work up close to the cattle skinner before announcinghis displeasure, had missed the first shot. When he dragged himself outfrom under his deceased horse the scenery was undisturbed save for asmall cloud of dust hovering over a distant rise to the north of him. After delivering a short and bitter monologue he struck out for theranch and arrived in a very hot and wrathful condition. It wascontagious, that condition, and before long the entire outfit was inthe saddle and pounding north, Pete overjoyed because his wound was soslight as not to bar him from the chase. The shock was on the way, andas events proved, was to be one long to linger in the minds of theinhabitants of Perry's Bend and the surrounding range. 

 * * * * *

The patrons of the Oasis liked their tobacco strong. The pungent smokedrifted in sluggish clouds along the low, black ceiling, following itsupward slant toward the east wall and away from the high bar at theother end. This bar, rough and strong, ran from the north wall to withina scant two feet of the south wall, the opening bridged by a hingedboard which served as an extension to the counter. Behind the bar was arear door, low and double, the upper part barred securely--the lowerpart was used most. In front of and near the bar was a large roundtable, at which four men played cards silently, while two smaller tableswere located along the north wall. Besides dilapidated chairs there werehalf a dozen low wooden boxes partly filled with sand, and attention wasdirected to the existence and purpose of these by a roughly letteredsign on the wall, reading: "Gents will look for a box first, " which the"gents" sometimes did. The majority of the "gents" preferred to aim atvarious knotholes in the floor and bet on the result, chancing theoutpouring of the proprietor's wrath if they missed. 

On the wall behind the bar was a smaller and neater request: "Leave yourguns with the bartender. --Edwards. " This, although a month old, stillcalled forth caustic and profane remarks from the regular frequenters ofthe saloon, for hitherto restraint in the matter of carrying weapons hadbeen unknown. They forthwith evaded the order in a manner consistentwith their characteristics--by carrying smaller guns where they couldnot be seen. The majority had simply sawed off a generous part of thelong barrels of their Colts and Remingtons, which did not improve theiraccuracy. 

Edwards, the new marshal of Perry's Bend, had come direct from Kansasand his reputation as a fighter had preceded him. When he took up hisfirst day's work he was kept busy proving that he was the rightful ownerof it and that it had not been exaggerated in any manner or degree. Withthe exception of one instance the proof had been bloodless, for hereasoned that gun-play should give way, whenever possible, to a crushing"right" or "left" to the point of the jaw or the pit of the stomach. Hisproficiency in the manly art was polished and thorough and bespokeearnest application. The last doubting Thomas to be convinced came tofive minutes after his diaphragm had been rudely and suddenly raisedseveral inches by a low right hook, and as he groped for his bearingsand got his wind back again he asked, very feebly, where "Kansas" was;and the name stuck. 

The marshal did not like the Oasis; indeed, he went further andcordially hated it. Harlan's saloon was a thorn in his side and he wasonly waiting for a good excuse to wipe it off the local map. He was theLaw, and behind him were the range riders, who would be only too glad tohave the nest of rustlers wiped out and its gang of ne'er-do-wellsscattered to the four winds. Indeed, he had been given to understand ina most polite and diplomatic way that if this were not done lawfully, they would try to do it themselves, and they had great faith in theirability to handle the situation in a thorough and workmanlike manner. This would not do in a law-abiding community, as he called the town, andso he had replied that the work was his, and that it would be performedas soon as he believed himself justified to act. Harlan and his friendswere fully conversant with the feeling against them and had become alittle more cautious, alertly watching out for trouble. 

On the evening of the day which saw Pete Wilson's discomfiture most ofthe _habitués_ had assembled in the Oasis where, besides thecard-players already mentioned, eight men lounged against the bar. Therewas some laughter, much subdued talking, and a little whispering. Morewhispering went on under that roof than in all the other places in townput together; for here rustling was planned, wayfaring strangers were"trimmed" in "frame-up" at cards, and a hunted man was certain to findassistance. Harlan had once boasted that no fugitive had ever beentaken from his saloon, and he was behind the bar and standing on thetrap door which led to the six-by-six cellar when he made the assertion. It was true, for only those in his confidence knew of the place ofrefuge under the floor: it had been dug at night and the dirt carefullydisposed of. 

It had not been dark very long before talking ceased and card-playingwas suspended while all looked up as the front door crashed open and twopunchers entered, looking the crowd over with critical care. 

"Stay here, Johnny, " Hopalong told his youthful companion, and thenwalked forward, scrutinizing each scowling face in turn, while Johnnystood with his back to the door, keenly alert, his right hand restinglightly on his belt not far from the holster. 

Harlan's thick neck grew crimson and his eyes hard. "Lookin' fersomething?" he asked with bitter sarcasm, his hands under the bar. Johnny grinned hopefully and a sudden tenseness took possession of himas he watched for the first hostile move. 

"Yes, " Hopalong replied coolly, appraising Harlan's attitude and look inone swift glance, "but it ain't here, now. Johnny, get out, " he ordered, backing after his companion, and safely outside, the two walked towardsJackson's store, Johnny complaining about the little time spent in theOasis. 

As they entered the store they saw Edwards, whose eyes asked aquestion. 

"No; he ain't in there yet, " Hopalong replied. 

"Did you look all over? Behind th' bar?" Edwards asked, slowly. "Hecan't get out of town through that cordon you've got strung around it, an' he ain't nowhere else. Leastwise, I couldn't find him. "

"Come on back!" excitedly exclaimed Johnny, turning towards the door. "You didn't look behind th' bar! Come on--bet you ten dollars that'swhere he is!"

"Mebby yo're right, Kid, " replied Hopalong, and the marshal's noddinghead decided it. 

In the saloon there was strong language, and Jack Quinn, expert skinnerof other men's cows, looked inquiringly at the proprietor. "What's upnow, Harlan?"

The proprietor laughed harshly but said nothing--taciturnity was his oneredeeming trait. "Did you say cigars?" he asked, pushing a box acrossthe bar to an impatient customer. Another beckoned to him and he leanedover to hear the whispered request, a frown struggling to show itself onhis face. "Nix; you know my rule. No trust in here. "

But the man at the far end of the line was unlike the proprietor and heprefaced his remarks with a curse. "_I_ know what's up! They want JerryBrown, that's what! An' I hopes they don't get him, th' bullies!"

"What did he do? Why do they want him?" asked the man who had wantedtrust. 

"Skinning. He was careless or crazy, working so close to their ranchhouses. Nobody that had any sense would take a chance like that, "replied Boston, adept at sleight-of-hand with cards and very much indemand when a frame-up was to be rung in on some unsuspecting stranger. His one great fault in the eyes of his partners was that he hated todivvy his winnings and at times had to be coerced into sharing equally. 

"Aw, them big ranches make me mad, " announced the first speaker. "Tenyears ago there was a lot of little ranchers, an' every one of 'em hadhis own herd, an' plenty of free grass an' water fer it. Where are th'little herds now? Where are th' cows that we used to own?" he cried, hotly. "What happens to a maverick-hunter, nowadays? If a man helpshisself to a pore, sick dogie he's hunted down! It can't go on muchlonger, an' that's shore. "

Slivers Lowe leaped up from his chair. "Yo're right, Harper! Dead right!_I_ was a little cattle owner onct, so was you, an' Jerry, an' most ofus!" Slivers found it convenient to forget that fully half of his smallherd had perished in the bitter and long winter of five years before, and that the remainder had either flowed down his parched throat or beenlost across the big round table near the bar. Not a few of his cows werebanked in the East under Harlan's name. 

The rear door opened slightly and one of the loungers looked up andnodded. "It's all right Jerry. But get a move on!"

"Here, _you_!" called Harlan, quickly bending over the trap door, "_Lively!_"

Jerry was halfway to the proprietor when the front door swung open andHopalong, closely followed by the marshal, leaped into the room, andimmediately thereafter the back door banged open and admitted Johnny. Jerry's right hand was in his side coat pocket and Johnny, young andself-confident, and with a lot to learn, was certain that he could beatthe fugitive on the draw. 

"I reckon you won't blot no more brands!" he cried, triumphantly, watching both Jerry and Harlan. 

The card-players had leaped to their feet and at a signal from Harlanthey surged forward to the bar and formed a barrier between Johnny andhis friends; and as they did so that puncher jerked at his gun, twistingto half face the crowd. At that instant fire and smoke spurted fromJerry's side coat pocket and the odor of burning cloth arose. As Johnnyfell, the rustler ducked low and sprang for the door. A gun roared twicein the front of the room and Jerry staggered a little and cursed as hegained the opening, but he plunged into the darkness and threw himselfinto the saddle on the first horse he found in the small corral. 

When the crowd massed, Hopalong leaped at it and strove to tear his wayto the opening at the end of the bar, while the marshal covered Harlanand the others. Finding that he could not get through, Hopalong sprangon the shoulder of the nearest man and succeeded in winging the fugitiveat the first shot, the other going wild. Then, frantic with rage andanxiety, he beat his way through the crowd, hammering mercilessly atheads with the butt of his Colt, and knelt at his friend's side. 

Edwards, angered almost to the point of killing, ordered the crowd tostand against the wall, and laughed viciously when he saw two mensenseless on the floor. "Hope he beat in yore heads!" he gritted, savagely. "Harlan, put yore paws up in sight or I'll drill you clean!Now climb over an' get in line--quick!"

Johnny moaned and opened his eyes. "Did--did I--get him?"

"No; but he gimleted you, all right, " Hopalong replied. "You'll come'round if you keep quiet. " He arose, his face hard with the desire tokill. "I'm coming back for _you_, Harlan, after I get yore friend! An'all th' rest of you pups, too!"

"Get me out of here, " whispered Johnny. 

"Shore enough, Kid; but keep quiet, " replied Hopalong, picking him up inhis arms and moving carefully towards the door. "We'll get him, Johnny;an' all th' rest, too, when"--the voice died out in the direction ofJackson's and the marshal, backing to the front door, slipped out and toone side, running backward, his eyes on the saloon. 

"Yore day's about over, Harlan, " he muttered. 

"There's going to be some few funerals around here before many hourspass. "

When he reached the store he found the owner and two Double-Arrowpunchers taking care of Johnny. "Where's Hopalong?" he asked. 

"Gone to tell his foreman, " replied Jackson. "Hey, youngster, you letthem bandages alone! Hear me?"

"Hullo, Kansas, " remarked John Bartlett, foreman of the Double-Arrow. "Icome nigh getting yore man; somebody rode past me like a streak in th'dark, so I just ups an' lets drive for luck, an' so did he. I heard himcuss an' I emptied my gun after him. "

 * * * * *

The rain slanted down in sheets and the broken plain, thoroughlysaturated, held the water in pools or sent it down the steep side of thecliff to feed the turbulent flood which swept along the bottom, foam-flecked and covered with swiftly moving driftwood. Around a bendwhere the angry water flung itself against the ragged bulwark of rockand flashed away in a gleaming line of foam, a horseman appeared, bending low in the saddle for better protection against the storm. Herode along the edge of the stream on the farther bank, opposite thesteep bluff on the northern side, forcing his wounded and jaded horse tokeep fetlock deep in the water which swirled and sucked about its legs. He was trying his hardest to hide his trail. Lower down the hard, rockyground extended to the water's edge, and if he could delay his pursuersfor an hour or so, he felt that, even with his tired horse, he wouldhave more than an even chance. 

But they had gained more than he knew. Suddenly above him on the top ofthe steep bluff across the torrent a man loomed up against the clouds, peered intently and then waved his sombrero to an unseen companion. Apuff of smoke flashed from his shoulder and streaked away, the report ofthe shot lost in the gale. The fugitive's horse reared and plunged intothe deep water and with its rider was swept rapidly towards the bend, the way they had come. 

"That makes th' fourth time I've missed that coyote!" angrily exclaimedHopalong as Red Connors joined him. 

The other quickly raised his rifle and fired; and the horse, spillingits rider out of the saddle, floated away tail first. The fugitive, gripping his rifle, bobbed and whirled at the whim of the greedy wateras shots struck near him. Making a desperate effort, he staggered up thebank and fell exhausted behind a bowlder. 

"Well, th' coyote is afoot, anyhow, " said Red, with great satisfaction. 

"Yes; but how are we going to get to him?" asked Hopalong. "We can't getth' cayuses down here, an' we can't swim _that_ water without them. Andif we could, he'd pot us easy. "

"There's a way out of it somewhere, " Red replied, disappearing over theedge of the bluff to gamble with Fate. 

"Hey! Come back here, you chump!" cried Hopalong, running forward. "He'll get you, shore!"

"That's a chance I've got to take if I get him, " was the reply. 

A puff of smoke sailed from behind the bowlder on the other bank andHopalong, kneeling for steadier aim, fired and then followed his friend. Red was downstream casting at a rock across the torrent but the windtoyed with the heavy, water-soaked _reata_ as though it were a string. As Hopalong reached his side a piece of driftwood ducked under the waterand an angry humming sound died away downstream. As the report reachedtheir ears a jet of water spurted up into Red's face and he stepped backinvoluntarily. 

"He's some shaky, " Hopalong remarked, looking back at the wreath ofsmoke above the bowlder. "I reckon I must have hit him harder than Ithought in Harlan's. Gee! he's wild as blazes!" he ejaculated as abullet hummed high above his head and struck sharply against the rockwall. 

"Yes, " Red replied, coiling the rope. "I was trying to rope that rockover there. If I could anchor to that, th' current would push us overquick. But it's too far with this wind blowing. "

"We can't do nothing here 'cept get plugged. He'll be getting steadieras he rests from his fight with th' water, " Hopalong remarked, and addedquickly, "Say, remember that meadow back there a ways? We can make herfrom there, all right. "

"Yo're right; that's what we've got to do. He's sending 'em nearer everyshot--Gee! I could 'most feel th' wind of that one. An' blamed if itain't stopped raining. Come on. "

They clambered up the slippery, muddy bank to where they had left theirhorses, and cantered back over their trail. Minute after minute passedbefore the cautious skulker among the rocks across the stream couldbelieve in his good fortune. When he at last decided that he was aloneagain he left his shelter and started away, with slowly weakeningstride, over cleanly washed rock where he left no trail. 

It was late in the afternoon before the two irate punchers appeared uponthe scene, and their comments, as they hunted slowly over the hardground, were numerous and bitter. Deciding that it was hopeless in thatvicinity, they began casting in great circles on the chance of crossingthe trail further back from the river. But they had little faith intheir success. As Red remarked, snorting like a horse in his disgust, "I'll bet four dollars an' a match he's swum down th' river just to haveth' laugh on us. " Red had long since given it up as a bad job, thoughcontinuing to search, when a shout from the distant Hopalong sent himforward on a run. 

"Hey, Red!" cried Hopalong, pointing ahead of them. "Look there! Ain'tthat a house?"

"Naw; course not! It's a--it's a ship!" Red snorted sarcastically. "Whatdid you think it might be?"

"G'wan!" retorted his companion. "It's a mission. "

"Ah, g'wan yorself! What's a mission doing up here?" Red snapped. 

"What do you think they do? What do they do anywhere?" hotly rejoinedHopalong, thinking about Johnny. "There! See th' cross?"

"Shore enough!"

"An' there's tracks at last--mighty wobbly, but tracks just th' same. Them rocks couldn't go on forever. Red, I'll bet he's cashed in by thistime. "

"Cashed nothing! Them fellers don't. "

"Well, if he's in that joint we might as well go back home. We won't gethim, not nohow, " declared Hopalong. 

"Huh! You wait an' see!" replied Red, pugnaciously. 

"Reckon you never run up agin' a mission real hard, " Hopalong responded, his memory harking back to the time he had disagreed with a convent, andthey both meant about the same to him as far as winning out wasconcerned. 

"Think I'm a fool kid?" snapped Red, aggressively. 

"Well, you ain't no _kid_. "

"You let _me_ do th' talking; _I'll_ get him. "

"All right; an' I'll do th' laughing, " snickered Hopalong, at the door. "Sic 'em, Red!"

The other boldly stepped into a small vestibule, Hopalong close at hisheels. Red hitched his holster and walked heavily into a room at hisleft. With the exception of a bench, a table, and a small altar, theroom was devoid of furnishings, and the effect of these was lost in thedim light from the narrow windows. The peculiar, not unpleasant odor ofburning incense and the dim light awakened a latent reverence and awe inHopalong, and he sneaked off his sombrero, an inexplicable feeling ofguilt stealing over him. There were three doors in the walls, deeplyshrouded in the dusk of the room, and it was very hard to watch allthree at once. . . . 

Red listened intently and then grinned. "Hear that? They're playingdominoes in there--come on!"

"Aw, you chump! 'Dominee' means 'mother' in Latin, which is what theyspeaks. "

"How do you know?"

"Hanged if I can tell--I've heard it somewhere, that's all. "

"Well, I don't care what it means. This is a frame-up so that coyote canget away. I'll bet they gave him a cayuse an' started him off whilewe've been losing time in here. I'm going inside an' ask somequestions. "

Before he could put his plan into execution, Hopalong nudged him and heturned to see his friend staring at one of the doors. There had been nosound, but he would swear that a monk stood gravely regarding them, andhe rubbed his eyes. He stepped back suspiciously and then startedforward again. 

"Look here, stranger, " he remarked, with quiet emphasis, "we're afterthat cow-lifter, an' we mean to get him. Savvy?"

The monk did not appear to hear him, so he tried another trick. "_Hablaespañola?_" he asked, experimentally. 

"You have ridden far?" replied the monk in perfect English. 

"All th' way from th' Bend, " Red replied, relieved. "We're after JerryBrown. He tried to kill Johnny, judgin' from th' tracks. "

"And if you capture him?"

"He won't have no more use for no side pocket shooting. "

"I see; you will kill him. "

"Shore's it's wet outside. "

"I'm afraid you are doomed to disappointment. "

"Ya-as?" asked Red with a rising inflection. 

"You will not want him now, " replied the monk. 

Red laughed sarcastically and Hopalong smiled. 

"There ain't a-going to be no argument about it. Trot him out, " orderedRed, grimly. 

The monk turned to Hopalong. "Do you, too, want him?"

Hopalong nodded. 

"My friends, he is safe from your punishment. "

Red wheeled instantly and ran outside, returning in a few moments, smiling triumphantly. "There are tracks coming in, but there ain't nonegoing away. He's here. If you don't lead us to him we'll shore have torummage around an' poke him out for ourselves: which is it?"

"You are right--he is here, and he is not here. "

"We're waiting, " Red replied, grinning. 

"When I tell you that you will not want him, do you still insist onseeing him?"

"We'll see him, an' we'll want him, too. "

As the rain poured down again the sound of approaching horses was heard, and Hopalong ran to the door in time to see Buck Peters swing off hismount and step forward to enter the building. Hopalong stopped him andbriefly outlined the situation, begging him to keep the men outside. Themonk met his return with a grateful smile and, stepping forward, openedthe chapel door, saying, "Follow me. "

The unpretentious chapel was small and nearly dark, for the usualdimness was increased by the lowering clouds outside. The deep, narrowwindow openings, fitted with stained glass, ran almost to the rough-hewnrafters supporting the steep-pitched roof, upon which the heavy rainbeat again with a sound like that of distant drums. Gusts of rain andthe water from the roof beat against the south windows, while thewailing wind played its mournful cadences about the eaves, and thestanch timbers added their creaking notes to swell the dirgelike chorus. 

At the farther end of the room two figures knelt and moved before thewhite altar, the soft light of flickering candles playing fitfully uponthem and glinting from the altar ornaments, while before a rough coffin, which rested upon two pedestals, stood a third, whose rich, sonorousLatin filled the chapel with impressive sadness. "Give eternal rest tothem, O Lord, "--the words seeming to become a part of the room. Theineffably sad, haunting melody of the mass whispered back from the roofbetween the assaults of the enraged wind, while from the altar came theresponses in a low Gregorian chant, and through it all the clinking ofthe censer chains added intermittent notes. Aloft streamed the vapor ofthe incense, wavering with the air currents, now lost in the deeptwilight of the sanctuary, and now faintly revealed by the glow of thecandles, perfuming the air with its aromatic odor. 

As the last deep-toned words died away the celebrant moved slowly aroundthe coffin, swinging the censer over it and then, sprinkling the bodyand making the sign of the cross above its head, solemnly withdrew. 

From the shadows along the side walls other figures silently emerged andgrouped around the coffin. Raising it they turned it slowly around andcarried it down the dim aisle in measured tread, moving silently asghosts. 

"He is with God, Who will punish according to his sins, " said a lowvoice, and Hopalong started, for he had forgotten the presence of theguide. "God be with you, and may you die as he died--repentant and inpeace. "

Buck chafed impatiently before the chapel door leading to a small, well-kept graveyard, wondering what it was that kept quiet for so long atime his two most assertive men, when he had momentarily expected tohear more or less turmoil and confusion. 

_C-r-e-a-k!_ He glanced up, gun in hand and raised as the door swungslowly open. His hand dropped suddenly and he took a short step forward;six black-robed figures shouldering a long box stepped slowly past him, and his nostrils were assailed by the pungent odor of the incense. Behind them came his fighting punchers, humble, awed, reverent, theirsombreros in their hands, and their heads bowed. 

"What in blazes!" exclaimed Buck, wonder and surprise struggling for themastery as the others cantered up. 

"He's cashed, " Red replied, putting on his sombrero and nodding towardthe procession. 

Buck turned like a flash and spoke sharply: "Skinny! Lanky! Follow thatglory-outfit, an' see what's in that box!"

Billy Williams grinned at Red. "Yo're shore pious, Red. "

"Shut up!" snapped Red, anger glinting in his eyes, and Billy subsided. 

Lanky and Skinny soon returned from accompanying the procession. 

"I had to look twict to be shore it was him. His face was plumb happy, like a baby. But he's gone, all right, " Lanky reported. 

"All right--he knowed how he'd finish when he began. Now for that dearMr. Harlan, " Buck replied, vaulting into the saddle. He turned andlooked at Hopalong, and his wonder grew. "Hey, _you!_ Yes, _you!_ Comeout of that an' put on yore lid! Straddle leather--we can't stay hereall night. "

Hopalong started, looked at his sombrero and silently obeyed. As theyrode down the trail and around a corner he turned in his saddle andlooked back; and then rode on, buried in thought. 

Billy, grinning, turned and playfully punched him in the ribs. "Gettin'glory, Hoppy?"

Hopalong raised his head and looked him steadily in the eyes; and Billy, losing his curiosity and the grin at the same instant, looked ahead, whistling softly. 

FOOTNOTE:

[8] From _Bar-20 Days_. Copyright, 1911, by A. C. McClurg and Company. Reprinted by special permission of author and publisher. 

[Illustration]

IX. --Dey Ain't No Ghosts[9]

_By Ellis Parker Butler_

ONCE 'pon a time dey was a li'l black boy whut he name was Mose. An'whin he come erlong to be 'bout knee-high to a mewel, he 'gin to gitpowerful 'fraid ob ghosts, 'ca'se dey's a grabeyard in de hollow, an' aburyin'-ground on de hill, an' a cemuntary in betwixt an' between, an'dey ain't nuffin' but trees nowhar in de clearin' by de shanty an' downde hollow whar de pumpkin-patch am. 

An' whin de night come erlong, dey ain't no sounds at all whut kin beheard in dat locality but de rain-doves, whut mourn out, "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!" jes dat trembulous an' scary, an' de owls, whut mournout, "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!" more trembulous an' scary dan dat, an' dewind, whut mourn out, "You-_you_-o-o-o!" mos' scandalous, trembulous an'scary ob all. Dat a powerful onpleasant locality for a li'l black boywhut he name was Mose. 

'Ca'se dat li'l black boy he so specially black he can't be seen in dedark _at_ all 'cept by de whites ob he eyes. So whin he go outen dehouse at night, he ain't dast shut he eyes, 'ca'se den ain't nobody cansee him in de least. He jest as invidsible as nuffin'! An' who know butwhut a great, big ghost bump right into him 'ca'se it can't see him? An'dat shore w'u'd scare dat li'l black boy powerful bad, 'ca'se yever'bodyknows whut a cold, damp pussonality a ghost is. 

So whin dat li'l black Mose go' outen de shanty at night, he keep heeyes wide open, you may be shore. By day he eyes 'bout de size obbutter-pats, an' come sundown he eyes 'bout de size ob saucers; but whinhe go outer de shanty at night, he eyes am de size ob de white chinyplate whut set on de mantel; an' it powerful hard to keep eyes whut amde size ob dat from a-winkin' an' a-blinkin'. 

So whin Hallowe'en come erlong, dat li'l black Mose he jes mek up hemind he ain't gwine outen de shack at all. He cogitate he gwine stayright snug in de shack wid he pa an' he ma, 'ca'se de rain-doves teknotice dat de ghosts are philanderin' roun' de country, 'ca'se deymourn out, "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!" an' de owls dey mourn out, "You-_you_-o-o-o!"De eyes ob dat li'l black Mose dey as big as de white chiny plate whutset on de mantel by side de clock, an' de sun jes a-settin'!

So dat all right. Li'l black Mose he scrooge back in de corner by defireplace, an' he 'low he gwine stay dere till he gwine _to_ bed. Butbimeby Sally Ann, whut live up de road, draps in, an' Mistah Sally Ann, whut is her husban', he draps in an' Zack Badget an' de school-teacherwhut board at Unc' Silas Diggs's house drap in, an' a powerful lot obfolks drap in. An' li'l black Mose he seen dat gwine be one s'priseparty, an' he right down cheerful 'bout dat. 

So all dem folks shake dere hands an' 'low "Howdy, " an' some ob dem say:"Why, dere's li'l Mose! Howdy, li'l Mose?" An' he so please he jes grinan' grin, 'ca'se he ain't reckon whut gwine happen. So bimeby Sally Ann, whut live up de road, she say, "Ain't no sort o' Hallowe'en lest we gota jack-o'-lantern. " An' de school-teacher, whut board at Unc' SilasDiggs's house, she 'low, "Hallowe'en jes no Hallowe'en _at_ all 'thoutwe got a jack-o'-lantern. " An' li'l black Mose he stop a-grinnin', an'he scrooge so far back in de corner he 'most scrooge frough de wall. Butdat ain't no use, 'ca'se he ma say, "Mose, go on down to depumpkin-patch an' fotch a pumpkin. "

"I ain't want to go, " say li'l black Mose. 

"Go on erlong wid yo', " say he ma, right commandin'. 

"I ain't want to go, " say Mose ag'in. 

"Why ain't yo' want to go?" he ma ask. 

"'Ca'se I's afraid ob de ghosts, " say li'l black Mose, an' dat departicular truth an' no mistake. 

"Dey ain't no ghosts, " say de school-teacher, whut board at Unc' SilasDiggs's house, right peart. 

"'Co'se dey ain't no ghosts, " say Zack Badget, whut dat 'feared obghosts he ain't dar' come to li'l black Mose's house ef deschool-teacher ain't ercompany him. 

"Go 'long wid your ghosts!" say li'l black Mose's ma. 

"Wha' yo' pick up dat nonsense?" say he pa. "Dey ain't no ghosts. "

An' dat whut all dat s'prise-party 'lows: dey ain't no ghosts. An' dey'low dey mus' hab a jack-o'-lantern or de fun all spiled. So dat li'lblack boy whut he name is Mose he done got to fotch a pumpkin from depumpkin-patch down de hollow. So he step outen de shanty an' he stan' onde doorstep twell he get he eyes pried open as big as de bottom ob hema's washtub, mostly, an' he say, "Dey ain't no ghosts. " An' he put onefoot on de ground, an' dat was de fust step. 

An' de rain-dove say, "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!"

An' li'l black Mose he tuck anudder step. 

An' de owl mourn out, "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!"

An' li'l black Mose he tuck anudder step. 

An' de wind sob out, "You-_you_-o-o-o!"

An' li'l black Mose he tuck one look ober he shoulder an' he shut heeyes so tight dey hurt round de aidges, an' he pick up he foots an' run. Yas, sah, he run right peart fast. An' he say: "Dey ain't no ghosts. Deyain't no ghosts. " An' he run erlong de paff whut lead by deburyin'-ground on de hill, 'ca'se dey ain't no fince eround datburyin'-ground at all. 

No fince; jes de big trees whut de owls an' de rain-doves sot in an'mourn an' sob, an' whut de wind sigh an' cry frough. An' bimeby somefin'jes _brush_ li'l Mose on de arm, which mek him run jest a bit morefaster. An' bimeby somefin' jes _brush_ li'l Mose on de cheek, which mekhim run erbout as fast as he can. An' bimeby somefin' _grab_ li'l Moseby de aidge of he coat, an' he fight an' struggle an' cry out: "Deyain't no ghosts. Dey ain't no ghosts. " An' dat ain't nuffin' but de wildbrier whut grab him, an' dat ain't nuffin' but de leaf ob a tree whutbrush he cheek, an' dat ain't nuffin' but de branch ob a hazel-bush whutbrush he arm. But he downright scared jes de same, an' he ain't lost notime, 'ca'se de wind an' de owls an' de rain-doves dey signerfy whutain't no good. So he scoot past dat buryin'-ground whut on de hill, an'dat cemuntary whut betwixt an' between, an' dat grabeyard in de hollow, twell he come to de pumpkin-patch, an' he rotch down an' tek erhold obde bestest pumpkin whut in de patch. An' he right smart scared. He jesde mostest scared li'l black boy whut yever was. He ain't gwine open heeyes fo' nuffin', 'ca'se de wind go, "You-_you_-o-o-o!" an' de owls go, "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!" an' de rain-doves go, "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!"

He jes speculate, "Dey ain't no ghosts, " an' wish he hair don't stand onind dat way. An' he jes cogitate, "Dey ain't no ghosts, " an' wish hegoose-pimples don't rise up dat way. An' he jes 'low, "Dey ain't noghosts, " an' wish he backbone ain't all trembulous wid chills dat way. So he rotch down, an' he rotch down, twell he git a good hold on datpricklesome stem of dat bestest pumpkin whut in de patch, an' he jesyank dat stem wid all he might. 

"_Let loosen my head!_" say a big voice all on a suddent. 

Dat li'l black boy whut he name is Mose he jump 'most outen he skin. Heopen he eyes an' he 'gin to shake like de aspen tree, 'ca'se whut data-standin' right dar behind him but a 'mendjous big ghost! Yas, sah, datde bigges', whites' ghost whut yever was. An' it ain't got no head. Ain't go no head _at_ all. Li'l black Mose he jest drap on he knees an'he beg an' pray:

"Oh, 'scuse me! 'Scuse me, Mistah Ghost!" he beg. "Ah ain't mean no harmat all. "

"Whut for you try to take my head?" as' de ghost in dat fearsome voicewhut like de damp wind outen de cellar. 

"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me!" beg li'l Mose. "Ah ain't know dat was yo' head, an' I ain't know you was dar _at_ all. 'Scuse me!"

"Ah 'scuse you ef you do me dis favor, " say de ghost. "Ah got somefin'powerful _im_portant to say unto you, an' Ah can't say hit 'ca'se Ahain't got no head; an' whin Ah ain't got no head, Ah ain't got no mouf, an' whin Ah ain't got no mouf, Ah can't talk _at_ all. "

An' dat right logical fo' shore. Can't nobody talk whin he ain't got nomouf, an' can't nobody have no mouf whin he ain't got no head, an' whinli'l black Mose he look, he see dat ghost ain't go no head _at_ all. Nary head. 

So de ghost say:

"Ah come on down yere fo' to git a pumpkin fo' a head, an' Ah pick datixact pumpkin whut yo' gwine tek, an' Ah don't like dat one bit. No, sah. Ah feel like Ah pick yo' up an' carry yo' away, an' nobody see youno more for yever. But Ah got somefin' powerful _im_portant to say untoyo', an' if yo' pick up dat pumpkin an' sot it on de place whar my headought to be, Ah let you off dis time, 'ca'se Ah ain't been able to talkfo' so long Ah'm right hongry to say somefin'!"

So li'l black Mose he heft up dat pumpkin, an' de ghost he bent down, an' li'l black Mose he sot dat pumpkin on dat ghostses neck. An' rightoff dat pumpkin head 'gin to wink an' blink like a jack-o'-lantern, an'right off dat pumpkin head 'gin to glimmer an' glow frough de mouf likea jack-o'-lantern, an' right off dat ghost start to speak. Yas, sah, dass so. 

"Whut yo' want to say unto me?" _in_quire li'l black Mose. 

"Ah want to tell yo', " say de ghost, "dat yo' ain't need yever beskeered of ghosts, 'ca'se dey ain't no ghosts. "

An' whin he say dat de ghost jes vanish away like de smoke in July. Heain't even linger round dat locality like de smoke in Yoctober. He jesdissipate outen de air, an' he gone _in_tirely. 

So li'l Mose he grab up de nex' bestest pumpkin an' he scoot. An' whinhe come to de grabeyard in de hollow, he goin' erlong same as yever, on'y faster, whin he reckon, he'll pick up a club _in_ case he gwinehave trouble. An' he rotch down an' rotch down, an' tek hold of a livelyappearin' hunk o' wood whut right dar. An' whin he grab dat hunk ofwood. . . . 

"_Let loosen my leg!_" say a big voice all on a suddent. 

Dat li'l black boy 'most jump outen he skin, 'ca'se right dar in de paffis six 'mendjus big ghosts, an' de bigges' ain't got but one leg. Soli'l black Mose jes natchully handed dat hunk of wood to dat bigges'ghost, an' he say:

"'Scuse me, Mistah Ghost; Ah ain't know dis your leg. "

An' whut dem six ghostes do but stand round an' confabulate? Yas, sah, dass so. An' whin dey do so, one say:

"'Pears like dis a mighty likely li'l black boy. Whut we gwine do fo' to_re_ward him fo' politeness?"

"Tell him whut de truth is 'bout ghosts. "

So de bigges' ghost he say:

"Ah gwine tell yo' somethin' important whut yever'body don't know: Dey_ain't_ no ghosts. "

An' whin he say dat, de ghosts jes natchully vanish away, an' li'l blackMose he proceed up de paff. He so scared he hair jes yank at de roots, an' when de wind go "Oo-_oo_-oo-o-o, " an' de owl go, "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!"an' de rain-doves go, "You-_you_-o-o-o!" he jes tremble an' shake. An'bimeby he come to de cemuntary whut betwixt an' between, an' he shore ismighty skeered, 'ca'se dey is a whole comp'ny of ghostes lined up alongde road, an' he 'low he ain't gwine spind no more time palaverin' widghostes. So he step offen de road fo' to go round erbout, an' he step ona pine-stump whut lay right dar. 

"_Git offen my chest!_" say a big voice all on a suddent, 'ca'se datstump am been selected by de captain ob de ghostes for to be he chest, 'ca'se he ain't got no chest betwixt he shoulders an' he legs. An' li'lblack Mose he hop offen dat stump right peart. Yes, _sah;_ right peart. 

"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me!" dat li'l black Mose beg an' pleed, an' deghostes ain't know whuther to eat him all up or not, 'ca'se he step onde boss ghostes's chest dat a-way. But bimeby they 'low they let him go'ca'se dat was an accident, an' de captain ghost he say, "Mose, youMose, Ah gwine let you off dis time, 'ca'se you ain't nuffin' but amisabul li'l tremblin' nigger; but Ah want you should remimber onething mos' particular'. "

"Ya-yas, sah, " say dat li'l black boy; "Ah'll remimber. What is dat Ahgot to remimber?"

De captain ghost he swell up, an' he swell up, twell he as big as ahouse, an' he say in a voice whut shake de ground:

"Dey ain't no ghosts. "

So li'l black Mose he bound to remimber dat, an' he rise up an' mek abow, an' he proceed toward home right libely. He do, indeed. 

An' he gwine along jes as fast as he kin whin he come to de aidge ob deburyin'-ground whut on de hill, an' right dar he bound to stop, 'ca'sede kentry round about am so populate he ain't able to go frough. Yas, sah, seem like all de ghostes in de world havin' de conferince rightdar. Seem like all de ghosteses whut yever was am havin' a convintion ondat spot. An' dat li'l black Mose so skeered he jes fall down on e' oldlog whut dar an' screech an' moan! An' all on a suddent de log up andspoke to li'l Mose:

"_Get offen me! Get offen me!_" yell dat log. 

So li'l black Mose he git offen dat log, an' no mistake. 

An' soon as he git offen de log, de log uprise, an' li'l black Mose hesee dat dat log am de king ob all de ghostes. An' whin de king uprise, all de congregation crowd round li'l black Mose, an' dey am about lebenmillium an' a few lift over. Yes, sah; dat de reg'lar annyul Hallowe'enconvintion whut li'l black Mose interrup. Right dar am all de sperits inde world, an' all de ha'nts in de world, an' all de hobgoblins in deworld, an' all de ghouls in de world, an' all de spicters in de world, an' all de ghostes in de world. An' whin dey see li'l black Mose, deyall gnash dey teef an' grin 'ca'se it gettin' erlong toward dey-all'slunchtime. So de king, whut he name old Skull-an'-Bones, he step on topob li'l Mose's head, an' he say:

"Gin'l'min, de convintion will come to order. De sicretary please notewho is prisint. De firs' business whut come before de convintion am:whut we gwine do to a li'l black boy whut stip on de king an' maul allober de king an' treat de king dat disdespictful. "

An' li'l black Mose jes moan an' sob:

"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me, Mistah King! Ah ain't mean no harm _at_ all. "

But nobody ain't pay no attintion to him at all, 'ca'se yevery onelookin' at a monstrous big ha'nt whut name Bloody Bones, whut rose upan' spoke. 

"Your Honor, Mistah King, an' gin'l'min _an'_ ladies, " he say, "dis am aright bad case ob _lazy majesty_, 'ca'se de king been step on. Whinyevery li'l black boy whut choose gwine wander round at night an' stipon de king of ghostes, it ain't no time for to palaver, it ain't no timefor to prevaricate, it ain't no time for to cogitate, it ain't no timedo nuffin' but tell de truth, an' de whole truth, an' nuffin but detruth. "

An' all dem ghostes sicond de motion, an' dey canfabulate out louderbout it, an' de noise soun like de rain-doves goin', "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!"an' de owls goin', "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!" an' de wind goin', "You-_you_-o-o-o!" So dat risolution am passed unanermous, an' nomistake. 

So de king ob de ghosts, whut name old Skull-an'-Bones, he place he handon de head ob li'l black Mose, an' he hand feel like a wet rag, an' hesay:

"Dey ain't no ghosts. "

An' one ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l black Mose turn white. 

An' de monstrous big ha'nt whut he name Bloody Bones he lay he hand onde head ob li'l black Mose, and he hand feel like a toadstool in de coolob de day, an' he say:

"Dey ain't no ghosts. "

An' anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l black Mose turn white. 

An' a heejus sperit whut he name Moldy Pa'm place he hand on de head obli'l black Mose, an' he hand feel like ye yunner side ob a lizard, an'he say:

"Dey ain't no ghosts. "

An' anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l black Mose turn white_as_ snow. 

An' a perticklar bent-up hobgoblin he put hand on de head ob li'l blackMose, an' he mek dat same _re_mark, and dat whole convintion ob ghostesan' spicters an' ha'nts an' yever-thing, which am more 'n a millium, pass by so quick dey-all's hands feel lak de wind whut blow outen decellar whin de day am hot, an' dey-all say, "Dey ain't no ghosts. " Yas, sah, dey-all say dem wo'ds so fas' it soun like de wind whin it moanfrough de turkentine-trees whut behind de cider-priss. An' yevery hairwhut on li'l black Mose's head turn white. Dat whut happen whin a li'lblack boy gwine meet a ghost convintion dat a-way. Dat's so he ain'tgwine fergit to remimber dey ain't no ghosts. 'Ca'se ef a li'l black boygwine imaginate dey _is_ ghostes, he gwine be skeered in de dark. An'dat a foolish thing for to imaginate. 

So prisintly all de ghostes am whiff away, like de fog outen de hollerwhin de wind blow' on it, an' li'l black Mose he ain' see 'ca'se for toremain in dat locality no longer. He rotch down, an' he raise up depumpkin, an' he perambulate right quick to he ma's shack, an' he lift upde latch, an' he open de do', an' he yenter in. An' he say:

"Yere's de pumpkin. "

An' he ma an' he pa, an' Sally Ann, whut live up de road, an' MistahSally Ann, whut her husban', an' Zack Badget, an' de school-teacher whutboard at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, an' all de powerful lot of folks whutcome to de doin's, dey all scrooged back in de cornder ob de shack, 'ca'se Zack Badget he been done tell a ghost-tale, an' de rain-dovesgwine "Ooo-_oo_-o-o-o!" an' de owls am gwine, "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!" andde wind it gwine, "You-_you_-o-o-o!" an' yever'body powerful skeered. 'Ca'se li'l black Mose he come a-fumblin' an' a-rattlin' at de do' jeswhin dat ghost-tale mos' skeery, an' yever'body gwine imaginate dat deghost a-fumblin' an' a-rattlin' at de do'. Yas, sah. So li'l black Mosehe turn he white head, an' he look roun' an' peer roun', an' he say:

"Whut you all skeered fo'?"

'Ca'se ef anybody skeered, he want to be skeered, too. Dat's natural. But de school-teacher, whut live at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, she say:

"Fo' de lan's sake, we fought you was a ghost!"

So li'l black Mose he sort ob sniff an' he sort ob sneer, an' he 'low:

"Huh! dey ain't no ghosts. "

Den he ma she powerful took back dat li'l black Mose he gwine be soupotish an' contrydict folks whut know 'rifmeticks an' algebricks an'gin'ral countin' widout fingers, like de school-teacher whut board atUnc' Silas Diggs's house knows, an' she say:

"Huh; whut you know 'bout ghosts, anner way?"

An' li'l black Mose he jes kinder stan' on one foot, an' he jes kindersuck he thumb, an' he jes kinder 'low:

"I don' know nuffin' erbout ghosts, 'ca'se dey ain't no ghosts. "

So he pa gwine whop him fo' tellin' a fib 'bout dey ain't no ghosts whinyever'body know dey is ghosts; but de school-teacher, whut board at Unc'Silas Diggs's house, she tek note de hair ob li'l black Mose's head amplumb white, an' she tek note li'l black Mose's face am de color ofwood-ash, so she jes retch one arm round dat li'l black boy, an' she jessnuggle him up, an' she say:

"Honey lamb, don't you be skeered; ain' nobody gwine hurt you. How youknow dey ain't no ghosts?"

An' li'l black Mose he kinder lean up 'g'inst de school-teacher whutboard at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, an' he 'low:

"'Ca'se--'ca'se--'ca'se I met de cap'n ghost, an' I met de gin'ralghost, an' I met de king ghost, an' I met all de ghostes whut yever wasin de whole worl', an' yevery ghost say de same thing: 'Dey ain't noghosts. ' An' if de cap'n ghost an' de gin'ral ghost an' de king ghostan' all de ghostes in de whole worl' don' know ef dar am ghostes, whodoes?"

"Das right; das right, honey lamb, " say de school-teacher. An' she say:"I been s'picious dey ain' no ghostes dis long whiles, an' now I know. Ef all de ghostes say dey ain' no ghosts, dey _ain'_ no ghosts. "

So yever'body 'low dat o cep' Zack Badget, whut been tellin' deghost-tale, an' he ain' gwine say "Yis" an' he ain' gwine say "No, "'ca'se he right sweet on de school-teacher; but he know right well hedone seen plinty ghostes in he day. So he boun' to be sure fust. So hesay to li'l black Mose:

"'Tain' likely you met up wid a monstrous big ha'nt whut live down delane whut he name Bloody Bones?"

"Yas, " say li'l black Mose, "I done met up wid him. "

"An' did old Bloody Bones done tol' you dey ain' no ghosts?" say ZackBadget. 

"Yas, " say li'l black Mose, "he done tell me perzactly dat. "

"Well, if _he_ tol' you dey ain' no ghosts, " say Zack Badget, "I got to'low dey ain't no ghosts, 'ca'se he ain't gwine tell no lie erbout it. Iknow dat Bloody Bones ghost sence I was a piccaninny, an' I done met upwif him a powerful lot o' times, an' he ain't gwine tell no lie erboutit. Ef dat perticklar ghost say dey ain't no ghosts, dey ain't noghosts. "

So yever'body say:

"Das right; dey ain't no ghosts. "

An' dat mek li'l black Mose feel mighty good, 'ca'se he ain' lekghostes. He reckon he gwine be a heap mo' comfortable in he mind sencehe know dey ain't no ghosts, an' he reckon he ain' gwine be skeered ofnuffin' never no more. He ain't gwine min' de dark, an' he ain't gwinemin' de rain-doves whut go, "Ooo-_oo_-o-o-o!" an' he ain' gwine min' deowls whut go, "Who-_who_-o-o-o!" an' he ain' gwine min' de wind whut go, "You-_you_-o-o-o!" nor nuffin, nohow. He gwine be brave as a lion, sencehe know fo' sure dey ain' no ghosts. So prisintly he ma say:

"Well, time fo' a li'l black boy whut he name is Mose to be gwine up deladder to de loft to bed. "

An' li'l black Mose he 'low he gwine wait a bit. He 'low he gwine jeswait a li'l bit. He 'low he gwine be no trouble _at_ all ef he jes beenlet wait twell he ma she gwine up de ladder to de loft to bed, too. Sohe ma she say:

"Git erlong wid yo'! Whut you skeered ob whin dey ain't no ghosts?"

An' li'l black Mose he scrooge, an' he twist, an' he pucker up he mouf, an' he rub he eyes, an' prisintly he say right low:

"I ain't skeered ob ghosts whut am, 'ca'se dey ain't no ghosts. "

"Den what am yo' skeered ob?" ask he ma. 

"Nuffin', " say de li'l black boy whut he name is Mose; "but I jes feelkinder oneasy 'bout de ghosts whut ain't. "

Jes lak white folks! Jes lak white folks!

FOOTNOTE:

[9] Copyright, 1913, by the Century Company. Reprinted by specialpermission of the author. 

[Illustration]

X. --The Night Operator[10]

_By Frank L. Packard_

TODDLES, in the beginning, wasn't exactly a railroad man--for severalreasons. First he wasn't a man at all; second, he wasn't, strictlyspeaking, on the company's pay roll; third, which is apparentlyirrelevant, everybody said he was a bad one; and fourth--because Hawkeyenicknamed him Toddles. 

Toddles had another name--Christopher Hyslop Hoogan--but Big Cloud neverlay awake at nights losing any sleep over that. On the first run thatChristopher Hyslop Hoogan ever made, Hawkeye looked him over for aminute, said, "Toddles, " shortlike--and, shortlike, that settled thematter so far as the Hill Division was concerned. His name was Toddles. 

Piecemeal, Toddles wouldn't convey anything to you to speak of. You'dhave to see Toddles coming down the aisle of a car to get him atall--and then the chances are you'd turn around after he'd gone by andstare at him, and it would be even money that you'd call him back andfish for a dime to buy something by way of excuse. Toddles got a gooddeal of business that way. Toddles had a uniform and a regular run allright, but he wasn't what he passionately longed to be--a legitimate, dyed-in-the-wool railroader. His pay check, plus commissions, came fromthe News Company down East that had the railroad concession. Toddles wasa newsboy. In his blue uniform and silver buttons, Toddles used to stackup about the height of the back of the car seats as he hawked his waresalong the aisles; and the only thing that was big about him was hishead, which looked as though it had got a whopping big lead on hisbody--and didn't intend to let the body cut the lead down any. Thismeant a big cap, and, as Toddles used to tilt the vizor forward, the tipof his nose, bar his mouth which was generous, was about all one got ofhis face. Cap, buttons, magazines and peanuts, that was Toddles--allexcept his voice. Toddles had a voice that would make you jump if youwere nervous the minute he opened the car door, and if you weren'tnervous you would be before he had reached the other end of theaisle--it began low down somewhere on high G and went through you shrillas an east wind, and ended like the shriek of a brake-shoe witheverything the Westinghouse equipment had to offer cutting loose on aquick stop. 

Hawkeye? That was what Toddles called his beady-eyed conductor inretaliation. Hawkeye used to nag Toddles every chance he got, and, beingToddles' conductor, Hawkeye got a good many chances. In a word, Hawkeye, carrying the punch on the local passenger, that happened to be the runToddles was given when the News Company sent him out from the East, usedto think he got a good deal of fun out of Toddles--only his idea of funand Toddles' idea of fun were as divergent as the poles, that was all. 

Toddles, however, wasn't anybody's fool, not by several degrees--noteven Hawkeye's. Toddles hated Hawkeye like poison; and his hate, apartfrom daily annoyances, was deep-seated. It was Hawkeye who had dubbedhim "Toddles. " And Toddles repudiated the name with his heart, hissoul--and his fists. 

Toddles wasn't anybody's fool, whatever the division thought, and he wasright down to the basic root of things from the start. Coupled with thestunted growth that nature in a miserly mood had doled out to him, noneknew better than himself that the name of "Toddles, " keeping that naturestuff patently before everybody's eyes, damned him in his aspirationsfor a bona fide railroad career. Other boys got a job and got their feeton the ladder as call-boys, or in the roundhouse; Toddles got--a grin. Toddles pestered everybody for a job. He pestered Carleton, the super. He pestered Tommy Regan, the master mechanic. Every time that he sawanybody in authority Toddles spoke up for a job, he was in deadlyearnest--and got a grin. Toddles with a basket of unripe fruit and stalechocolates and his "best-seller" voice was one thing; but Toddles asanything else was just--Toddles. 

Toddles repudiated the name, and did it forcefully. Not that he couldn'ttake his share of a bit of guying, but because he felt that he was faceto face with a vital factor in the career he longed for--so he fought. And if nature had been niggardly in one respect, she had been generousin others; Toddles, for all his size, possessed the heart of a lion andthe strength of a young ox, and he used both, with black and bloodyeffect, on the eyes and noses of the call-boys and younger element whocalled him Toddles. He fought it all along the line--at the drop of thehat--at a whisper of "Toddles. " There wasn't a day went by that Toddleswasn't in a row; and the women, the mothers of the defeated warriorswhose eyes were puffed and whose noses trickled crimson, denounced himin virulent language over their washtubs and the back fences of BigCloud. You see, they didn't understand him, so they called him a "badone, " and, being from the East and not one of themselves, "a New Yorkgutter snipe. "

But, for all that, the name stuck. Up and down through the Rockies itwas--Toddles. Toddles, with the idea of getting a lay-over on a siding, even went to the extent of signing himself in full--Christopher HyslopHoogan--every time his signature was in order; but the officialdocuments in which he was concerned, being of a private nature betweenhimself and the News Company, did not, in the very nature of things, have much effect on the Hill Division. Certainly the big fellows neverknew he had any name but Toddles--and cared less. But they knew him asToddles, all right! All of them did, every last one of them! Toddles waseverlastingly and eternally bothering them for a job. Any kind of a job, no matter what, just so it was real railroading, and so a fellow couldline up with everybody else when the pay car came along, and lookforward to being something some day. 

Toddles, with time, of course, grew older, up to about seventeen or so, but he didn't grow any bigger--not enough to make it noticeable! EvenToddles' voice wouldn't break--it was his young heart that did all thebreaking there was done. Not that he ever showed it. No one ever saw atear in the boy's eyes. It was clenched fists for Toddles, clenchedfists and passionate attack. And therein, while Toddles had grasped thebasic truth that his nickname militated against his ambitions, he erredin another direction that was equally fundamental, if not more so. 

And here, it was Bob Donkin, the night dispatcher, as white a man as hisrecord after years of train-handling was white, a railroad man from theground up if there ever was one, and one of the best, who setToddles--but we'll come to that presently. We've got our "clearance"now, and we're off with "rights" through. 

No. 83, Hawkeye's train--and Toddles'--scheduled Big Cloud on theeastbound run at 9. 05; and, on the night the story opens, they wereabout an hour away from the little mountain town that was the divisionalpoint, as Toddles, his basket of edibles in the crook of his arm, haltedin the forward end of the second-class smoker to examine again thefistful of change that he dug out of his pants pocket with his freehand. 

Toddles was in an unusually bad humor, and he scowled. With exceedingdeftness he separated one of the coins from the others, using hisfingers like the teeth of a rake, and dropped the rest back jinglinginto his pocket. The coin that remained he put into his mouth, and biton it--hard. His scowl deepened. Somebody had presented Toddles with alead quarter. 

It wasn't so much the quarter, though Toddles' salary wasn't so big assome people's who would have felt worse over it, it was his _amourpropre_ that was touched--deeply. It wasn't often that any one could putso bald a thing as lead money across on Toddles. Toddles' mind harkedback along the aisles of the cars behind him. He had only made two salesthat round, and he had changed a quarter each time--for the pretty girlwith the big picture hat, who had giggled at him when she bought apackage of chewing gum; and the man with the three-carat diamond tie-pinin the parlor car, a little more than on the edge of inebriety, who hadgot on at the last stop, and who had bought a cigar from him. 

Toddles thought it over for a bit; decided he wouldn't have a fuss witha girl anyway, balked at a parlor car fracas with a drunk, dropped thecoin back into his pocket, and went on into the combination baggage andexpress car. Here, just inside the door, was Toddles', or, rather, theNews Company's chest. Toddles lifted the lid; and then his eyes shiftedslowly and traveled up the car. Things were certainly going badly withToddles that night. 

There were four men in the car: Bob Donkin, coming back from a holidaytrip somewhere up the line; MacNicoll, the baggage-master; Nulty, theexpress messenger--and Hawkeye. Toddles' inventory of the contents ofthe chest had been hurried--but intimate. A small bunch of six bananaswas gone, and Hawkeye was munching them unconcernedly. It wasn't thefirst time the big, hulking, six-foot conductor had pilfered the boy'schest, not by many--and never paid for the pilfering. That was Hawkeye'sidea of a joke. 

Hawkeye was talking to Nulty, elaborately simulating ignorance ofToddles' presence--and he was talking about Toddles. 

"Sure, " said Hawkeye, his mouth full of banana, "he'll be a greatrailroad man some day! He's the stuff they're made of! You can see itsticking out all over him! He's only selling peanuts now till he growsup and----"

Toddles put down his basket and planted himself before the conductor. 

"You pay for those bananas, " said Toddles in a low voice--which washigh. 

"When'll he grow up?" continued Hawkeye, peeling more fruit. "I don'tknow--you've got me. The first time I saw him two years ago, I'm hangedif he wasn't bigger than he is now--guess he grows backwards. Have abanana?" He offered one to Nulty, who refused it. 

"You pay for those bananas, you big stiff!" squealed Toddlesbelligerently. 

Hawkeye turned his head slowly and turned his little beady, black eyeson Toddles, then he turned with a wink to the others, and for the firsttime in two years offered payment. He fished into his pocket and handedToddles a twenty-dollar bill--there always was a mean streak in Hawkeye, more or less of a bully, none too well liked, and whose name on the payroll, by the way, was Reynolds. 

"Take fifteen cents out of that, " he said, with no idea that the boycould change the bill. 

For a moment Toddles glared at the yellow-back, then a thrill of unholyglee came to Toddles. He could just about make it, business all aroundhad been pretty good that day, particularly on the run west in themorning. 

Hawkeye went on with the exposition of his idea of humor at Toddles'expense; and Toddles went back to his chest and his reserve funds. Toddles counted out eighteen dollars in bills, made a neat pile of fourquarters--the lead one on the bottom--another neat pile of the oddchange, and returned to Hawkeye. The lead quarter wouldn't go very fartoward liquidating Hawkeye's long-standing indebtedness--but it wouldhelp some. 

Queer, isn't it--the way things happen? Think of a man's whole life, aspirations, hopes, ambitions, everything, pivoting on--a lead quarter!But then they say that opportunity knocks once at the door of every man;and, if that be true, let it be remarked in passing that Toddles wasn'tdeaf!

Hawkeye, making Toddles a target for a parting gibe, took up his lanternand started through the train to pick up the fates from the last stop. In due course he halted before the inebriated one with the glitteringtie-pin in the smoking compartment of the parlor car. 

"Ticket, please, " said Hawkeye. 

"Too busy to buysh ticket, " the man informed him, with heavy confidence. "Whash fare Loon Dam to Big Cloud?"

"One-fifty, " said Hawkeye curtly. 

The man produced a roll of bills, and from the roll extracted atwo-dollar note. 

Hawkeye handed him back two quarters, and started to punch a cash-fareslip. He looked up to find the man holding out one of the quartersinsistently, if somewhat unsteadily. 

"What's the matter?" demanded Hawkeye brusquely. 

"Bad, " said the man. 

A drummer grinned; and an elderly gentleman, from his magazine, lookedup inquiringly over his spectacles. 

"Bad!" Hawkeye brought his elbow sharply around to focus his lamp on thecoin; then he leaned over and rang it on the window sill--only itwouldn't ring. It was indubitably bad. Hawkeye, however, was dealingwith a drunk--and Hawkeye always did have a mean streak in him. 

"It's perfectly good, " he asserted gruffly. 

The man rolled an eye at the conductor that mingled a sudden shrewdnessand anger, and appealed to his fellow travelers. The verdict was againstHawkeye, and Hawkeye ungraciously pocketed the lead piece and handedover another quarter. 

"Shay, " observed the inebriated one insolently, "shay, conductor, Idon't like you. You thought I was--hic!--s'drunk I wouldn't know--eh?Thash where you fooled yerself!"

"What do you mean?" Hawkeye bridled virtuously for the benefit of thedrummer and the old gentleman with the spectacles. 

And then the other began to laugh immoderately. 

"Same ol' quarter, " said he. "Same--hic!--ol' quarter back again. Greatsystem--peanut boy--conductor--hic! Pass it off on one--other passes itoff on some one else. Just passed it off on--hic!--peanut boy for ajoke. Goin' to give him a dollar when he comes back. "

"Oh, you did, did you!" snapped Hawkeye ominously. "And you mean toinsinuate that I deliberately tried to----"

"Sure!" declared the man heartily. 

"You're a liar!" announced Hawkeye, spluttering mad. "And what's more, since it came from you, you'll take it back!" He dug into his pocket forthe ubiquitous lead piece. 

"Not--hic!--on your life!" said the man earnestly. "You hang on to it, old top. I didn't pass it off on _you_. "

"Haw!" exploded the drummer suddenly. "Haw--haw, haw!"

And the elderly gentleman smiled. 

Hawkeye's face went red, and then purple. 

"Go 'way!" said the man petulantly. "I don't like you. Go 'way! Go an'tell peanuts I--hic!--got a dollar for him. "

And Hawkeye went--but Toddles never got the dollar. Hawkeye went out ofthe smoking compartment of the parlor car with the lead quarter in hispocket--because he couldn't do anything else--which didn't soothe hisfeelings any--and he went out mad enough to bite himself. The drummer'sguffaw followed him, and he thought he even caught a chuckle from theelderly party with the magazine and spectacles. 

Hawkeye was mad; and he was quite well aware, painfully well aware thathe had looked like a fool, which is about one of the meanest feelingsthere is to feel; and, as he made his way forward through the train, hegrew madder still. That change was the change from his twenty-dollarbill. He had not needed to be told that the lead quarter had come fromToddles. The only question at all in doubt was whether or not Toddleshad put the counterfeit coin over on him knowingly and with maliceaforethought. Hawkeye, however, had an intuition deep down inside of himthat there wasn't any doubt even about that, and as he opened the doorof the baggage car his intuition was vindicated. There was a grin on thefaces of Nulty, MacNicoll and Bob Donkin that disappeared withsuspicious celerity at sight of him as he came through the door. 

There was no hesitation then on Hawkeye's part. Toddles, equipped foranother excursion through the train with a stack of magazines and booksthat almost hid him, received a sudden and vicious clout on the side ofthe ear. 

"You'd try your tricks on me, would you?" Hawkeye snarled. "Leadquarters--eh?" Another clout. "I'll teach you, you blasted little runt!"

And with the clouts, the stack of carefully balanced periodicals wentflying over the floor; and with the clouts, the nagging, and thehectoring, and the bullying, that had rankled for close on two years inToddles' turbulent soul, rose in a sudden all-possessing sweep of fury. Toddles was a fighter--with the heart of a fighter. And Toddles' causewas just. He couldn't reach the conductor's face--so he went forHawkeye's legs. And the screams of rage from his high-pitched voice, ashe shot himself forward, sounded like a cageful of Australian cockatooson the rampage. 

Toddles was small, pitifully small for his age; but he wasn't an infantin arms--not for a minute. And in action Toddles was as near to a wildcat as anything else that comes handy by way of illustration. Two legsand one arm he twined and twisted around Hawkeye's legs; and the otherarm, with a hard and knotty fist on the end of it, caught the conductora wicked jab in the region of the bottom button of the vest. The brassbutton peeled the skin off Toddles' knuckles, but the jab doubled theconductor forward, and coincident with Hawkeye's winded grunt, thelantern in his hand sailed ceilingwards, crashed into the center lampsin the roof of the car, and down in a shower of tinkling glass, drippingoil and burning wicks, came the wreckage to the floor. 

There was a yell from Nulty; but Toddles hung on like grim death. Hawkeye was bawling fluent profanity and seeing red. Toddles heard oneand sensed the other--and he clung grimly on. He was all doubled uparound Hawkeye's knees, and in that position Hawkeye couldn't get at himvery well; and, besides, Toddles had his own plan of battle. He waswaiting for an extra heavy lurch of the car. 

It came. Toddles' muscles strained legs and arms and back in concert, and for an instant across the car they tottered, Hawkeye staggering in adesperate attempt to maintain his equilibrium--and then down--speakinggenerally, on a heterogeneous pile of express parcels; concretely, withan eloquent squnch, on a crate of eggs, thirty dozen of them, at fortycents a dozen. 

Toddles, over his rage, experienced a sickening sense of disaster, butstill he clung; he didn't dare let go. Hawkeye's fists, both in aneffort to recover himself and in an endeavor to reach Toddles, weregoing like a windmill; and Hawkeye's threats were something terrifyingto listen to. And now they rolled over, and Toddles was underneath; andthen they rolled over again; and then a hand locked on Toddles' collar, and he was yanked, terrier-fashion, to his feet. 

His face white and determined, his fists doubled, Toddles waited forHawkeye to get up--the word "run" wasn't in Toddles' vocabulary. Hehadn't long to wait. 

Hawkeye lunged up, draped in the broken crate--a sight. The road alwaysprided itself on the natty uniforms of its train crews, but Hawkeyewasn't dressed in uniform then--mostly egg yolks. He made a dash forToddles, but he never reached the boy. Bob Donkin was between them. 

"Cut it out!" said Donkin coldly, as he pushed Toddles behind him. "Youasked for it, Reynolds, and you got it. Now cut it out!"

And Hawkeye "cut it out. " It was pretty generally understood that BobDonkin never talked much for show, and Bob Donkin was bigger thanToddles, a whole lot bigger, as big as Hawkeye himself. Hawkeye "cut itout. "

Funny, the egg part of it? Well, perhaps. But the fire wasn't. True, they got it out with the help of the hand extinguishers before it didany serious damage, for Nulty had gone at it on the jump; but while itlasted the burning oil on the car floor looked dangerous. Anyway, it wasbad enough so that they couldn't hide it when they got into BigCloud--and Hawkeye and Toddles went on the carpet for it the nextmorning in the super's office. 

Carleton, "Royal" Carleton, reached for a match, and, to keep his lipsstraight, clamped them firmly on the amber mouthpiece of his brier, andstumpy, big-paunched Tommy Regan, the master mechanic, who was sittingin a chair by the window, reached hurriedly into his back pocket for hischewing and looked out of the window to hide a grin, as the two came inand ranged themselves in front of the super's desk--Hawkeye, six feetand a hundred and ninety pounds, with Toddles trailing him, mostly capand buttons and no weight at all. 

Carleton didn't ask many questions--he'd asked them before--of BobDonkin--and the dispatcher hadn't gone out of his way to invest theconductor with any glorified halo. Carleton, always a strictdisciplinarian, said what he had to say and said it quietly; but hemeant to let the conductor have the worst of it, and he did--in a waythat was all Carleton's own. Two years' picking on a youngster didn'tappeal to Carleton, no matter who the youngster was. Before he was halfthrough he had the big conductor squirming. Hawkeye was looking forsomething else--besides a galling and matter-of-fact impartiality thataccepted himself and Toddles as being on exactly the same plane andlevel. 

"There's a case of eggs, " said Carleton at the end. "You can divide upthe damage between you. And I'm going to change your runs, unless you'vegot some good reason to give me why I shouldn't?"

He waited for an answer. 

Hawkeye, towering, sullen, his eyes resting bitterly on Regan, havingcaught the master mechanic's grin, said nothing; Toddles, whose headbarely showed over the top of Carleton's desk, and the whole of himsizing up about big enough to go into the conductor's pocket, wasequally silent--Toddles was thinking of something else. 

"Very good, " said Carleton suavely, as he surveyed the ridiculousincongruity before him. "I'll change your runs, then. I can't have youtwo _men_ brawling and prize-fighting every trip. "

There was a sudden sound from the window, as though Regan had got someof his blackstrap juice down the wrong way. 

Hawkeye's face went black as thunder. 

Carleton's face was like a sphinx. 

"That'll do, then, " he said. "You can go, both of you. "

Hawkeye stamped out of the room and down the stairs. But Toddles stayed. 

"Please, Mr. Carleton, won't you give me a job on----" Toddles stopped. 

So had Regan's chuckle. Toddles, the irrepressible, was at it again--andToddles after a job, any kind of a job, was something that Regan'sexperience had taught him to fly from without standing on the order ofhis flight. Regan hurried from the room. 

Toddles watched him go--kind of speculatively, kind of reproachfully. Then he turned to Carleton. 

"Please give me a job, Mr. Carleton, " he pleaded. "Give me a job, won'tyou?"

It was only yesterday on the platform that Toddles had waylaid the superwith the same demand--and about every day before that as far back asCarleton could remember. It was hopelessly chronic. Anything convincingor appealing about it had gone long ago--Toddles said it parrot-fashionnow. Carleton took refuge in severity. 

"See here, young man, " he said grimly, "you were brought into thisoffice for a reprimand and not to apply for a job! You can thank yourstars and Bob Donkin you haven't lost the one you've got. Now, get out!"

"I'd make good if you gave me one, " said Toddles earnestly. "Honest, Iwould, Mr. Carleton. "

"Get out!" said the super, not altogether unkindly. "I'm busy. "

Toddles swallowed a lump in his throat--but not until after his head wasturned and he'd started for the door so the super couldn't see it. Toddles swallowed the lump--and got out. He hadn't expected anythingelse, of course. The refusals were just as chronic as the demands. Butthat didn't make each new one any easier for Toddles. It made it worse. 

Toddles' heart was heavy as he stepped out into the hall, and the ironwas in his soul. He was seventeen now, and it looked as though he neverwould get a chance--except to be a newsboy all his life. Toddlesswallowed another lump. He loved railroading; it was his one ambition, his one desire. If he could ever get a chance, he'd show them! He'd showthem that he wasn't a joke, just because he was small!

Toddles turned at the head of the stairs to go down, when somebodycalled his name. 

"Here--Toddles! Come here!"

Toddles looked over his shoulder, hesitated, then marched in through theopen door of the dispatchers' room. Bob Donkin was alone there. 

"What's your name--Toddles?" inquired Donkin, as Toddles halted beforethe dispatcher's table. 

Toddles froze instantly--hard. His fists doubled; there was a smile onDonkin's face. Then his fists slowly uncurled; the smile on Donkin'sface had broadened, but there wasn't any malice in the smile. 

"Christopher Hyslop Hoogan, " said Toddles, unbending. 

Donkin put his hand quickly to his mouth--and coughed. 

"Um-m!" said he pleasantly. "Super hard on you this morning--Hoogan?"

And with the words Toddles' heart went out to the big dispatcher:"Hoogan"--and a man-to-man tone. 

"No, " said Toddles cordially. "Say, I thought you were on the nighttrick. "

"Double-shift--short-handed, " replied Donkin. "Come from New York, don'tyou?"

"Yes, " said Toddles. 

"Mother and father down there still?"

It came quick and unexpected, and Toddles stared for a moment. Then hewalked over to the window. 

"I haven't got any, " he said. 

There wasn't any sound for an instant, save the clicking of theinstruments; then Donkin spoke again--a little gruffly:

"When are you going to quit making a fool of yourself?"

Toddles swung from the window, hurt. Donkin, after all, was like all therest of them. 

"Well?" prompted the dispatcher. 

"You go to blazes!" said Toddles bitterly, and started for the door. 

Donkin halted him. 

"You're only fooling yourself, Hoogan, " he said coolly. "If you wantedwhat you call a real railroad job as much as you pretend you do, you'dget one. "

"Eh?" demanded Toddles defiantly; and went back to the table. 

"A fellow, " said Donkin, putting a little sting into his words, "nevergot anywhere by going around with a chip on his shoulder fightingeverybody because they called him Toddles, and making a nuisance ofhimself with the Big Fellows until they got sick of the sight of him. "

It was a pretty stiff arraignment. Toddles choked over it, and the angryblood flushed to his cheeks. 

"That's all right for you!" he spluttered out hotly. "You don't look toosmall for the train crews or the roundhouse, and they don't call youToddles so's nobody'll forget it. What'd _you_ do?"

"I'll tell you what I'd do, " said Donkin quietly. "I'd make everybodyon the division wish their own name was Toddles before I was throughwith them, and I'd _make_ a job for myself. "

Toddles blinked helplessly. 

"Getting right down to a cash fare, " continued Donkin, after a moment, as Toddles did not speak, "they're not so far wrong, either, about yousizing up pretty small for the train crews or the roundhouse, are they?"

"No-o, " admitted Toddles reluctantly; "but----"

"Then why not something where there's no handicap hanging over you?"suggested the dispatcher--and his hand reached out and touched thesender. "The key, for instance?"

"But I don't know anything about it, " said Toddles, still helplessly. 

"That's just it, " returned Donkin smoothly. "You never tried to learn. "

Toddles' eyes widened, and into Toddles' heart leaped a sudden joy. Anew world seemed to open out before him in which aspirations, ambitions, longings all were a reality. A key! That _was_ real railroading, thetop-notch of railroading, too. First an operator, and then a dispatcher, and--and--and then his face fell, and the vision faded. 

"How'd I get a chance to learn?" he said miserably. "Who'd teach me?"

The smile was back on Donkin's face as he pushed his chair from thetable, stood up, and held out his hand--man-to-man fashion. 

"I will, " he said. "I liked your grit last night, Hoogan. And if youwant to be a railroad man, I'll make you one--before I'm through. I'vesome old instruments you can have to practice with, and I've nothing todo in my spare time. What do you say?"

Toddles didn't say anything. For the first time since Toddles' advent tothe Hill Division, there were tears in Toddles' eyes for some one elseto see. 

Donkin laughed. 

"All right, old man, you're on. See that you don't throw me down. Andkeep your mouth shut; you'll need all your wind. It's work that counts, and nothing else. Now chase yourself! I'll dig up the things you'llneed, and you can drop in here and get them when you come off your runto-night. "

Spare time! Bob Donkin didn't have any spare time those days! But thatwas Donkin's way. Spence sick, and two men handling the dispatchingwhere three had handled it before, didn't leave Bob Donkin much sparetime--not much. But a boost for the kid was worth a sacrifice. Donkinwent at it as earnestly as Toddles did--and Toddles was in deadlyearnest. 

When Toddles left the dispatcher's office that morning with Donkin'spromise to teach him the key, Toddles had a hazy idea that Donkin hadwings concealed somewhere under his coat and was an angel in disguise;and at the end of two weeks he was sure of it. But at the end of a monthBob Donkin was a god! Throw Bob Donkin down! Toddles would have soldhis soul for the dispatcher. 

It wasn't easy, though; and Bob Donkin wasn't an easy-going taskmaster, not by long odds. Donkin had a tongue, and on occasions could use it. Short and quick in his explanations, he expected his pupil to get itshort and quick; either that, or Donkin's opinion of him. But Toddlesstuck. He'd have crawled on his knees for Donkin anywhere, and he workedlike a major--not only for his own advancement, but for what he came toprize quite as much, if not more, Donkin's approval. 

Toddles, mindful of Donkin's words, didn't fight so much as the dayswent by, though he found it difficult to swear off all at once; and onhis runs he studied his Morse code, and he had the "calls" of everystation on the division off by heart right from the start. Toddlesmastered the "sending" by leaps and bounds; but the "taking" cameslower, as it does for everybody--but even at that, at the end of sixweeks, if it wasn't thrown at him too fast and hard, Toddles could getit after a fashion. 

Take it all around, Toddles felt like whistling most of the time; and, pleased with his own progress, looked forward to starting in presentlyas a full-fledged operator. 

He mentioned the matter to Bob Donkin--once. Donkin picked his words andspoke fervently. Toddles never brought the subject up again. 

And so things went on. Late summer turned to early fall, and early fallto still sharper weather, until there came the night that the operatorat Blind River muddled his orders and gave No. 73, the westbound fastfreight, her clearance against the second section of the eastboundLimited that doomed them to meet somewhere head-on in the Glacier Cañon;the night that Toddles--but there's just a word or two that comesbefore. 

When it was all over, it was up to Sam Beale, the Blind River operator, straight enough. Beale blundered. That's all there was to it; thatcovers it all--he blundered. It would have finished Beale's railroadcareer forever and a day--only Beale played the man, and the instant herealized what he had done, even while the tail lights of the freightwere disappearing down the track and he couldn't stop her, he wasstammering the tale of his mistake over the wire, the sweat beadsdripping from his wrist, his face gray with horror, to Bob Donkin underthe green-shaded lamp in the dispatchers' room at Big Cloud, miles away. 

Donkin got the miserable story over the chattering wire--got it beforeit was half told--cut Beale out and began to pound the Gap call. And asthough it were before him in reality, that stretch of track, fifteenmiles of it, from Blind River to the Gap, unfolded itself like a grislypanorama before his mind. There wasn't a half mile of tangent at asingle stretch in the whole of it. It swung like the writhings of asnake, through cuts and tunnels, hugging the cañon walls, twisting thisway and that. Anywhere else there might be a chance, one in a thousandeven, that they would see each other's headlights in time--here it wasdisaster quick and absolute. 

Donkin's lips were set in a thin, straight line. The Gap answered him;and the answer was like the knell of doom. He had not expected anythingelse; he had only hoped against hope. The second section of the Limitedhad pulled out of the Gap, eastbound, two minutes before. The two trainswere in the open against each other's orders. 

In the next room, Carleton and Regan, over their pipes, were at theirnightly game of pedro. Donkin called them--and his voice sounded strangeto himself. Chairs scraped and crashed to the floor, and an instantlater the super and the master mechanic were in the room. 

"What's wrong, Bob?" Carleton flung the words from him in a singlebreath. 

Donkin told them. But his fingers were on the key again as he talked. There was still one chance, worse than the thousand-to-one shot; but itwas the only one. Between the Gap and Blind River, eight miles from theGap, seven miles from Blind River, was Cassil's Siding. But there was nonight man at Cassil's, and the little town lay a mile from the station. It was ten o'clock--Donkin's watch lay face up on the table beforehim--the day man at Cassil's went off at seven--the chance was that theday man _might_ have come back to the station for something or other!

Not much of a chance? No--not much! It was a possibility, that was all;and Donkin's fingers worked--the seventeen, the life and death--calling, calling on the night trick to the day man at Cassil's Siding. 

Carleton came and stood at Donkin's elbow, and Regan stood at the other;and there was silence now, save only for the key that, under Donkin'sfingers, seemed to echo its stammering appeal about the room like thesobbing of a human soul. 

"CS--CS--CS, " Donkin called; and then, "the seventeen, " and then, "holdsecond Number Two. " And then the same thing over and over again. 

And there was no answer. 

It had turned cold that night and there was a fire in the little heater. Donkin had opened the draft a little while before, and the sheet-ironsides now began to purr red-hot. Nobody noticed it. Regan's kindly, good-humored face had the stamp of horror in it, and he pulled at hisscraggly brown mustache, his eyes seemingly fascinated by Donkin'sfingers. Everybody's eyes, the three of them, were on Donkin's fingersand the key. Carleton was like a man of stone, motionless, his face setharder than face was ever carved in marble. 

It grew hot in the room; but Donkin's fingers were like ice on the key, and, strong man though he was, he faltered. 

"Oh, my God!" he whispered--and never a prayer rose more fervently fromlips than those three broken words. 

Again he called, and again, and again. The minutes slipped away. Stillhe called--with the life and death--the "seventeen"--called and called. And there was no answer save that echo in the room that brought theperspiration streaming down from Regan's face, a harder light intoCarleton's eyes and a chill like death into Donkin's heart. 

Suddenly Donkin pushed back his chair; and his fingers, from the key, touched the crystal of his watch. 

"The second section will have passed Cassil's now, " he said in acurious, unnatural, matter-of-fact tone. "It'll bring them togetherabout a mile east of there--in another minute. "

And then Carleton spoke--master railroader, "Royal" Carleton, it was upto him then, all the pity of it, the ruin, the disaster, the lives out, all the bitterness to cope with as he could. And it was in his eyes, allof it. But his voice was quiet. It rang quick, peremptory, hisvoice--but quiet. 

"Clear the line, Bob, " he said. "Plug in the round-house for thewrecker--and tell them to send uptown for the crew. "

Toddles? What did Toddles have to do with this? Well, a good deal, inone way and another. We're coming to Toddles now. You see, Toddles, since his fracas with Hawkeye, had been put on the Elk River local runthat left Big Cloud at 9. 45 in the morning for the run west, andscheduled Big Cloud again on the return trip at 10. 10 in the evening. 

It had turned cold that night, after a day of rain. Pretty cold--thethermometer can drop on occasions in the late fall in the mountains--andby eight o'clock, where there had been rain before, there was now a thinsheeting of ice over everything--very thin--you know the kind--rails andtelegraph wires glistening like the decorations on a Christmastree--very pretty--and also very nasty running on a mountain grade. Likewise, the rain, in a way rain has, had dripped from the car roofs tothe platforms--the local did not boast any closed vestibules--and hadalso been blown upon the car steps with the sweep of the wind, and, having frozen, it stayed there. Not a very serious matter; annoying, perhaps, but not serious, demanding a little extra caution, that wasall. 

Toddles was in high fettle that night. He had been getting on famouslyof late; even Bob Donkin had admitted it. Toddles, with his stack ofbooks and magazines, an unusually big one, for a number of the newperiodicals were out that day, was dreaming rosy dreams to himself as hestarted from the door of the first-class smoker to the door of thefirst-class coach. In another hour now he'd be up in the dispatcher'sroom at Big Cloud for his nightly sitting with Bob Donkin. He could seeBob Donkin there now; and he could hear the big dispatcher growl at himin his bluff way: "Use your head--use your head--_Hoogan!_" It wasalways "Hoogan, " never "Toddles. " "Use your head"--Donkin waseverlastingly drumming that into him; for the dispatcher used toconfront him suddenly with imaginary and hair-raising emergencies, anddemand Toddles' instant solution. Toddles realized that Donkin wasgetting to the heart of things, and that some day he, Toddles, would bea great dispatcher--like Donkin. "Use your head, Hoogan"--that's the wayDonkin talked--"anybody can learn a key, but that doesn't make arailroad man think quick and think _right_. Use your----"

Toddles stepped out on the platform--and walked on ice. But that wasn'tToddles' undoing. The trouble with Toddles was that he was walking onair at the same time. It was treacherous running, they were nosing acurve, and in the cab, Kinneard, at the throttle, checked with a littlejerk at the "air. " And with the jerk, Toddles slipped; and with theslip, the center of gravity of the stack of periodicals shifted, andthey bulged ominously from the middle. Toddles grabbed at them--and hisheels went out from under him. He ricocheted down the steps, snatcheddesperately at the handrail, missed it, shot out from the train, and, head, heels, arms and body going every which way at once, rolled overand over down the embankment. And, starting from the point of Toddles'departure from the train, the right of way for a hundred yards wasstrewn with "the latest magazines" and "new books just out to-day. "

Toddles lay there, a little, curled, huddled heap, motionless in thedarkness. The tail lights of the local disappeared. No one aboard wouldmiss Toddles until they got into Big Cloud--and found him gone. Which isIrish for saying that no one would attempt to keep track of a newsboy'sidiosyncrasies on a train; it would be asking too much of any traincrew; and, besides, there was no mention of it in the rules. 

It was a long while before Toddles stirred; a very long while beforeconsciousness crept slowly back to him. Then he moved, tried to getup--and fell back with a quick, sharp cry of pain. He lay still, then, for a moment. His ankle hurt him frightfully, and his back, and hisshoulder, too. He put his hand to his face where something seemed to betrickling warm--and brought it away wet. Toddles, grim little warrior, tried to think. They hadn't been going very fast when he fell off. Ifthey had, he would have been killed. As it was, he was hurt, badly hurt, and his head swam, nauseating him. 

Where was he? Was he near any help? He'd have to get help somewhere, or--or with the cold and--and everything he'd probably die out herebefore morning. Toddles shouted out--again and again. Perhaps his voicewas too weak to carry very far; anyway, there was no reply. 

He looked up at the top of the embankment, clamped his teeth, andstarted to crawl. If he got up there, perhaps he could tell where hewas. It had taken Toddles a matter of seconds to roll down; it took himten minutes of untold agony to get up. Then he dashed his hand acrosshis eyes where the blood was, and cried a little with the surge ofrelief. East, down the track, only a few yards away, the green eye of aswitch lamp winked at him. 

Where there was a switch lamp there was a siding, and where there was asiding there was promise of a station. Toddles, with the sudden upliftupon him, got to his feet and started along the track--two steps--andwent down again. He couldn't walk, the pain was more than he couldbear--his right ankle, his left shoulder, and his back--hopping onlymade it worse--it was easier to crawl. 

And so Toddles crawled. 

It took him a long time even to pass the switch light. The pain made himweak, his senses seemed to trail off giddily every now and then, andhe'd find himself lying flat and still beside the track. It was a white, drawn face that Toddles lifted up each time he started onagain--miserably white, except where the blood kept trickling from hisforehead. 

And then Toddles' heart, stout as it was, seemed to snap. He had reachedthe station platform, wondering vaguely why the little building thatloomed ahead was dark--and now it came to him in a flash, as herecognized the station. It was Cassil's Siding--_and there was no nightman at Cassil's Siding!_ The switch lights were lighted before the dayman left, of course. Everything swam before Toddles' eyes. There--therewas no help here. And yet--yet perhaps--desperate hope cameagain--perhaps there might be. The pain was terrible--all over him. And--and he'd got so weak now--but it wasn't far to the door. 

Toddles squirmed along the platform, and reached the door finally--onlyto find it shut and fastened. And then Toddles fainted on the threshold. 

When Toddles came to himself again, he thought at first that he was upin the dispatcher's room at Big Cloud with Bob Donkin pounding away onthe battered old key they used to practice with--only there seemed to besomething the matter with the key, and it didn't sound as loud as itusually did--it seemed to come from a long way off somehow. And then, besides, Bob was working it faster than he had ever done before whenthey were practicing. "Hold second"--second something--Toddles couldn'tmake it out. Then the "seventeen"--yes, he knew that--that was the lifeand death. Bob was going pretty quick, though. Then "CS--CS--CS"--Toddles'brain fumbled a bit over that--then it came to him. CS was the call forCassil's Siding. _Cassil's Siding!_ Toddles' head came up with a jerk. 

A little cry burst from Toddles' lips--and his brain cleared. He wasn'tat Big Cloud at all--he was at Cassil's Siding--and he was hurt--andthat was the sounder inside calling, calling frantically for Cassil'sSiding--where he was. 

The life and death--_the seventeen_--it sent a thrill through Toddles'pain-twisted spine. He wriggled to the window. It, too, was closed, ofcourse, but he could hear better there. The sounder was babbling madly. 

"Hold second----"

He missed it again--and as, on top of it, the "seventeen" came pleading, frantic, urgent, he wrung his hands. 

"Hold second"--he got it this time--"Number Two. "

Toddles' first impulse was to smash in the window and reach the key. Andthen, like a dash of cold water over him, Donkin's words seemed to ringin his ears: "Use your head. "

With the "seventeen" it meant a matter of minutes, perhaps even seconds. Why smash the window? Why waste the moment required to do it simply toanswer the call? The order stood for itself--"Hold second Number Two. "That was the second section of the Limited, east-bound. Hold her! How?There was nothing--not a thing to stop her with. "Use your head, " saidDonkin in a far-away voice to Toddles' wobbling brain. 

Toddles looked up the track--west--where he had come from--to where theswitch light twinkled green at him--and, with a little sob, he startedto drag himself back along the platform. If he could throw the switch, it would throw the light from green to red, and--and the Limited wouldtake the siding. But the switch was a long way off. 

Toddles half fell, half bumped from the end of the platform to the rightof way. He cried to himself with low moans as he went along. He had theheart of a fighter, and grit to the last tissue; but he needed it allnow--needed it all to stand the pain and fight the weakness that keptswirling over him in flashes. 

On he went, on his hands and knees, slithering from tie to tie--and fromone tie to the next was a great distance. The life and death, thedispatcher's call--he seemed to hear it yet--throbbing, throbbing on thewire. 

On he went, up the track; and the green eye of the lamp, winking at him, drew nearer. And then suddenly, clear and mellow through the mountains, caught up and echoed far and near, came the notes of a chime whistleringing down the gorge. 

Fear came upon Toddles then, and a great sob shook him. That was theLimited coming now! Toddles' fingers dug into the ballast, and hehurried--that is, in bitter pain, he tried to crawl a little faster. Andas he crawled, he kept his eyes strained up the track--she wasn't insight yet around the curve--not yet, anyway. 

Another foot, only another foot, and he would reach the sidingswitch--in time--in plenty of time. Again the sob--but now in a burst ofrelief that, for the moment, made him forget his hurts. He was in time!

He flung himself at the switch lever, tugged upon it and then, trembling, every ounce of remaining strength seeming to ooze from him, he covered his face with his hands. It was _locked_--padlocked. 

Came a rumble now--a distant roar, growing louder and louder, reverberating down the cañon walls--louder and louder--nearer andnearer. "Hold second Number Two. Hold second Number Two"--the"seventeen, " the life and death, pleading with him to hold Number Two. And she was coming now, coming--and--and--the switch was locked. Thedeadly nausea racked Toddles again; there was nothing to donow--nothing. He couldn't stop her--couldn't stop her. He'd--he'dtried--very hard--and--and he couldn't stop her now. He took his handsfrom his face, and stole a glance up the track, afraid almost, with thehorror that was upon him, to look. 

She hadn't swung the curve yet, but she would in a minute--and comepounding down the stretch at fifty miles an hour, shoot by him like arocket to where, somewhere ahead, in some form, he did not know what, only knew that it was there, death and ruin and----

"_Use your head!_" snapped Donkin's voice to his consciousness. 

Toddles' eyes were on the light above his head. It blinked _red_ at himas he stood on the track facing it; the green rays were shooting up anddown the line. He couldn't swing the switch--but the _lamp_ wasthere--and there was the red side to show just by turning it. Heremembered then that the lamp fitted into a socket at the top of theswitch stand, and could be lifted off--if he could reach it!

It wasn't very high--for an ordinary-sized man--for an ordinary-sizedman had to get at it to trim and fill it daily--only Toddles wasn't anordinary-sized man. It was just nine or ten feet above the rails--just astandard siding switch. 

Toddles gritted his teeth, and climbed upon the base of the switch--andnearly fainted as his ankle swung against the rod. A foot above the basewas a footrest for a man to stand on and reach up for the lamp, andToddles drew himself up and got his foot on it--and then at his fullheight the tips of his fingers only just touched the bottom of the lamp. Toddles cried aloud, and the tears streamed down his face now. Oh, if heweren't hurt--if he could only shin up another foot--but--but it was allhe could do to hang there where he was. 

_What was that!_ He turned his head. Up the track, sweeping in a greatcircle as it swung the curve, a headlight's glare cut through thenight--and Toddles "shinned" the foot. He tugged and tore at the lamp, tugged and tore at it, loosened it, lifted it from its socket, sprawledand wriggled with it to the ground--and turned the red side of the lampagainst second Number Two. 

The quick, short blasts of a whistle answered, then the crunch and grindand scream of biting brake-shoes--and the big mountain racer, the 1012, pulling the second section of the Limited that night, stopped with itspilot nosing a diminutive figure in a torn and silver-buttoned uniform, whose hair was clotted red, and whose face was covered with blood anddirt. 

Masters, the engineer, and Pete Leroy, his fireman, swung from thegangways; Kelly, the conductor, came running up from the forward coach. 

Kelly shoved his lamp into Toddles' face--and whistled low under hisbreath. 

"Toddles!" he gasped; and then, quick as a steel trap: "What's wrong?"

"I don't know, " said Toddles weakly. "There's--there's something wrong. Get into the clear--on the siding. "

"Something wrong, " repeated Kelly, "and you don't----"

But Masters cut the conductor short with a grab at the other's arm thatwas like the shutting of a vise--and then bolted for his engine like agopher for its hole. From down the track came the heavy, grumbling roarof a freight. Everybody flew then, and there was quick work done in thenext half minute--and none too quickly done--the Limited was no morethan on the siding when the fast freight rolled her long string offlats, boxes and gondolas thundering by. 

And while she passed, Toddles, on the platform, stammered out his storyto Kelly. 

Kelly didn't say anything--then. With the express messenger and abrakeman carrying Toddles, Kelly kicked in the station door, and set hislamp down on the operator's table. 

"Hold me up, " whispered Toddles--and, while they held him, he made thedispatcher's call. 

Big Cloud answered him on the instant. Haltingly, Toddles reported thesecond section "in" and the freight "out"--only he did it very slowly, and he couldn't think very much more, for things were going black. Hegot an order for the Limited to run to Blind River and told Kelly, andgot the "complete"--and then Big Cloud asked who was on the wire, andToddles answered that in a mechanical sort of a way without quiteknowing what he was doing--and went limp in Kelly's arms. 

And as Toddles answered, back in Big Cloud, Regan, the sweat stillstanding out in great beads on his forehead, fierce now in the revulsionof relief, glared over Donkin's left shoulder, as Donkin's left handscribbled on a pad what was coming over the wire. 

Regan glared fiercely--then he spluttered:

"Who's Christopher Hyslop Hoogan--h'm?"

Donkin's lips had a queer smile on them. 

"Toddles, " he said. 

Regan sat down heavily in his chair. 

"_What?_" demanded the super. 

"Toddles, " said Donkin. "I've been trying to drum a little railroadinginto him--on the key. "

Regan wiped his face. He looked helplessly from Donkin to the super, andthen back again at Donkin. 

"But--but what's he doing at Cassil's Siding? How'd he get there--h'm?H'm? How'd he get there?"

"I don't know, " said Donkin, his fingers rattling the Cassil's Sidingcall again. "He doesn't answer any more. We'll have to wait for thestory till they make Blind River, I guess. "

And so they waited. And presently at Blind River, Kelly, dictating tothe operator--not Beale, Beale's day man--told the story. It lostnothing in the telling--Kelly wasn't that kind of man--he told them whatToddles had done, and he left nothing out; and he added that they hadToddles on a mattress in the baggage car, with a doctor they haddiscovered amongst the passengers looking after him. 

At the end, Carleton tamped down the dottle in the bowl of his pipethoughtfully with his forefinger--and glanced at Donkin. 

"Got along far enough to take a station key somewhere?" he inquiredcasually. "He's made a pretty good job of it as the night operator atCassil's. "

Donkin was smiling. 

"Not yet, " he said. 

"No?" Carleton's eyebrows went up. "Well, let him come in here with you, then, till he has; and when you say he's ready, we'll see what we cando. I guess it's coming to him; and I guess"--he shifted his glance tothe master mechanic--"I guess we'll go down and meet Number Two when shecomes in, Tommy. "

Regan grinned. 

"With our hats in our hands, " said the big-hearted master mechanic. 

Donkin shook his head. 

"Don't you do it, " he said. "I don't want him to get a swelled head. "

Carleton stared; and Regan's hand, reaching into his back pocket for hischewing, stopped midway. 

Donkin was still smiling. 

"I'm going to make a railroad man out of Toddles, " he said. 

FOOTNOTE:

[10] One of a number of stories from book bearing same title, _The NightOperator_. Copyright, 1919, by George H. Doran Company. Reprinted byspecial permission of publisher and author. 

[Illustration]

XI. --Christmas Eve in a Lumber Camp[11]

_By Ralph Connor_

IT was due to a mysterious dispensation of Providence and a good deal toLeslie Graeme that I found myself in the heart of the Selkirks for myChristmas eve as the year 1882 was dying. It had been my plan to spendmy Christmas far away in Toronto, with such bohemian and boon companionsas could be found in that cosmopolitan and kindly city. But LeslieGraeme changed all that, for, discovering me in the village of BlackRock, with my traps all packed, waiting for the stage to start for theLanding, thirty miles away, he bore down upon me with resistless force, and I found myself recovering from my surprise only after we had gone inhis lumber sleigh some six miles on our way to his camp up in themountains. I was surprised and much delighted, though I would not allowhim to think so, to find that his old-time power over me was stillthere. He could always in the old varsity days--dear, wild days--makeme do what he liked. He was so handsome and so reckless, brilliant inhis class work, and the prince of half backs on the Rugby field, andwith such power of fascination as would "extract the heart out of awheelbarrow, " as Barney Lundy used to say. And thus it was that I foundmyself just three weeks later--I was to have spent two or three days--onthe afternoon of December 24, standing in Graeme's Lumber Camp No. 2, wondering at myself. But I did not regret my changed plans, for in thosethree weeks I had raided a cinnamon bear's den and had wakened up agrizzly---- But I shall let the grizzly finish the tale; he probablysees more humor in it than I. 

The camp stood in a little clearing, and consisted of a group of threelong, low shanties with smaller shacks near them, all built of heavy, unhewn logs, with door and window in each. The grub camp, with cook-shedattached, stood in the middle of the clearing; at a little distance wasthe sleeping camp with the office built against it, and about a hundredyards away on the other side of the clearing stood the stables, and nearthem the smiddy. The mountains rose grandly on every side, throwing uptheir great peaks into the sky. The clearing in which the camp stood washewn out of a dense pine forest that filled the valley and climbedhalfway up the mountain sides and then frayed out in scattered andstunted trees. 

It was one of those wonderful Canadian winter days, bright, and with atouch of sharpness in the air that did not chill, but warmed the bloodlike drafts of wine. The men were up in the woods, and the shrill screamof the bluejay flashing across the open, the impudent chatter of the redsquirrel from the top of the grub camp, and the pert chirp of thewhisky-jack, hopping about on the rubbish-heap, with the long, lone cryof the wolf far down the valley, only made the silence felt the more. 

As I stood drinking in with all my soul the glorious beauty and thesilence of mountain and forest, with the Christmas feeling stealing intome, Graeme came out from his office, and catching sight of me, calledout, "Glorious Christmas weather, old chap!" And then, coming nearer, "Must you go to-morrow?"

"I fear so, " I replied, knowing well that the Christmas feeling was onhim, too. 

"I wish I were going with you, " he said quietly. 

I turned eagerly to persuade him, but at the look of suffering in hisface the words died at my lips, for we both were thinking of the awfulnight of horror when all his bright, brilliant life crashed down abouthim in black ruin and shame. I could only throw my arm over his shoulderand stand silent beside him. A sudden jingle of bells roused him, and, giving himself a little shake, he exclaimed, "There are the boys cominghome. "

Soon the camp was filled with men talking, laughing, chaffing likelight-hearted boys. 

"They are a little wild to-night, " said Graeme, "and to-morrow they'llpaint Black Rock red. "

Before many minutes had gone the last teamster was "washed up, " and allwere standing about waiting impatiently for the cook's signal--thesupper to-night was to be "something of a feed"--when the sound of bellsdrew their attention to a light sleigh drawn by a buckskin bronchocoming down the hillside at a great pace. 

"The preacher, I'll bet, by his driving, " said one of the men. 

"Bedad, and it's him has the foine nose for turkey!" said Blaney, agood-natured, jovial Irishman. 

"Yes, or for pay-day, more like, " said Keefe, a black-browed, villainousfellow countryman of Blaney's and, strange to say, his great friend. 

Big Sandy McNaughton, a Canadian Highlander from Glengarry, rose up inwrath. 

"Bill Keefe, " said he with deliberate emphasis, "you'll just keep yourdirty tongue off the minister; and as for your pay, it's little he seesof it, or any one else except Mike Slavin, when you's too dry to waitfor some one to treat you, or perhaps Father Ryan, when the fear ofhell-fire is on you. "

The men stood amazed at Sandy's sudden anger and length of speech. 

"_Bon!_ Dat's good for you, my bully boy, " said Baptiste, a wiry littleFrench-Canadian, Sandy's sworn ally and devoted admirer ever since theday when the big Scotchman, under great provocation, had knocked himclean off the dump into the river and then jumped in for him. 

It was not till afterward I learned the cause of Sandy's sudden wrathwhich urged him to such unwonted length of speech. It was not simplythat the Presbyterian blood carried with it reverence for the minister, but that he had a vivid remembrance of how, only a month ago, theminister had got him out of Mike Slavin's saloon and out of the clutchesof Keefe and Slavin and their gang of bloodsuckers. 

Keefe started up with a curse. Baptiste sprang to Sandy's side, slappedhim on the back, and called out:

"You keel him, I'll hit [eat] him up, me. "

It looked as if there might be a fight, when a harsh voice said in alow, savage tone:

"Stop your row, you fools; settle it, if you want to, somewhere else. "

I turned, and was amazed to see old man Nelson, who was very seldommoved to speech. 

There was a look of scorn on his hard iron-gray face, and of suchsettled fierceness as made me quite believe the tales I had heard of hisdeadly fights in the mines at the coast. Before any reply could be madethe minister drove up and called out in a cheery voice:

"Merry Christmas, boys! Hello, Sandy! _Comment ça va_, Baptiste? How doyou do, Mr. Graeme?"

"First rate. Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Connor, sometime medicalstudent, now artist, hunter, and tramp at large, but not a bad sort. "

"A man to be envied, " said the minister, smiling. "I am glad to know anyfriend of Mr. Graeme's. "

I liked Mr. Craig from the first. He had good eyes that looked straightout at you, a clean-cut, strong face well set on his shoulders, andaltogether an upstanding, manly bearing. He insisted on going with Sandyto the stables to see Dandy, his broncho, put up. 

"Decent fellow, " said Graeme; "but though he is good enough to hisbroncho, it is Sandy that's in his mind now. "

"Does he come out often? I mean, are you part of his parish, so tospeak?"

"I have no doubt he thinks so; and I'm blowed if he doesn't make thePresbyterians of us think so too. " And he added after a pause: "A dandylot of parishioners we are for any man. There's Sandy, now, he wouldknock Keefe's head off as a kind of religious exercise; but to-morrowKeefe will be sober and Sandy will be drunk as a lord, and the drunkerhe is the better Presbyterian he'll be, to the preacher's disgust. " Thenafter another pause he added bitterly: "But it is not for me to throwrocks at Sandy. I am not the same kind of fool, but I am a fool ofseveral other sorts. "

Then the cook came out and beat a tattoo on the bottom of a dishpan. Baptiste answered with a yell. But though keenly hungry, no man woulddemean himself to do other than walk with apparent reluctance to hisplace at the table. At the further end of the camp was a big fireplace, and from the door of the fireplace extended the long board tables, covered with platters of turkey not too scientifically carved, dishes ofpotatoes, bowls of apple sauce, plates of butter, pies, and smallerdishes distributed at regular intervals. Two lanterns hanging from theroof and a row of candles stuck into the wall on either side by means ofslit sticks cast a dim, weird light over the scene. 

There was a moment's silence, and at a nod from Graeme Mr. Craig roseand said:

"I don't know how you feel about it, men, but to me this looks goodenough to be thankful for. "

"Fire ahead, sir, " called out a voice quite respectfully, and theminister bent his head and said:

"For Christ the Lord who came to save us, for all the love and goodnesswe have known, and for these Thy gifts to us this Christmas night, ourFather, make us thankful. Amen. "

"_Bon!_ Dat's fuss rate, " said Baptiste. "Seems lak dat's make me hit[eat] more better for sure. " And then no word was spoken for a quarterof an hour. The occasion was far too solemn and moments too precious foranything so empty as words. But when the white piles of bread and thebrown piles of turkey had for a second time vanished, and after the lastpie had disappeared, there came a pause and a hush of expectancy, whereupon the cook and cookee, each bearing aloft a huge, blazingpudding, came forth. 

"Hooray!" yelled Blaney; "up wid yez!" and grabbing the cook by theshoulders from behind, he faced him about. 

Mr. Craig was the first to respond, and seizing the cookee in the sameway, called out: "Squad, fall in! quick march!" In a moment every manwas in the procession. 

"Strike up, Batchees, ye little angel!" shouted Blaney, the appellationa concession to the minister's presence; and away went Baptiste in arollicking French song with the English chorus--

 Then blow, ye winds, in the morning, Blow, ye winds, ay oh! Blow, ye winds, in the morning, Blow, blow, blow. 

And at each "blow" every boot came down with a thump on the plank floorthat shook the solid roof. After the second round Mr. Craig jumped uponthe bench and called out:

"Three cheers for Billy the cook!"

In the silence following the cheers Baptiste was heard to say:

"_Bon!_ Dat's mak me feel lak hit dat puddin' all hup meself, me. "

"Hear till the little baste!" said Blaney in disgust. 

"Batchees, " remonstrated Sandy gravely, "ye've more stomach thanmanners. "

"Fu sure! but de more stomach, dat's more better for dis puddin', "replied the little Frenchman cheerfully. 

After a time the tables were cleared and pushed back to the wall andpipes were produced. In all attitudes suggestive of comfort the mendisposed themselves in a wide circle about the fire, which now roaredand crackled up the great wooden chimney hanging from the roof. Thelumberman's hour of bliss had arrived. Even old man Nelson looked ashade less melancholy than usual as he sat alone, well away from thefire, smoking steadily and silently. When the second pipes were wella-going one of the men took down a violin from the wall and handed it toLachlan Campbell. There were two brothers Campbell just out from Argyll, typical Highlanders: Lachlan, dark, silent, melancholy, with the face ofa mystic, and Angus, red-haired, quick, impulsive, and devoted to hisbrother, a devotion he thought proper to cover under biting, sarcasticspeech. 

Lachlan, after much protestation, interposed with gibes from hisbrother, took the violin, and in response to the call from all sidesstruck up "Lord Macdonald's Reel. "

In a moment the floor was filled with dancers, whooping and crackingtheir fingers in the wildest manner. Then Baptiste did the "Red RiverJig, " a most intricate and difficult series of steps, the men keepingtime to the music with hands and feet. 

When the jig was finished Sandy called for "Lochaber No More, " butCampbell said:

"No! no! I cannot play that to-night. Mr. Craig will play. "

Craig took the violin, and at the first note I knew he was no ordinaryplayer. I did not recognize the music, but it was soft and thrilling, and got in by the heart till every one was thinking his tenderest andsaddest thoughts. 

After he had played two or three exquisite bits he gave Campbell hisviolin, saying, "Now, 'Lochaber, ' Lachlan. "

Without a word Lachlan began, not "Lochaber"--he was not ready for thatyet--but "The Flowers o' the Forest, " and from that wandered through"Auld Robin Gray" and "The Land o' the Leal, " and so got at last to thatmost soul-subduing of Scottish laments, "Lochaber No More. " At the firststrain his brother, who had thrown himself on some blankets behind thefire, turned over on his face feigning sleep. Sandy McNaughton took hispipe out of his mouth and sat up straight and stiff, staring intovacancy, and Graeme, beyond the fire, drew a short, sharp breath. We hadoften sat, Graeme and I, in our student days, in the drawing-room athome, listening to his father wailing out "Lochaber" upon the pipes, andI well knew that the awful minor strains were now eating their way intohis soul. 

Over and over again the Highlander played his lament. He had long sinceforgotten us, and was seeing visions of the hills and lochs and glens ofhis far-away native land, and making us, too, see strange things out ofthe dim past. I glanced at old man Nelson, and was startled at theeager, almost piteous look in his eyes, and I wished Campbell wouldstop. Mr. Craig caught my eye, and stepping over to Campbell held outhis hand for the violin. Lingeringly and lovingly the Highlander drewout the last strain and silently gave the minister his instrument. 

Without a moment's pause, and while the spell of "Lochaber" was stillupon us, the minister, with exquisite skill, fell into the refrain ofthat simple and beautiful camp-meeting hymn, "The Sweet By-and-By. "After playing the verse through once he sang softly the refrain. Afterthe first verse the men joined in the chorus; at first timidly, but bythe time the third verse was reached they were shouting with throatsfull open, "We shall meet on that beautiful shore. " When I looked atNelson the eager light had gone out of his eyes, and in its place was akind of determined hopelessness, as if in this new music he had no part. 

After the voices had ceased Mr. Craig played again the refrain, more andmore softly and slowly; then laying the violin on Campbell's knees, hedrew from his pocket his little Bible and said:

"Men, with Mr. Graeme's permission I want to read you something thisChristmas eve. You will all have heard it before, but you will like itnone the less for that. "

His voice was soft, but clear and penetrating, as he read the eternalstory of the angels and the shepherds and the Babe. And as he read, aslight motion of the hand or a glance of an eye made us see, as he wasseeing, that whole radiant drama. The wonder, the timid joy, thetenderness, the mystery of it all, were borne in upon us withoverpowering effect. He closed the book, and in the same low, clearvoice went on to tell us how, in his home years ago, he used to stand onChristmas eve listening in thrilling delight to his mother telling himthe story, and how she used to make him see the shepherds and hear thesheep bleating near by, and how the sudden burst of glory used to makehis heart jump. 

"I used to be a little afraid of the angels, because a boy told me theywere ghosts; but my mother told me better, and I didn't fear them anymore. And the Baby, the dear little Baby--we all love a baby. " There wasa quick, dry sob; it was from Nelson. "I used to peek through under tosee the little one in the straw, and wonder what things swaddlingclothes were. Oh, it was so real and so beautiful!" He paused, and Icould hear the men breathing. 

"But one Christmas eve, " he went on in a lower, sweeter tone, "there wasno one to tell me the story, and I grew to forget it and went away tocollege, and learned to think that it was only a child's tale and wasnot for men. Then bad days came to me and worse, and I began to lose mygrip of myself, of life, of hope, of goodness, till one black Christmas, in the slums of a far-away city, when I had given up all and the devil'sarms were about me, I heard the story again. And as I listened, with abitter ache in my heart--for I had put it all behind me--I suddenlyfound myself peeking under the shepherds' arms with a child's wonder atthe Baby in the straw. Then it came over me like great waves that Hisname was Jesus, because it was He that should save men from their sins. Save! Save! The waves kept beating upon my ears, and before I knew I hadcalled out, 'Oh! can He save me?' It was in a little mission meeting onone of the side streets, and they seemed to be used to that sort ofthing there, for no one was surprised; and a young fellow leaned acrossthe aisle to me and said: 'Why, you just bet He can!' His surprise thatI should doubt, his bright face and confident tone, gave me hope thatperhaps it might be so. I held to that hope with all my soul, and"--stretching up his arms, and with a quick glow in his face and alittle break in his voice--"He hasn't failed me yet; not once, notonce!"

He stopped quite short, and I felt a good deal like making a fool ofmyself, for in those days I had not made up my mind about these things. Graeme, poor old chap, was gazing at him with a sad yearning in his darkeyes; big Sandy was sitting very stiff and staring harder than ever intothe fire; Baptiste was trembling with excitement; Blaney was openlywiping the tears away, but the face that held my eyes was that of oldman Nelson. It was white, fierce, hungry-looking, his sunken eyesburning, his lips parted as if to cry. The minister went on. 

"I didn't mean to tell you this, men; it all came over me with a rush;but it is true, every word, and not a word will I take back. And, what's more, I can tell you this: what He did for me He can do for anyman, and it doesn't make any difference what's behind him, and"--leaningslightly forward, and with a little thrill of pathos vibrating in hisvoice--"oh, boys, why don't you give Him a chance at you? Without Himyou'll never be the men you want to be, and you'll never get the betterof that that's keeping some of you now from going back home. You knowyou'll never go back till you're the men you want to be. " Then, liftingup his face and throwing back his head, he said, as if to himself, "Jesus! He shall save His people from their sins, " and then, "Let uspray. "

Graeme leaned forward with his face in his hands; Baptiste and Blaneydropped on their knees; Sandy, the Campbells, and some others stood up. Old man Nelson held his eye steadily on the minister. 

Only once before had I seen that look on a human face. A young fellowhad broken through the ice on the river at home, and as the black waterwas dragging his fingers one by one from the slippery edges, there cameover his face that same look. I used to wake up for many a night afterin a sweat of horror, seeing the white face with its parting lips andits piteous, dumb appeal, and the black water slowly sucking it down. 

Nelson's face brought it all back; but during the prayer the facechanged and seemed to settle into resolve of some sort, stern, almostgloomy, as of a man with his last chance before him. 

After the prayer Mr. Craig invited the men to a Christmas dinner nextday in Black Rock. "And because you are an independent lot, we'll chargeyou half a dollar for dinner and the evening show. " Then leaving abundle of magazines and illustrated papers on the table--a godsend tothe men--he said good-by and went out. 

I was to go with the minister, so I jumped into the sleigh first andwaited while he said good-by to Graeme, who had been hard hit by thewhole service and seemed to want to say something. I heard Mr. Craig saycheerfully and confidently: "It's a true bill: try Him. "

Sandy, who had been steadying Dandy while that interesting broncho wasattempting with great success to balance himself on his hind legs, cameto say good-by. 

"Come and see me first thing, Sandy. "

"Aye! I know; I'll see ye, Mr. Craig, " said Sandy earnestly as Dandydashed off at a full gallop across the clearing and over the bridge, steadying down when he reached the hill. 

"Steady, you idiot!"

This was to Dandy, who had taken a sudden side spring into the deepsnow, almost upsetting us. A man stepped out from the shadow. It was oldman Nelson. He came straight to the sleigh and, ignoring my presencecompletely, said:

"Mr. Craig, are you dead sure of this? Will it work?"

"Do you mean, " said Craig, taking him up promptly, "can Jesus Christsave you from your sins and make a man of you?"

The old man nodded, keeping his hungry eyes on the other's face. 

"Well, here's His message to you: 'The Son of Man is come to seek and tosave that which was lost. '"

"To me? To me?" said the old man eagerly. 

"Listen; this, too, is His word: 'Him that cometh unto Me I will in nowise cast out. ' That's for you, for here you are, coming. "

"You don't know me, Mr. Craig. I left my baby fifteen years agobecause----"

"Stop!" said the minister. "Don't tell me, at least not to-night;perhaps never. Tell Him who knows it all now and who never betrays asecret. Have it out with Him. Don't be afraid to trust Him. "

Nelson looked at him, with his face quivering, and said in a huskyvoice:

"If this is no good, it's hell for me. "

"If it is no good, " replied Craig almost sternly, "it's hell for all ofus. "

The old man straightened himself up, looked up at the stars, then backat Mr. Craig, then at me, and drawing a deep breath said:

"I'll try Him. " As he was turning away the minister touched him on thearm and said quietly:

"Keep an eye on Sandy to-morrow. "

Nelson nodded and we went on; but before we took the next turn I lookedback and saw what brought a lump into my throat. It was old man Nelsonon his knees in the snow, with his hands spread upward to the stars, and I wondered if there was any One above the stars and nearer than thestars who could see. And then the trees hid him from my sight. 

FOOTNOTE:

[11] From _Black Rock_. Reprinted by special permission of publisher, The Fleming H. Revell Company. 

[Illustration]

XII. --The Story That the Keg Told Me

_By Adirondack (W. H. H. ) Murray_

 _The author is "Adirondack Murray" because he, more than any other man, rediscovered for the past and present generation the wonderful Adirondack Woods. We are grateful to Mr. Archibald Rutledge for having shortened the story, and to Mr. Murray's publishers, De Wolfe and Fiske Company, for permission to print it in the abbreviated form. _--THE EDITOR. 

IT was near the close of a sultry day in midsummer, which I had spent inexploring a part of the shore line of the lake where I was camping, andwearied with the trip I had made, I was returning toward the camp. 

The lake was a very secluded sheet of water hidden away between themountains, not marked on the map, whose very existence was unsuspectedby me until I had a few days before accidentally stumbled upon it. Indeed, in all the world there is hardly another sheet of water solikely to escape the eye, not only of the tourist and the sportsman, butalso of the hunter and the trapper. Day by day as I paddled over thelake or explored its shores the conviction grew upon me that the placehad never before been visited by any human being. The more I examinedand explored, the more this belief grew upon me. The thought was everwith me. But on this afternoon as I was paddling leisurely along, mypaddle struck some curious object in the water. I reached down andlifted it into the boat. It was a Keg!

Amazed, I sat looking at this proof that my lake was not so unknown as Ihad supposed it to be. Where had it come from? How did it get here? Whobrought it, and for what purpose? These and similar questions I put tomyself as I paddled onward toward my camp. 

After having built my camp fire I seated myself with my back against apine; it was then that my gaze again fell on the Keg, which I hadbrought up from the boat and had set on the ground across the fire fromme. I sat wondering where it had come from, and what had become of himwho must once have handled it. . . . It may be that I was awake; it maybe that I was asleep; but as I was thus looking steadily and curiouslyat the Keg, it seemed to change its appearance. It was no longer a Keg:it was a man! A queer little man he was, with strange little legs, andthe funniest little body, and the tiniest little face! Then, standingbold upright, and looking at me with eyes that glistened like blackbeads, the miraculous Keg-Man opened his mouth and began to talk!

"I desire to tell you my story, " it said; "the story of the man whobrought me here; why he did it, and what became of him; how he lived anddied. 

"The earliest remembrance I have of myself is of the cooper's shop whereI was made. Although I look worn now, I can recall the time when all mystaves were smooth and clean, so that the oak-grain showed clearly fromthe top to the bottom of me, and my steel hoops were strong and bright. The cooper made me on his honor and took a deal of honest pride inputting me together, as every workman should in doing his work. Iremember that when I was finished and the cooper had sanded me off andoiled me, he set me up on a bench and said to his apprentice boy:'There, that Keg will last till the Judgment Day, and well on towardnight at that. ' I wondered at that. 

"One day a few weeks later a man came into the shop and said, 'Have youa good strong keg for sale?'

"He put the question in such a half-spiteful, half-suspicious way that Ieyed him curiously. And a very peculiar man I saw. He was not more thanforty years old, of good height and strongly built. He was a gentleman, evidently, although his face was darkly tanned and his clothes were oldand threadbare. His mouth was small. His lips were thin, and had a lookof being drawn tightly over his teeth. His chin was long, his jaws largeand strong. His hair was thin and brown. But the remarkable feature ofhis face was his eyes. They were blue-gray in color, small, and deeplyset under his arching eye-brows. How hard and steel-like they were, andrestless as a rat's! And what an intense look of suspicion there was inthem; a half-scared, defiant look, as if their owner felt every one tobe his enemy. Ah, what eyes they were! I came to know them wellafterward, and to know what the wild, strange light in them meant; butof that by and by. 

"'Have you a good strong keg for sale?' he shouted to my master, whoturned round and looked squarely at the questioner. 

"'Yes, I have, Mr. Roberts. Do you want one?'

"'Yes!' returned the other; 'but I want a strong one--_strong_, do youhear?'

"'Here's a keg, ' said my master, tapping me with his mallet, 'that Imade with my own hands from the very best stuff. It will last as long assteel and white oak staves will last. '

"The price was paid with a muttered protest and Roberts hoisted me underhis arm and bore me from the shop. 

"As we hurried along, I noticed that my new master spoke to no one, andthat people looked at him coldly or wonderingly. At last we came to acommon-looking house set back from the road, with a very high fencebuilt around it and a heavy padlock on the front gate. There were greatstrong wooden shutters at every window. My master entered the house andset me down on the floor, then went to the door and locked it, drawingtwo large iron bars across it. He went to every window to see if it wasfastened. 

Carrying a candle in one hand and a great bludgeon in the other, heexamined every room, every closet, the attic, and the cellar. After thishe came back to me, set me on a table, started one of my hoops, and tookout one of my heads. From a cupboard he got a large sheepskin, and witha pair of shears fitted me with a lining of it. I must say that he didit with cleverness, and he seemed well pleased with his work. 

"When he had done all this, he brought his bludgeon and laid it on thetable beside me; also he laid there a large knife. Then he went to thechimney and brought the ash-pail, which was full of ashes; from thecupboard he brought an earthen jar; from under the bed he fetched a bag;from the cellar he returned with a sack, all damp and moldy. When he hadall these side by side near the table, he sat down. Then out of theash-pail he took a small pot, and having carefully blown the ashes off, he turned it bottom-upward on the table. And what do you think was init?

"Gold coins! Some red and some yellow, but all gold!

"He emptied each of the other receptacles, and out there flowed heaps ofgold coins almost without number! How they gleamed and glistened! Howthey clinked and jingled! And how the deep and narrow eyes of my masterglittered, but how the lips drew apart in a wild smile!

"It was a fearful sight to see him playing with the gold and to hear himlaugh over his treasure. It was dreadful to think that a human soulcould love money so. And he did love it--madly, with all the strength ofhis nature. 

"He would take up a coin and look at it as a father might look upon theface of a favorite child. Ah, me, 'twas dreadful! He would take up apiece and say to it, 'Thou art better to me than a wife'; and toanother, 'Thou art dearer than father or mother!' Ah, such blasphemy asI heard that night! How the sweet and blessed things of human life werederided, and the things that are divine and holy sneered at!

"At length he fell to counting his gold; and for a long, long time hecounted, until his hands shook, and his eyes gleamed as if he were mad. When he had counted all, he jumped from his seat, shouting like amaniac, 'Sixteen thousand, six hundred and sixty-six dollars!' Again andagain he shouted this in wild triumph. 

"After a while he sobered down, and inside of me he began to pack awayhis treasures--carefully, caressingly, as a mother might lay herchildren to sleep. When I was full to the brim with shining gold, he putmy head on, fitted the upper hoop on snugly, and then put me in the bed. The great knife he slipped under the pillow. Then, blowing out thelight, he lay down beside me with one arm thrown about me. So themiser, clasping me to his heart, fell asleep. 

"Day after day, night after night, this selfsame performance wasrepeated. My master did little work; indeed, he did not seem eager toincrease his store, but merely to hold it safely. But about this he wasso anxious that he was in a fever of excitement all the time. For dayshe would not leave the house. Never was he free from the fear of losinghis money. And this suspicion had poisoned his whole life, had made himhate his kind and lose all belief in the love and the goodness of God, that he had once professed. 

"One day in summer he left the front door open. I was drowsing, whensuddenly I heard him give a frightened yell. In the doorway stood a manand a woman. The man was the village pastor, and the woman, I soonlearned, was my master's wife. For a moment my master stood lookingangrily at them. Then he said abruptly, 'Why did you come here?'

"'John, ' said the woman, 'your child Mary is dying; and I thought thatyou, her father, would want to see her before she passed away. ' Hervoice choked, and her breast heaved with sobs. 

"'Dying, is she?' said my master brutally. 'I don't believe it. You aresimply after my gold. You might as well get away from here, ' he addedwith a threatening look. 

"'John, ' returned the woman, great tears coming to her eyes, 'I never inmy life lied to you. Mary is dying, and I could not let her go withoutgiving you a chance to see her. Last night in her delirium she beggedfor you. She wants you, John; she wants to say good-by to you!'

"But my master remained unmoved. The sinister look in the eyes, thedoggedness of the face did not change. He stared at them; then heshouted in frenzy: 'You lie! You want my money! Everybody wants it!Everybody loves it! There isn't an honest man in the world! All arethieves! All are lovers of gold! I know by your looks that you love it, 'he went on; 'and you can't fool me by your tears and your preaching. Youget out of this house!' he suddenly shrieked, 'or I will kill you, --bothof you!' He swore a terrible oath and stepped back to seize the heavybludgeon on the table. The woman cried out in fear and turned awayweeping. But the parson stood his ground. 

"'John Roberts, ' he said, 'thou art a doomed man. The lust of gold thatdestroys so many is in thee strong and mighty, and only God can savethee, nor He against thy will. Repent, or thou shalt perish in a lonelyplace, on a dark night, with none to help thee or hear thy cries; andall thy gold shall perish with thee. ' So saying, he turned and slowlyleft the house. 

"For a moment my master stood glaring at the retreating forms of thosewho had come to him as friends, but whom he had treated as enemies; thenhe rushed for the door and locked it. After that he lifted me tenderlyupon the table, laughed softly, patted me with his hands, and stroked mecaressingly. 'My gold, ' he kept repeating, 'my precious, precious gold!'And as night came on, he poured out the gold and counted the glitteringpieces. Again and again he counted his treasure until deep midnight hadsettled over all. 

"But when he awoke in the morning he was very nervous. All day long heneither opened the door nor unbarred the shutters. All the while he keptmuttering to himself as if planning some crafty plot. I could not knowwhat all this might mean, but I caught enough of his talk to understandthat he was more than ever suspicious of losing his money, was fearingall man-kind more and more, and was trying to devise some scheme wherebyhe could find a place where no one could molest him or try to steal hisgold. 'They will get it yet, ' he kept saying, 'unless I can go where noone can find me. ' Then he would curse his kind. 

"At last, after hours of muttering and tramping back and forth in thedarkened house, he suddenly seemed to find his decision. I shall neverforget the terrible expression of evil triumph on his face as he pausedbefore me and shouted:

"'I'll go! Go where they can never find me! I want to be alone with mymoney, where I can spread it out and see it shine! I will go where thereis not a man!'

"After my master had said that, he made no further remarks; but hebegan with eager haste to pack a few things for his journey. He put mein a sack in which I could neither see nor hear what was happening; andthat was all I knew for many a day. But all the while I felt myselfbeing _carried, carried, carried_! One day I realized that I had beenput in a boat; then we went on and on, day after day. Finally the boatwas stopped and I was carried ashore. Then for the first time in many along day I was taken from the bag. Again I saw the world about me. Buthow different were my surroundings from those of my old home! Where wasI? I was on the very point of land off which you found me this evening. 

"For the first few weeks of our stay on the shores of this lonely lake, things continued almost as they had been at home. The gold was mymaster's single thought. He seemed happy, almost joyous, in the thoughtthat he and I were at last out of the reach of men. Most of his time wasspent looking at his gold. Every morning and every evening he would takeme down to that point yonder where the sun shines clearly, and therewould pour the treasure out in a great pile. He always did thisexultingly. And his greatest pleasure was to play with the yellow coins, to count them over and over, and to laugh to himself in a satisfied way. 

"But after a time I could see that a change was coming over my master. He grew grave and quiet. No, more, as he poured out his gold, did hechuckle and laugh to himself. All his movements seemed listless. Hecounted his money less frequently, and when he did so it was in ahalf-hearted manner. One day I even saw him go away and leave the yellowheap lying on the sands. At last one day he came, packed the gold in me, and put in my head with the greatest care. Moreover, when he went backto the camp, he left me there on the beach! I felt very strange andlonely, and the night seemed long indeed. 

"At last the daybreak came, and glad I was to see it. But it was notuntil near sunset that my master came down to the point where I was. Hisface was as I had never seen it before. It was the countenance of a manwho had suffered much, and who was still suffering. He came to me, paused before me, and said: 'For thee, thou cursed gold, I have wastedmy life and ruined my soul!'

"For some time he stood thus looking at me; then he began to walk up anddown the strip of beach, wringing his hands and beating his breast. 'Oh, if I could only do it!' he kept saying; 'if I could only do it! If Icould, there might be hope, even for me. Lord, help me to do it! Lord, help me!'

"After many hours of this, which I knew to be mental torment for my poorwretched master, when he was exhausted in body and in mind, he came backalong the sands toward me. To my astonishment he knelt down beside me, he placed his hands together, he lifted his face skyward. My masterprayed!

"'Lord of the great world, ' he said, 'come to my aid or I am lost. InThy great mercy, save me! Hear where no man may hear, hear Thou my cry;Thou Lord of heavenly mercy, lend me thine aid!'

"He paused, and over his face I seemed to see the dawning of a deeppeace. He rose to his feet, lifted me, and bore me down to the boat. Then he slowly paddled away toward the center of the lake, repeating hisprayer. At last he checked the boat; then, having looked toward the sky, he said in a low, sweet voice, 'Lord, Thou hast given me grace andstrength. ' At that he lifted me high above his head----"

There was a crash as if pieces of wood were falling together and my eyesopened with a snap. My fire had smoldered down. The Keg, heated by thefire, had tumbled inward, and lay there in a confused heap. 

"What a queer dream, " I said to myself. I was really beginning tobelieve that these things had happened. I rose to my feet and steppeddown to the edge of the lonely water. I am not ashamed to say that myblood was chilled at what I saw. As I looked across the lake, withintwenty feet of where I had found the Keg, there was a boat with a mansitting motionless in it!

When that mysterious canoe appeared on the bosom of the lonely lake, Ithought that I was looking upon a vision of a spectral nature. In spiteof all my belief that I was alone on this remote beach, there sat theman in the boat, only a few rods off shore. He was as a mirage, assilent as the very lake itself. A few eerie moments passed; then theboat began to move slowly toward me, gently propelled by a skillfulpaddle. As it approached, the light of the full moon streaming upon itmade it easy for me to study its occupants. Near the bow I could discerna hound crouching. In the stern sat the paddler, his rifle across hisknees. 

"Hello, the camp there!" shouted the man in the boat. 

"Hello!" I called, glad enough to find that my strange visitor was noapparition. 

The canoe came ashore, I greeted the boatman, and together we walked uptoward the camp, the hound following us in a leisurely fashion. There Ireplenished the fire. Then for a moment the stranger and I stood andlooked at each other. He was over six feet in height, but sosymmetrically proportioned in his physical stature that, great as itwas, he was neither awkward nor ungainly. But for the fact that his eyehad lost its earlier brightness and that his hair was sprinkled withthreads of gray, it would have been impossible to believe that he hadreached three-score years and ten, for his form was still erect, hisstep elastic, and his voice clear and strong. His features were regularand strong, giving proof of the man's self-reliant and indomitablecharacter. Years, perhaps a lifetime of activity in the woods and on thelakes, had bronzed the man. From beneath heavy eyebrows looked eyesgray in color and baffling in depth. The man's whole appearanceattracted me singularly. 

"Thank ye for your welcome, mister, " he began. "I shouldn't have droppedin on ye at this onseemly hour, but the line of your smoke caught my eyeas I was turning the point yonder. I didn't expect to find a human beingon these shores. I ax your pardon for comin' in on ye, but I havememories of this spot that made me think strange things when I saw yourcamp. I am John Norton, the trapper. And who might you be, young man?"

"I am Henry Herbert, " I replied; "but just call me plain Henry. "

"Well, Henry, " began the old trapper, "I am going to call you that. Whenmen meet in the woods they don't put on any airs. I have been in thesewoods sixty-two years, and they have been a home for me, for my fatherand mother are gone, and I have never had wife nor child of my own. AndI have heard of you, Henry. Ye be no stranger to me. For ten years backI have heard how you like to travel the woods and the waters byyourself, larning things that Nature does not tell about in crowds. Ihave heard, too, that you be a good shot, and that you know the ways ofoutwitting the trout and the pickerel. Hearing about you this way, Iknew some day that I would come across your trail; but I never thoughtto run agin you to-night, for I'd no idee that mortal man knowed thislake, save me--save me and that other. . . . "

The old man paused, seated himself on the end of a log, and gazed intothe fire with a solemn look on his face. 

I did not feel like breaking in on his meditations, whatever they mightbe. I was silent out of deference to his memories. 

"This lake, " John Norton said at length, "this lake is a strange place. I have been here for eleven years. No other place in all this widecountry makes me feel as this place does. "

Again he fell into a reverie. I, meanwhile, busied myself with supper;and as soon as this was prepared, the two of us enjoyed it as onlywoodmen can. 

"If you know me, " I said, "we are no strangers to each other, for I knowyou. Who draws the steadiest bead with a rifle; who is the best boatmanwho ever feathered paddle, and who is as honest a man as ever drewbreath?--who, but John Norton, whom I have always been wanting to meet. No man could be as welcome to my camp. "

"Well, well, " laughed the old man, "when you're at home you must be oneof them detective fellows. I see we aren't no strangers to each other. And if while in these woods old John Norton can teach you any trick ofhuntin' or of fishin' or of trappin', be sure he will do so for thewelcome you have give him. "

So we sat on either side of the fire, silent for a few moments. Then theold trapper said:

"I am thinking of the things that happened here long years agone. Strange things have come to pass on this very point. It is eleven yearthis very night that me and the hound slept here, and a solemn night itwas, too. . . . God of heaven, man, what is that?"

The old man's startled ejaculation brought me to my feet as if a pantherwere upon me. Glancing at the spot he had indicated by look and gesture, I beheld only the shattered portion of the Keg. Not knowing what to makeof the trapper's excited action, I said: "That? That is only a Keg Ipicked up in the lake this evening. "

John Norton rose in silence to his feet and went over to where thestaves lay. One of these he picked up and held contemplatively in hishand. 

"The ways of the Lord are past the knowing of mortals, " he said. "Butperhaps in the long run He brings the wrong to the right, and so makesthe evil in the world to praise him. Henry, " said the Old Trapper, looking keenly at me, "I have a mind to tell you the story of the manwho owned that Keg. A strange tale it be, but a true one, and theteachings of it be solemn. "

Eagerly I urged him to give me the story, a part of which, at least, Ifelt that I already knew. 

"It was eleven year agone, in this very month, that I came down theinlet yonder into the lake. The moon was nigh her full, and everythinglooked solemn and white just as it do now. Lord knows I little thoughtto meet a man in these solitudes when I run agin what I am telling yeof. 

"I was paddling down this side of the lake when I heard the strangestsounds I ever heard coming out of a bird or beast. Ye better believe, Henry, that I sot and listened until I was nothing but ears. But nary athing could I make out of it. After awhile I said I would try to ambushthe creetur and find out what mouth had a language that old John Nortoncouldn't understand. As I got nearer the shore, my boat just drifting inthe moonlight, I heerd a kind of crawling sound as if the brute wasa-trailing himself on the ground. The shake of a bush give me the lineon him, and I felt sure that in a minute I could let the lead drivewhere it ought to go. I had my rifle to my face, when by the Lord ofmarcy, Henry, I diskivered I had ambushed a man!

"And, Henry, " he continued, "the words of the man was words of prayer. Never in my life was I taken so unawares or was so unbalanced as when Iheard the voice of that man I had mistook for an animal break out inprayer. For a minute the blood stopped in my heart and my hair moved inmy scalp; then I shook like a man with the chills. I had come that nighbeing a murderer, Henry!

"How that man prayed! He prayed for help as one calls to a comrade whenhis boat has gone down under him in the rapids, and he knows he musthave help or die. This man's soul was struggling hard, I tell ye. Thewords of his cry come out of his mouth like the words of one who issurely lost unless somebody saves him. It's dreadful for a man to livein such a way that he has to pray in that fashion; for we ought to live, Henry, so that it is cheerful-like to meet the Lord, and pleasant tohold converse with Him. 

"I sot in my boat till his praying was done; then I hugged myself closein under the bushes, for I heard him coming down toward the shore. Andhe did come, and come close to me; and in his arms he carried somethingvery heavy. In a moment I heard him shove a boat out from the bushes;then, getting in, he pushed off into the lake. He held for the center ofit; and when he had come nigh to the middle of it, he laid his paddledown, and lifted something into the air. This he turned upside down, andout streamed into the water something that glinted in the moonlight. After that, he come paddling back for the shore. Myself--I kept shy ofthe man that night, but the next morning I went to the stranger's camp. 

"There was nothing in sight but an old ragged tent, sagging at everyseam. I called aloud so that mayhap the man would answer me. But noanswer came. I walked up to the tent and drew aside the rotten flap. And, Henry, there lay the man senseless before me! I thought he wasdead, and I onkivered my head. But the hound here knowed better, for hebegan to wag his tail. I went in, and found that the man was stillbreathing. I lifted him in my arms, Henry, and bore him out of the foulair of that tent, taking him down to the warm sunshine on the point. 

"For a long while I thought he was going to die in my arms. He just laythere lifeless-like, a-looking across the lake with eyes half-shut. Butthe sun and air revived him; and after a long while he stirs and says:

"'Old man, who are you who are so kind to me?'

"I tells him I was John Norton, the trapper. 

"'I am John Roberts, ' he says, 'and I haven't a friend on the earth, nordo I deserve one. Old man, you cannot understand, because you have livedan innocent life, but I am a sinner--a wretched sinner. And my momentshere are numbered. I will tell you of my crimes; I will confess them, for they lie heavy on my heart. 

"'John Norton, I was a miser; I had a heart with a passion for gold. Forthe evil love of money I turned my face away from my kind. My wife Ideserted. My only child I refused, with curses, to see, even when shesent for me as she lay dying. John Norton, I gave all for gold. And themore I loved it, the more I hated man. With my dreadful lust there grewsuspicion of every one. All ties of affection were severed. I livedalone, hoarding my gold and gloating over it. 

"'At last I fled from the habitations of men, bringing my gold, my god, with me in a Keg. Here on this lonely shore I thought to be happy, farfrom my own kind, far from any danger that my precious treasure bestolen. But, John Norton--and a dying man is speaking--for all mycounting of the bright gold on the sands here, and my dancing about itas a devil might, laughing and singing--I was unhappy. I knew that Godwas watching me and was disapproving. I could not but think of my wifeand child. The thought of them began to make the gold hateful to me. Ah, then, old man, I began to pray the Lord to deliver me! It was a bitterstruggle I fought, but at length He rescued me. He gave me strength, John Norton, to overcome the Wicked One; He gave me strength to breakaway from my sin; He gave me strength last night to pour every piece ofgold that had been for me both love and life, into the lake there. Ishall never see it more, and I am happy. '

"After that, he lay silent-like, looking up at the blue sky. Then hiseyes closed, and I thought him sleeping. But suddenly he started up, 'Alight, a light! I see a light!' Then, Henry, he sank back into my armsand spoke no more. I hope my passing may be as peaceful as his, and myface as calm as was his after his battle of life was over. 

"The next day I buried him up yonder under them hemlocks--having no oneto help me, but doing it respectful-like, as all such should be done. There he lies, Henry, the man who was the owner of that Keg--JohnRoberts--the miser who repented before it was too late. Nor do I doubt, "he added, in his kindly tone, "but he's been forgiven by those hewronged. "

 * * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired. 

Words that have varied hyphenation: a-way, clean-cut, camp-fire, east-bound, round-house. 

Page 32, "Naggar" changed to "Nagger" (to find Nagger)

Page 200, "Skinney" changed to "Skinny" (Skinny soon returned)

Page 237, "Toodles" changed to "Toddles" (Toddles swung from)

Page 243, "pur" changed to "purr" (began to purr)

Page 270, "But" changed to "but" (but the face)