A QUEER BANK
In spite of obliterating rain, there were plenty of fresh cattle
tracks along and by the side of the trail. It did not necessarily
follow that any of the tracks were made by our cattle, still, they
might have been, and with this slight encouragement, I hurried along,
getting gradually higher, and deeper into the mountains. As I went I
reflected bitterly on the perversity of cow nature. A nature that
leads these gentle seeming creatures to endure hunger, thirst, and
weariness, to push for miles into a trackless wilderness, if by so
doing they can put their owners to trouble and expense. It was not
often that our cattle ranged so far away from home, and it was with a
little unconfessed feeling of dismay that, pausing to take stock of my
surroundings, I suddenly discovered that I was close upon the Hermit's
cave, and no signs of the strays yet. At the same time I made another
discovery as comforting as this was disquieting. Guard, whom I had
forgotten to invite to accompany me, was skulking along in the
underbrush beside the trail, uncertain whether to show himself or not.
When I spoke to him he bounded to my side. "Guard," I said, looking
down at him thoughtfully, "it's raining harder than ever, and the wind
is blowing; now that you are with me, I think we will just stop in the
cave until the storm abates a little." Guard's bushy tail was wet and
heavy with rain, but he wagged it approvingly, and toward the cave
we started. There was a green little valley over the ridge, and I
resolved when the storm slackened, to climb up and have a look into
it. If the cattle were not there I should be compelled to give over
the hunt for that day.
A sudden lull in the storm was followed by a blacker sweep of clouds
and a resounding peal of thunder, the prelude to a pitiless burst of
hail-stones. Pelted by the stinging missiles, and gasping for breath
as I struggled against the rising wind, I made for the cave with Guard
close at my heels, and dashed into the gloomy cavern without a thought
of anything but shelter.
The entrance to the cave was merely a large opening in a pile of
rocks close beside the cattle trail, and the cave itself was famous
throughout the valley solely because of its imagined history and its
actual equipment. Because of its nearness to the trail there was
little danger of its becoming a lair for wild beasts. People said that
the spot had been the dwelling place of a man, educated and wealthy,
who had chosen to live and die alone in the wilderness. How they came
to know this was never quite clear, for the furnishing of the cave was
there, offering its mute history to the first venturesome hunter who
had penetrated these wilds years and years ago, just as it was offered
to the curious to-day. The educational theory could probably be traced
to the torn and yellowing fragments of a book that lay on the rude
table opposite the cavern entrance. How many inquisitive fingers had
turned its baffling pages, how many curious eyes had vainly scanned
them in the course of the slow moving years in which the cavern held
its secret? The book was written in a language quite unknown to us
simple folk. For the theory of wealth the rusty, crumbling old
flint-lock musket, leaning against the wall beside the table, was
silver mounted and heavily chased. Beside the table was a rude bench
made from a section of sawed pine. That was all, but impressive
legends have been handed down, from one generation to another, on less
foundation than the cave furnished to our valley romanticists. It was
not even odd to us that no one in all these years had stolen or
desecrated the pathetic mementos of a vanished life. People on the
frontier have a great respect--a respect not necessarily enforced with
lock and key--for the belongings of another. The mountings of the gun
were of solid silver, but I doubt if even Mr. Horton could have
justified himself to himself in taking it. I had been in the place
once or twice and had turned over the untelling leaves with reverent
fingers, but I had never felt any inclination to linger within the
gloomy walls; the sunlight on the cattle trail outside had greater
allurements, but now, beaten by the hail, I rushed in headlong, and in
doing so nearly fell over the body of a man lying outstretched on the
stone floor, just within the entrance. The man was evidently sleeping,
and very soundly, for my tumultuous rush roused him so little that he
merely turned on one side, sighed, and again relapsed into deepest
slumber. I stood in my tracks, trembling, undecided whether to dash
out into the storm or run the risk of remaining in the cavern. The
fierce rattle of the hail beating on the rocks outside decided me to
do the latter. Noiselessly, step by step, I stole backward into the
darkness of the cavern. My backward progress was checked at last by
the corner of the table against which I brought up. I glanced down at
it. It was laden with a regular cowboy equipment of spurs, quirt,
revolver, cartridge-belt, and the too common accompaniment of a
bottle of whiskey. If the sleeping man on the floor were called
on to defend himself for any cause he need not suffer for want
of ammunition. I had less fear of his awakening since seeing the
half-emptied bottle, but far greater fear of what he might do when
he did awake.
Surely, there never was a wiser dog than Guard! He had not made a
sound since our entrance, although he had certainly cocked a
disdainful eye at the recumbent figure on the floor as we passed
it. Now, in obedience to the warning of my uplifted finger, he
crept silently to my side. He watched my movements with an air of
intelligent comprehension as I quietly took possession of the bottle,
revolver, and cartridge-belt, and then followed me without a sound as
I stole breathlessly into the deepest recess of the cavern. The rocky
roof sloped down over this recess, until, at its farthest extremity,
there was scarcely room for a person to crouch under it, close to the
wall, and it was so dark that I could barely make out the form of the
dog crouching beside me. Safe hidden in the darkness, I determined to
rid the sleeping man of at least one of his enemies. Pulling the cork
from the bottle, I poured its contents on the rocks, thereby, as I
found, running imminent risk of a sneeze from Guard, who rolled his
head from side to side in distress as the pungent liquor penetrated
his nostrils. The danger passed, luckily, without noise. We crouched
in perfect silence, waiting for the hail-storm to pass. It was too
violent to be of long duration, yet I could not tell, after some
minutes of anxious listening, when it ceased, for the hail was
followed by a fresh deluge of rain. It was comfortable in the
cavern--warm and dry. The man, as his regular breathing testified,
slept soundly, and I thought, while I waited, that I, too, might as
well make myself easy. Softly pulling off the wet coat, I turned the
dryest side outward, and, rolling it into a compact bundle, placed it
under my head for a pillow. With the sleeper's armament between myself
and the rock at my back, with Guard vigilantly alive to any motion of
anything, inside the cavern or out, I felt entirely safe, and wearily
closed my eyes. It was pleasant lying there so sheltered and guarded,
to listen to the heavy rush of the rain--or was it hail?--or the
far-heard cry of wolves, or the rushing swirl of the river. I had not
slept well the night before, but I could not have been asleep many
minutes when I was awakened by a low growl from Guard. Brief as my
nap had been, it was, nevertheless, so sound that at first I was
bewildered and unable to recall what had happened. I started up
quickly, bumping my head against the rocky roof, and so effectually
recalling my scattered senses and the necessity for caution.
The sleeping cowboy had also awakened and was wandering aimlessly
about the cavern. He was muttering to himself, and his incoherent talk
soon told me that he was in anxious quest of the bottle that I was at
that moment sitting upon.
The sound of his own voice had, apparently, drowned that of Guard's.
Seeing this I put one hand on that attendant's collar and shook the
other threateningly in his face. He had been standing up, but sat
down, with, I was sure from the very feel of his fur, a most
discontented expression. In the silence the stranger's plaint made
itself distinctly audible:
"Leff' 'em on a table; 'n' whar is they at now? Reckon I must 'a' been
locoed, or, like 'nuff that ar ole hermutt's done played a trick on
me. S'h'd think he'd have more principle than t' play a trick on a
pore feller what's jest stopped t' rest in his hole for a few hours."
He overturned the bench to peer inquiringly at the place where it had
stood, then, straightening himself as well as he could--which was not
very well--he looked slowly around the cavern. "It stan's to reason,"
he muttered thoughtfully, "that if airy one had come in whilst I was
asleep I'd 'a' woke up, so the hermutt must 'a' done it. What a ghost
kin want of a gun beats me, too! Why in thunderation didn't he take
his ole flint-lock, if he was wantin' a gun so mighty bad, instead of
sneakin' back t' rob a pore feller in his sleep! I wonder if the ole
thing is loaded, anyway. There's a pair of eyes shinin' back yon in
the corner; I ain't afeared of 'em, but I wisht he'd 'a' left my gun.
Who's agoin' t' draw a bead on a pair of eyes in the dark with a ole
flint-lock that you have to build a bonfire around before the
powder'll take fire?"
Clearly, as his drunken muttering told, he had caught the gleam of
Guard's angry eyes, yet, it was evident, as he had said, that he was
not at all afraid. Wild beast or tame, it was all one to him, that I
well knew, for now that he was on his feet, and standing in the shaft
of pale light streaming in at the cavern entrance, I recognized him as
Big Jim.
Big Jim was a cowboy with a more than local fame for reckless daring,
as well as for his unfortunate appetite for strong drink. I had seen
him but once before, but I had been able on that occasion to render
him a slight service. It did not seem to me, however, as I crouched
trembling under the rock, watching his irresponsible movements, that
the memory of that service would aid my cause with him just now, even
if I were daring enough to recall it. People said that Big Jim never
forgave any one who came between him and his whiskey bottle. Recalling
this gossip, as the man staggered toward the corner where the rusty
old musket stood, I decided that it was time to act. The flint-lock,
even if loaded, would probably be as harmless in his incapable hands
as any other iron rod, but under the circumstances it did not look
particularly safe to linger.
As the man's back was turned I sprang suddenly to my feet. "Seek him,
Guard! Take him!" I cried, and Guard literally obeyed. Startled and
sobered by the sound of a voice, Big Jim whirled around, facing the
direction whence the voice came, to be met by the dog's fierce charge.
Guard's leap was so impetuous that the man staggered under it, and,
losing his balance, fell to the floor. Guard fastened his teeth in the
skirt of his coat as he fell. There was a momentary struggle on
the floor. While it was taking place I darted out of the cavern,
revolver, cartridge-belt, and even the empty whiskey bottle in my
hands. Safely outside, I halted, and with what little breath I had
left whistled for Guard. A load was off my heart when the dog came
bounding to my side, none the worse for his brief encounter with an
unarmed cowboy.
I had hoped to get out of sight before Big Jim discovered me, but he
came out of the cavern on Guard's heels. Evidently quite sobered, he
stopped when he saw me. He glanced at the armament in my hands, at
the empty bottle, and, lifting his hat with its great flapping brim,
scratched his head in perplexity. It was still raining, a fact which
Big Jim seemed suddenly to discover.
"Wet, ain't it?" he observed.
"Rain is usually wet," I informed him, with unnecessary explicitness.
"Yes, I reckon 'tis. Say, that's my bottle you've got in your hands."
"So I supposed."
"You're welcome to the whiskey--I see it's gone, and 'tis a good thing
to take off a chill--when a body gets wet--but I'd like the bottle
again."
"I am going to put the bottle and the revolver and the belt in the
hollow of the big pine near the lower crossing. You can get them
there."
"Oh, ain't you goin' t' give 'em to me now?"
"No, I am not."
"'Fraid of me, I reckon."
"Yes, I am."
"I won't hurt you, Miss Leslie Gordon. I remember you first-rate. Got
that little white handkercher that you done up my hand in the day I
burned it so at the Alton camp yet."
"You might not hurt me, but I think you would hurt my dog."
"Yes, Miss Gordon, I'm 'bleeged t' say that if I had a shootin' iron
in my hands jest now I'd be mighty glad t' let daylight through that
dog o' yourn. He's too fractious t' live in the same country as a
white man."
I grasped the revolver tighter. "How came you in the cavern?"
"Well, if you want t' know, I took a drop too much at the dance last
night, an' the ole man, he'd said if sech a thing as that ar' took
place again he'd feel obligated t' give me the marble heart. Mighty
cranky the ole man is. So I jest wended up here along, thinkin' I'd
bunk with the ole hermutt till I got a little nigher straight. It's a
thing that don't often happen," he added, in self-extenuation; "but
the party, it done got away with me. Now you know all about it, an'
you'd better hand over them weapons."
[Illustration: "YOU BETTER HAND OVER THEM WEAPONS!" (Page 220)]
In spite of his civility, he was plainly angry, and I was the more
resolved not to yield. The storm had been gradually lessening, the
rain had subsided to a mere drizzle, and, in the increasing silence,
I plainly heard the musical tinkle of old Cleo's bell. It came from
beyond the ridge, so that it was certain that the cows were in the
little green valley where I had hoped to find them. I started to climb
the ridge, remarking over my shoulder to the baffled cowboy, "You'll
find your things in the pine, where I told you."
"Say, now, don't make me go down there on the high road!" he pleaded;
"some one might see me and tell the boss. I won't touch the consarned
dog if you'll give me the gun; I won't, honest! The boss, he thinks
I'm on the range now, an' it's where I had ort to be."
I was sorry for him, but my fear was greater than my sympathy. Guard
had torn the skirt of his coat in such a manner that it trailed behind
as he walked, like a long and very disreputable pennant, and I could
not be blind to the malevolent looks that he turned on my canine
follower in spite of his fair promises.
"I never heard of any one's being the better for drinking whiskey," I
volunteered, as a bit of information that might be of interest to him.
Then I started on again, to be brought to an abrupt halt by hearing a
voice on the trail below calling in a tone of piercing anxiety:
"Leslie! Leslie! Leslie!" The voice was Jessie's.
"Jessie, I am here!" I called back re-assuringly, and ran down in the
direction of the voice, leaving the cowboy staring.
In a moment I came face to face with my sister as she panted,
breathless, up the trail.
"Oh, Leslie! Leslie!" she gasped. "What a chase I have had after you!"
"Why did you follow me? I have the cows--or they have themselves--and
your skirts are all wet."
For answer, Jessie gazed at me with an expression curiously compounded
of horror and dismay.
"The coat! Where is the coat?" she gasped.
I remembered then that in my eagerness to escape from the cave I had
left the coat lying as I had used it, rolled up for a pillow.
"It's in the Hermit's cave," I said meekly, ashamed to admit that I
had forgotten the thing that she held so sacred that, for its sake,
she had followed me in the rain for some toilsome upward miles.
"Go back and get it instantly, instantly!" cried my usually calm
sister, wringing her hands in distress. The distress was so
unnecessarily acute for the cause that I resented it.
"The coat is all right, Jessie; it is safe; and I do not want to go
back there now."
"Why not?"
I told her.
"You must!" said Jessie, with whitening lips. "You must! Come!" and
she rushed up the trail toward the cavern.
"What have you done with Ralph?" I asked, hurrying after her. Jessie
turned an anguished glance back at me over her shoulder.
"I have left him locked up in the house with a pair of scissors and a
picture book; hurry!"
"I hope they'll keep him from thinking of the matches," I said,
bitterly. It seemed to me at that moment that Jessie showed more
concern for the out-worn garment of the dead than she did for the
safety of the living.
Big Jim had gone back into the cavern; he, too, had evidently been
searching it, for when, at the sound of our approaching footsteps, he
appeared at the entrance, it was with father's coat in his hands.
Jessie went boldly to his side.
"I want that coat, if you please," she said firmly.
Jim backed off a little, holding the coat out at arm's length, and
examining it critically.
"Whose is it?" he asked.
"It was my father's; it is ours; please give it to me."
Big Jim shook his head. "No; your dog done tore my coat half offen my
back; your sister made way with my tonic--I'm 'bleeged to take it for
my lungs--an' she's got my gun an' fixin's, an' won't give 'em up. I
reckon as I'll jest keep this coat till she forks them things over."
"Give him his things, Leslie," Jessie commanded.
"No," I remonstrated; "no, Jessie, if I do he will shoot Guard; I'm
sure of it."
Jessie turned on the dog: "Go home! go home, sir!" she cried, stamping
her foot. Guard slunk off, his tail between his legs, and his bright
eyes fixed reproachfully on me. I threw the gun with its trappings at
the cowboy's feet. "There, take them! You can shoot me if you like. I
threw away your whiskey."
"I wouldn't 'a' cared a bit if you'd 'a' drunk it, as I reckoned you
did," Jim returned with a light laugh, as he picked up the gun. "I
ain't agoin' to hurt you; tole you so in the first place. Got your
little handkercher yet, I have. Here's the coat." He tossed it into
Jessie's outstretched arms. Clasping it tightly to her breast she
started quickly down the trail.
Following her for a few steps before taking my way over the ridge, I
observed that her hands were wandering swiftly over the coat, from
pocket to pocket; as if seeking something. Suddenly the expression of
intense anxiety on her face gave way to one of unspeakable relief. She
turned around quickly and caught my hand: "Come on, you poor, abused
girl! Let's run, I am so anxious about Ralph."
"I'm glad you've got some affection left for him!" I retorted
scornfully. "It seemed to me from the way you've gone on, that you
cared less for either of us than for father's old coat."
Jessie gave the hand that lay limply in her's an ecstatic little
squeeze. "Our money, Leslie, is all in a little bag that is pinned in
the lining of this old coat; it's here now, all safe."
I could only gasp, as she had done before me, with a difference of
names, "Oh, Jessie!"
"Yes," Jessie repeated, nodding, "and it's quite safe, I can feel it.
Our cowboy friend did not have time to find it. I only hope that Ralph
has not got into mischief." He had not. I was obliged to leave Jessie
and go over the ridge for the cows, but she told me, when I presently
followed her into the house, that she had found Ralph still
contentedly destroying his picture book.