DEAN WOLCOTT and his Scout slept soddenly for hours and woke, aching
and hungry, in the early dusk.
“Well, this is a bone-headed business, Scout,” said the Ranger,
disgustedly. “We should have got back to the horses by daylight. Tumble
out! We’ll have to shake a leg!”
The boy pulled himself gallantly together but he was clearly exhausted.
“Oh, we’ve got our flash light, Ranger. We’ll be all right!”
“We’ll be all right as long as the flash holds out, but it needs a new
battery, and the new battery is in the saddlebags at White Pines.” He
shook off the mantling fatigue. “We’ll be all right anyway, of course.
It won’t be pitch dark for an hour yet, and we’ll save the light till
we absolutely need it. Wait--let’s see how we’re fixed for water!” He
picked up the canteens and investigated. “Water’s your best friend, old
son, and we’re going to have prize thirsts for days to come. What?--
Yes, of course, there’s the spring at White Pines, but it’s beastly
hard to locate after dark.”
He found that they had less than a canteen between them so he made the
boy rest again while he clambered down the charred and fog-drenched
slope to the spring. It was trampled and muddied by the fleeing animals
and choked with burnt leaves and twigs; it was a slow job to fill the
two canteens and make his way back to the trail, and he found the Scout
asleep.
“Tumble, out, old boy!” he said, rousing him reluctantly, for he looked
white and spent and very childish in the half light. “But we want to
get back to Snort and Mabel, don’t we?”
“You betcher!” said Elmer Bunty, stoutly.
“All set? Right! Hike along behind me; we can see for almost an hour,
and it won’t take us long to get there.”
“Say, Ranger, why don’t we go the short cut over the hill--the one Mr.
Golinda showed me? It saves a mile.”
“I’m not sure enough of it in the dusk, Scout; we might waste more time
fooling about looking for it than in keeping to the main trail.”
“No, we wouldn’t! I know it, sure as shooting, Ranger. He showed me
that first day when I went down to meet Mrs. Golinda and I came back
all alone! I can find it, Ranger!”
It didn’t matter particularly, Dean thought, if they did poke about
in the twilight for an extra half hour; if the youngster could
dramatize the dreary stumble through the damp dusk, let him. He had a
surprisingly good sense of direction.
“That’s a Scout’s business, _scouting_,” said the boy, contentedly.
“Right. Lead off, old top.”
The Scout with Rusty at heel set forward with amazing briskness. “I
remembered this funny shaped _madroña_ tree right here. And a little
ways ahead there’s a big rock, hanging right over us....” He trudged
sturdily. “I don’t guess we’ll have much to eat to-night, will we,
Ranger?”
“Well, not what you’d call a banquet, Scout. But we’ll munch a few
raisins and a cracker and do a Rip Van Winkle, and dream about the
breakfast Mrs. Golinda’s going to give us in the morning. We’ll be up
with the lark and pop in on her and meanwhile we can feed our fancies
on the thought of her coffee and golden muffins and broiled ham and
scrambled----”
“Ow,” said the Scout, ruefully. “I wisht you wouldn’t.... I betcher
she’ll give Rusty a bone, too. I like that lady an awful lot, don’t
you, Ranger?”
“Best in the world, Scout.”
“And I like that girl that the doctor lets ride Ted, don’t you, Ranger?”
“Yes,” said Dean Wolcott, “yes, son, I like that girl.” He threw back
his head and laughed aloud. “Oh, boy, I like that girl!”
“Me, too,” said Elmer Bunty.
He was making good progress considering the fast fading light but the
dark was coming down on them like a released curtain. Dean experimented
with his flash and found that it gave out only the palest possible
gleam; it must be kept for emergencies.
“Oh, gee--_golly_!” said the boy, suddenly. “It’s still burning down
there, Ranger! Look!”
Some of the territory which Mateo Golinda had considered out of danger
had relapsed again; it was not a dangerous burning--a low, smudging,
stubborn fire which could not make great headway against the fog.
“I don’t think it can do any harm, Scout. Mateo Golinda will be back in
the morning to look things over.”
“Oh, gee ...” said the Scout, “this way seems most as long as the
regular trail, doesn’t it? But we’re nearly there, I guess.” Then he
quite evidently revived his fainting spirits with stimulant. “Say,
Ranger, we might be trappers or pioneers or--_anything_, mightn’t
we?--sneaking along like this? Or Pontiac, Chief of the Ottawas! Say,
I betcher it was slick to be an Indian chief ... or even an Indian
brave.... Gee, _golly_, but it’s getting dark, isn’t it, Ranger?”
“Shut your eyes for a minute, Scout, and then open them; it will seem
lighter.”
“Say, it does, doesn’t it?” He plodded sturdily on.
“I’d keep away from the edge, Scout; it’s wet and slippery, and a
misstep would mean a bad tumble.”
“All right, Ranger; only, we have to keep _pretty_ near the edge
because that’s where the trail is.... Yes, sir, I betcher it was fine
to be an Indian brave--hunting and fishing and having the squaws to do
all the messy things; and battles ... hanging down on your horse and
shooting under his neck--_Ow!_” He stumbled and caught himself. “Gee, I
nearly did fall that time, Ranger.”
“Look here, Scout,” said Dean sharply, “I believe we’d better stretch
right out here and wait till daylight. Let me go ahead, at any rate. My
turn to lead, now!”
“I want to get back to Mabel,” said the boy, doggedly. “It must be
pretty near, now, Ranger.... And when a brave died in battle they tied
him on his faithful horse and brought him back to camp, didn’t they?
Gee ... I betcher all the squaws cried like _any_thing.... Tied on
his faithful horse.... Say, Ranger, you know I think that’s lot more
exciting than just hearses and hacks, don’t you?”
“_Much_ more exciting, old son!” His heart warmed within him--the game
little sport, plodding through the damp darkness, aching-tired, hungry.
“When my uncle died, Aunt Lizzie, she had an awful stylish hearse
and there was eleven hacks; she hated to pay out such a lot of money
but she said nobody could never say she didn’t give him a stylish
funeral.... It was a grand hearse, all right, but I think ‘tied on his
faithful horse....’” He was silent then, for he had to stop and peer
owlishly through the darkness and take hold of trees and get down on
his hands and knees and feel for the path. “It’s all right, Ranger!
We’re keeping on the trail, all right!” He got up and went forward
again, inching his way. “Say, I don’t guess Edna could ever--” he
broke off at a disturbing thought. “Say, Ranger, you know, Edna’s an
awful funny girl ... she just won’t _believe_ a person. If I tell her
about riding Mabel and fighting fires and finding trails in the dark,
she’ll just laugh and say ‘_Uh_-huh! _Uh_-huh! Yes, you did! Yes, you
did _not_!’ I was just wondering ... if you should ever come to see my
Aunt Lizzie and me and my cousin Edna, maybe you could kind of--drop a
word--”
“I could tell that Edna girl things that would make her hair grow
upside down,” said Dean Wolcott, heartily. “I could tell her things
I’ve seen you do, and dangers I’ve seen you experiencing that would
keep her awake nights! I could--and I would, with pleasure.” (As long
as he said could and would instead of can and will, he wasn’t lying to
the child; when they were fed and bathed and rested he would tell him
about his Aunt Lizzie and his cousin.) “Scout, let me go ahead, now.
You walk behind me and hang on to my belt. It’s too dark for you to--”
But the boy gave a little chuckle of delighted satisfaction. “Well, if
_you_ told her....” Although they could not see each other, he turned
his head and spoke to him over his shoulder. His voice was hoarse and
he choked a little. “Oh, gee--_golly_, Ranger, I do like you! I _do_--”
He slipped, and struggled to catch himself, battled for an instant
while Dean Wolcott sprang toward him, toppled over the edge of the
slippery trail into the black cañon.
He screamed as he fell. It seemed to the young man that the long,
thin scream of terror would never stop, but when it stopped suddenly,
utterly, as if it had been turned off by machinery, it was worse.
“Scout! Oh, Scout! Are you all right? I’ll come after you, Scout!
Scout! Can you call, so I can find you? Oh, Scout!”
The Airedale, whining, terrified, flung himself against him. “Find,
Rusty! Find!” he said. “Find Scout! Find, Rusty, find!” The dog went
swiftly over the edge and down, and Dean could hear his sharp staccato
barks; it was much as if he were trailing a rabbit.
The Ranger leaned over and turned his feeble spot light into the
blackness, but it made a little mocking circle--a tiny tunnel into the
dark which led nowhere. He started down; he could hear the dog and
follow him, and the dog would find the boy. “Scout!” he called. “Oh,
Scout! I’m coming, old son! I’m coming!”
Then his feet shot from under him and he fell. He clutched frantically
at the chaparral and at the ground as he slid over it, and he had a
clear instant of horrified realization that it was hot ... _hot_. Then
some one seemed to rise up out of the night and fell him with a blow
upon his head, and he stopped realizing altogether.
The thing that disturbed him and brought him back to consciousness,
that made him struggle back from pleasant peacefulness to pain and
bewilderment was a prolonged and bitter howling.... He thought at
first that it was the mountain lion which had lost its mate; then he
recognized the voice as that of Rusty, the Airedale, and everything
that had happened came back to him.
He found that he was lying with his head against a tree; no one would
ever know why he hadn’t broken his neck. He got his arms around the
tree and dragged himself to his feet, and collapsed again, giddy and
faint, but the howling kept up, unbearably, and this time he pulled
himself to his hands and knees and started at a snail’s progress in the
direction of the sound.
They were not very far away from him, the Airedale and the Scout,
though it took him some time to reach them. The dog was circling about,
varying his lament now and then with a yelp of pain for the ground was
almost covered with smudging embers, but the boy was wholly still.
The young man laid shaking hands upon him and found to his horror that
the Scout’s uniform was on fire in several places, and he pulled off
his coat and wrapped it about the inert body and beat out the little
blazes with his bare hands, and still Elmer Bunty made no sound. It was
necessary, first of all, Dean told himself, forcing himself to think
collectedly in spite of the wild throbbing of his head, of the sense
of nightmare unreality about it, to get him away from this particular
spot where there was so much smoldering fire. Back there by the tree,
where he had struck, there had been no fire; therefore, he would take
him over there--he was sure he could locate it. Besides, the moon was
coming up; the radium face of his wrist watch said that it was time for
the moon to come up; he counted childishly upon its coming. Now he got
his hands under the boy’s armpits and began to drag him, cautiously,
for fear of slipping, along the ground, and at the first movement the
Scout came out of his swoon and screamed as he had screamed when he
fell.
“It’s all right, old son,” said the Ranger, soothingly, “it’s all
right! You had a nasty fall, but Rusty found you, and then I found you,
and now we’re all----”
But the boy cried out again in agony. “Don’t--move me! Don’t _touch_
me!”
“I know, Scout--those burns hurt horribly, but as soon as I get you up
on the trail--” he began gently to drag him again, but Elmer Bunty beat
at him with one feeble hand.
“Oh--Ranger--_don’t_! I can’t--_breathe_--I’m all--broken--to
_pieces_--” he was sobbing, gasping.
Then the young man stopped dragging him and laid him gently down on the
ground and began to feel of his legs and his arms and his back with
slow, probing fingers, and the Scout bore it with what heroism he could
muster until Dean reached his back, and then he screamed again, more
terribly than before, and mercifully fainted. This time the Ranger was
able with infinite pains and unbelievable exertion to get him back up
the slope to the trail before he recovered consciousness and began the
dreadful sobbing again. He could move one arm and hand and he touched
the back of his head.
“My head is ... leaking,” he said. “I don’t guess it’s ... blood, do
you ... Ranger?”
“It is bleeding, a little, Scout.” He was stripping off his own shirt
and tearing it into bandages. “I expect you struck it on a rock; I
whanged into a tree myself, you know, or I’d have been over there with
you sooner.” He wound the khaki strips about the head, covering the
great jagged cut; the blood spurted warmly over his fingers while he
worked.
“Now, Scout,” he said, kneeling over him, “this is the stiffest job we
ever had to do together; it’s worse than ten forest fires. Are you game
for it? Are you going to stand by me? Rusty found you, and I’ve brought
you up, and Mabel is waiting for you, but you’ve got the hardest part
of all; you’ve got to let me carry you.” He bent closer. “There’s a
good Scout!”
“No, Ranger, no! I can’t--_please_--”
“I know how those burns are smarting, and I know there’s something for
the doctor to mend, but we’ve got to get out of here--that fire is
coming up again, Scout; we’ve got to go; we’ve got to go as the animals
went yesterday--remember? Now I’m going to carry you just as gently and
easily as I can, but--I’m going to carry you. We’re going to Golindas’,
and Mrs. Golinda will help us till Mateo can bring the doctor--there’ll
be a soft bed, Scout, and warm food, and dressing for the burns--” His
own emergency case--he cursed his heedlessness--was in the saddlebag at
White Pines.
Once Dean Wolcott had seen a small bedraggled kitten defending itself
against a terrier. He had broken its back, apparently, for it could
not rise, but it lay there, embattled, fending him off with its tiny,
futile claws. Before he could rush downstairs and out into the yard--it
was over. It was like that now, he thought, sickened, the way the child
beat him off with his one hand ... the way he must close in on him....
“I don’t dare let you wait, Scout; I don’t _dare_--not to do this!”
He got him up at last, face downward, over his shoulder, steadying
him and holding him with both hands, talking to him, crooning to him,
soothing him, walking slowly for fear of falling, walking faster for
fear of the galloping moments. Every atom of his will, every cell of
his brain, every nerve of his body was mobilized; he felt curiously
light and free and strong; he could carry his burden like this for
hours if need be.
Then the moon came up, just as he had calculated that it must, the
waning moon, lopsided and sagging, pouring its clear effulgence down on
the somber hills, on the black mountain peaks, spilling it down into
the depths of cañons--into his cañon there, and into Ginger’s cañon,
miles away on the home trail.
“Ah,” he said, joyfully, “now we’re all right, aren’t we, Scout? Now we
can make speed! But first I’m going to put you down and have another
look, and see if I can’t make you a little more comfortable.” He eased
him to the ground with passionate care but the child never ceased his
low sobbing.
The moon illumined him whitely; it showed the Ranger everything there
was to see; it played over Elmer Bunty like a searchlight of radium; it
seemed to pierce through and through his broken little body.
Dean Wolcott got up from his inspection and walked away a few paces and
stood looking blindly down into the silvered ravine. When he came back
and sat down beside the boy his voice sounded ragged and uneven. “I
think we’ll rest here awhile, Scout,” he said. “We won’t try to go on,
just now.”
“No,” said the Scout, gasping, grateful, “we won’t--go on--” The
Airedale snuggled close to him and lapped his hand and wrist without
ceasing. “Rus-ty ...” said the boy with difficulty, and then--“...
wisht that Mabel was ...”
“What is it, Scout?” Dean bent his head low to listen.
“I don’t guess Edna ...”--the words trailed away, feeble,
uncertain--“’Fraid-Cat ... all burnt’n everything ... not crying ...
_much_....”
And then, in spite of what he had said, the Scout left his friend and
his dog and went on, alone.
* * * * *
Now it was hideously easy to carry him. It seemed to Dean Wolcott as if
he must walk on without pausing, past Golindas’, through the doctor’s
camp, to Monterey, to San Francisco, bearing the small, broken body
in his arms until he found the Scout Master, and said--“See, I have
brought him back to you, Elmer Bunty, the boy you sent me, the one I
ordered especially--to whom I could boast and brag of my woodcraft and
wisdom. I said I would make a man of him. You see what I have made of
him.”
It was almost grotesque to find how near they had been to White Pines
all along, and it was another world, clean and green and fresh. He laid
the Scout down on a bed of bending brakes and went methodically to look
after the horses.
Snort was gone. The Mabel horse greeted him thankfully, but his own
mount, the wild red roan who had betrayed him at Dos Pozos, had
deserted him now in his dark hour.
He offered a cracker to Rusty but the dog refused it in bitter
preoccupation. The lone lion was calling his mate quite close to them
now, but the Airedale paid no heed.
Dean Wolcott sat down beside the body of his Scout, his head bare, his
heart heavy, his face hidden in his hands. The sound of the mourning
beast’s lament fitted blackly into his mood. The world was a bleak
place of loss. The quaint, engaging little creature who had established
himself so snugly in his heart was dead; Snort was gone; he had only
imagined that Ginger yielded to his arms that night, that far-away
night of laughing and music at the Lodge. Ginger would go back to her
cattle ranch and marry ’Rome Ojeda: she had spent a whole winter in the
east and never made him a sign. It would not be necessary, now that he
had seen her, and demonstrated his brilliant ability to sit a horse, to
go to Dos Pozos. He would telegraph the regular Ranger to come back and
release him: then he would return to Boston, to the Wolcott connection,
to cool, correct, comfortable people who lived upstairs in their
minds--who did not harry body and heart like this.
And then his aching and rebellious grief for his good Scout came over
him and shook him like a harsh wind, and he gave way to it unashamed,
thankful for solitude.
But Rusty, the Airedale, rose at the strange sound and left his
deathwatch to come padding softly over to him. He pressed hard against
him with his shabby little body; he put his forefeet on the young man’s
knees and reached upward, lapping the cold, clenched hands with his
warm tongue.