MR. CRUSOE OF CRIPPLE CREEK
Mr. Crusoe was washing an extra shirt in the ford between Elk Creek Valley
and the Gap. The absence of soap was a distinct disadvantage, but water, a
corrugated stone, and Mr. Crusoe's diligence were working wonders. A short
distance away among the quaking-asps smoldered the embers of a small fire;
a blackened and empty bean-can on the hearth-stone, together with a
two-tined fork, bore evidence of a recent breakfast.
His washing completed, Mr. Crusoe turned his attention to his personal
appearance. Deep in the waters of Elk Creek he plunged his arms, bare to
the elbow, and washed his neck and face. From one pocket he drew a soiled
and folded towel, which upon being unrolled disclosed a diminutive brush
and an almost toothless comb. With these he proceeded to arrange his
somewhat long and dripping black hair. His two weeks' old whiskers
apparently worried him, for he pulled them meditatively; but since he was
far from a barber and carried no shaving appliances, the brush and comb
must suffice for them also. Finally he took his battered old hat from a
nearby branch, brushed it carefully, arranged the crown so that fewer
holes appeared, and put it upon his head. His clean shirt, spread upon a
quaking-asp but by no means dry, afforded the best of reasons why he
should not hurry; so, drawing a stained and stubby pipe and sack of
tobacco from another pocket, Mr. Crusoe lay beneath a friendly cottonwood
at the water's edge and gave himself to quiet contemplation.
The morning was perfect, and no one could appreciate it more keenly than
Mr. Crusoe, wanderer that he was. He blew a great mouthful of blue smoke
into the still air, watched it circle lazily upward, and blew another to
hasten the progress of the first. His black eyes, peering from a forest of
eyebrows and whiskers, looked long upon the blossoms that clothed Elk
Creek Valley--sunflowers, early golden-rod and purple thistles--swept the
friendly, tumbling foot-hills and sought beneath the over-hanging trees
for the secrets of the creek. It was a morning to love things, Mr. Crusoe
thought to himself. He was glad that he had left his comrades of the
railroad tracks; more glad that he had abandoned freight-jumping for a
season; most glad that he had decided to work during the early fall
months. Then with money in his pockets and a new suit of clothes upon his
back, he might go back to Cripple Creek whence he had come.
A few minutes later his contemplations were broken by the sound of horses'
feet coming through the Gap. He sat up, interested, and removed his pipe.
In another moment as he met the wide-open eyes of two very much startled
young ladies, his hat followed. Mr. Crusoe was used to speaking to persons
whom he met in his journeyings. It was one of the many joys of the road.
"Good-mornin', comrades," said he.
The hearts of Mary and Vivian leaped into their throats. Their eyes,
leaving Mr. Crusoe's, saw in one terrifying instant the shirt drying on
the quaking-asp, the smoldering fire, the empty bean-can. This man was a
tramp! He belonged to that disgusting clan of vagabonds who asked for food
at back-doors, and whom one, if frightened into doing it, fed on back
stoops as one fed the cat! He, like his fellows, would inspire one to lock
all the doors at noonday, and to tell one's neighbors there was a tramp
abroad!
"Good-mornin'," said Mr. Crusoe again. "It's a fine day."
This time Mary answered. She did not dare keep silent. The tramp might
become angry.
"Good-morning," she faltered.
Vivian said nothing. She was waiting for Mary to plan a means of escape.
Meanwhile Siwash and his companion, feeling their reins tighten, had
stopped and were nibbling at the quaking-asps, quite undisturbed.
Mr. Crusoe rose, hat in hand.
"Was you plannin' to ford, young ladies?" he asked politely.
The vanishing flanks of two horses, unceremoniously yanked away from their
luncheon and turned toward the prairie, were his only answer. Mr. Crusoe
gazed wonderingly into a cloud of dust. Then he felt of his washing on the
quaking-asp. It was dry enough. Laying his pipe and hat on the ground, he
proceeded to get into the clean shirt.
"Poor little things!" he said from its somewhat damp depths. "They was
plum scared of me!"
The shirt on, he did its mate into a bundle, cut a forked stick upon which
to sling it, stamped out the last ember of his dying fire, took his hat
and pipe, and started north up the creek trail.
Vivian and Mary did not stop their wild gallop until they were well in
sight of the nearest house on the prairie. Blue gentians for Miss Wallace,
which had been their errand, were quite forgotten. So also was the glory
of the morning. Instead, there ever rose before their still startled eyes
a black-whiskered, coatless man, smoking the stub of a dirty pipe beneath
a cottonwood.
"Mary," said Vivian, gathering courage as the Keith house came into view,
and breaking a long, frightened silence, "Mary, did you ever see any one
so villainous-looking in your life--outside of the movies, I mean? I
guess my heart will never stop thumping! I wish Virginia had been with us!
She's always saying there's no one around here to harm any one. I just
wish she had!"
"I sort of wish we hadn't run so," returned Mary, pulling her horse down
to a walk. "Maybe he wasn't any one harmful at all, only he scared me so I
never stopped to think. I'd hate to be a snob, even to a tramp!"
"I wouldn't! I glory in it! And, besides, you needn't worry. It takes time
to be a snob, and we didn't waste a moment. Here's the Keith house. Hadn't
we best go in for a moment? There's Carver now playing with Kenneth."
The Keiths, upon hearing the story, quieted Vivian's fears, and confirmed
Mary's increasing regret. The man was only a hobo, Donald said, doubtless
seeking work. They looked unmistakably rough, but were often good fellows
inside. Probably he wouldn't have frightened them for the world.
"I wish this fellow would stray our way," he added. "We're going to be in
need of extra hands when threshing comes, and it won't be long now. Dad
would welcome him all right."
Vivian stared at Donald, incredulous and speechless. There was no need of
asking him if he meant what he had just said. Apparently that horrible
creature back there by the creek, the very remembrance of whom caused cold
shivers to run over Vivian, would be given a welcome by the Keith family.
Vivian's nose, already a trifle high, rose higher. Democracy was
unquestionably a splendid attribute. Since knowing Virginia and coming
West, she was more inclined to believe in it than ever. But this was too
much!
An hour later they were riding homeward, their hands filled with gentians.
Donald and Jack had ridden back with them to the ford to act as
protectors, and, Vivian secretly believed, to interview the hobo, were he
still there, upon the subject of threshing. But only an empty bean-can and
the charred remnants of a fire bore evidence of the wayfarer. He had gone!
Reassured, they had gathered gentians to their hearts' content, left the
boys upon the prairie, and ridden homeward.
Mr. Hunter came to meet them as they rode beneath the cottonwoods.
"Crusoe," he called to some one on the other side of the porch, "here's
your first job! Take these horses to the corral."
An attempt to describe the sensations which swept over Mary and Vivian
when they recognized their acquaintance of the morning would be
impossible. Unable for a moment to dismount, they sat in their saddles and
stared. Mr. Crusoe, undoubtedly sensible of their surprise, patted Siwash,
who responded gladly in spite of black whiskers and a battered hat. Mr.
Hunter, thinking that the flowers might be the reason of their delay,
relieved them of the gentians. Mary and Vivian, thus assisted, finally
fell from the saddles, and followed Mr. Hunter to the porch.
"Mr. Hunter," gasped Vivian when the new man had taken the horses, "do you
know who he is? He's a hobo! Donald said so! We met him this morning down
at the ford--Mary and I. He scared us almost to death! He had washed a
shirt and it was drying on the bushes, and he ate canned beans for
breakfast right out of the can with a dirty, bent, old fork. He was lying
under a tree and smoking a hideous pipe as we rode up! I never was so
horrified in all my life! And, Mr. Hunter, he took off his hat and spoke
to us! I thought we'd die! Siwash would eat the bushes, and I thought we'd
never escape! He's not going to stay here after he has something to eat,
is he, Mr. Hunter? You don't know how awful he is!"
Vivian stopped--merely for breath. Mr. Hunter with a mighty effort
repressed a smile. Mary was torn between a desire to play fair and the
awful remembrance of her fright. She said nothing.
"Vivian," said Mr. Hunter, "out here we've learned not to judge persons by
whether or not they wash in the creek and eat canned beans. I'm sorry
Crusoe frightened you. He isn't exactly captivating in appearance, I'll
admit, but, from what I can gather, he seems to be a pretty good sort. Any
man's worth a try-out, you know. He's looking for work, and now that
threshing is coming on I'm looking for an extra man, so he's going to stay
here a spell. These fellows who take to the road, you see, fill a great
need out here in this country. We depend on one or more of them showing up
about this time of year."
Vivian was still staring, unable to speak. Mary, desirous that Mr. Crusoe
should not misunderstand their flight, explained the affair to Mr. Hunter,
a little more rationally than Vivian had done.
"You see," she finished, "it's just that we aren't used to seeing persons
like that, and he _did_ look fierce, Mr. Hunter. I wish you'd explain to
him how it was. I shouldn't want to be rude even to a hobo."
Mr. Hunter smiled.
"He'll understand, Mary," he said. "In fact, he does already, for when he
saw you riding home he told me about how frightened you were at the ford.
Don't be at all alarmed, Vivian," he called, for Vivian was hurrying into
the house, her head high. "He's a gentleman--underneath the whiskers and
the shirt."
So Mr. Crusoe stayed on at the Hunter ranch. The men liked him--that was
plain to be seen. Every evening their laughter echoed from the bunk-house
where Mr. Crusoe was entertaining them with his songs and stories. Even
the silent William was loud in his praise, and Mr. Weeks, the foreman, in
speaking of his ability and readiness to work, suggested a permanent
position. Mary allowed but a day to go by before apologizing for her
flight from the ford, and after Mr. Crusoe's courteous acceptance became
his firm adherent, much to Vivian's disgust. Even Aunt Nan found him
interesting, while Virginia and Priscilla listened eagerly to his tales of
Cripple Creek. They were collecting theme material, they told the
disdainful Vivian.
Apparently Mr. Crusoe had stormed and taken the Hunter ranch. Only one
member of the family remained his enemy. Vivian was still unconvinced. To
her every one else on the ranch had taken his place among the number of
those condemned by the apostle, "who, having eyes, see not." In her
suspicious eyes Mr. Crusoe was a "ravening wolf" of whom she should
beware. When she had an infrequent occasion to address him she used an
offended dignity, tinged with scorn; when his name was brought into the
conversation she remained silent, secure in the knowledge that some day
they would all see this tramp in his true light!
In three days Vivian had worked herself into a state from the eminence of
which she looked down with protecting pity upon Aunt Nan, the other
Vigilantes, and Mr. Hunter. They were being hoodwinked, and she alone was
left to guard their interests. Harrowing memories of tales she had read,
terrifying visions of escaped criminals whom she had witnessed in the
"movies," and who exactly resembled Mr. Crusoe, came to disturb her rest
and haunt her dreams. She was a quaking detective, watching Mr. Crusoe's
every act, and discovering treachery and evil design in the most innocent
of them.
On the fourth day following Mr. Crusoe's advent matters approached a
climax. In the early afternoon Mr. Hunter, driving to town on business,
had taken the other Vigilantes with him. Vivian, with letters to write,
had remained at home, feeling safe with Aunt Nan. In her stimulated
imagination Mr. Crusoe had been behaving peculiarly all the morning, and
not for worlds would she have stayed alone.
Hannah left soon after the others, going for raspberries up the canyon;
Aunt Nan, thoughtful and strangely silent, was in the living-room, where
within an hour she was joined by Malcolm Keith; Vivian sat beneath the
vines in the corner of the porch, and tried to center her attention upon a
letter she was writing to Dorothy. She was not eminently successful. Grave
apprehensions, strange forebodings, filled her heart. Once Mr. Crusoe
passed empty-handed before the porch. He did not see Vivian, although he
might easily have detected the beating of her heart. She watched him
pause, study for a brief moment the house, its doors and windows, and then
pass on. He was seizing the opportunity while they were all away, Vivian
told herself, to become better acquainted with his surroundings. Then some
day, not far distant, or some night, he----!
She jumped from her seat and ran indoors. At that moment she wanted
company more than anything else in the world. Sunny as it was outside,
the silence worried her. There was something portentous even in the
singing of the August insects. Aunt Nan's genuine interest in Mr. Crusoe
and his welfare would probably prevent Vivian from giving expression to
her new-born fears; but at least nearness to some one might quiet the
misgivings which were tormenting her.
She reached the living-room door, and stood still, unable to make her
presence known, and, for a moment, unable to run away. Aunt Nan and
Malcolm Keith were standing by the big western window which faced the
prairie and the distant mountains. Malcolm's arm was around Aunt Nan, and
her head was on his shoulder. As Vivian stood transfixed to the spot by a
strange Something, Malcolm bent his head, and--Vivian fled, unperceived!
That same strange Something, stronger than her fear of the silence or even
of Mr. Crusoe, was making her breath come in gasps as she sank into her
chair and tried to collect her scattered senses. Truly Life was being too
generous to her that day! So Malcolm and Aunt Nan loved each other! That
was clearly unmistakable. She was sorry she had intruded, though she knew
they had not heard her. In that last moment before she had found strength
to run away she felt as though she had come unbidden into a sacred place.
Her cheeks burned at the thought. How surprised the girls would be when
she told them! No, she would not tell! It was Aunt Nan's secret--hers and
Malcolm's!
Fifteen minutes later, still unperceived and to all appearances quite
forgotten, she sat in her chair and watched Aunt Nan and Malcolm go down
the lane beneath the cottonwoods, and on toward the foot-hills. They had
forgotten her very existence. She was all alone--alone with Mr. Crusoe and
the silence. At that very instant Mr. Crusoe again passed before the
porch--again paused to study the house. This time he held a key in his
hand--a large key on a string which he twisted and untwisted as it swung
from his big, brown finger. Vivian knew that key. It belonged to the
root-cellar just beyond the kitchen, and it hung in Mr. Hunter's office
above his desk. She had seen Hannah take it a dozen times, and once Mr.
Hunter had given it to Virginia, asking her to get some papers from a
desk he kept down there. Why should Mr. Crusoe want to go to the
root-cellar?
Something told Vivian that the time for her to act had come; that only she
could save the Hunter fortunes from oncoming disaster. As Mr. Crusoe
rounded the farther corner of the porch, and started in the direction of
the root-cellar, Vivian ran through the house and into Hannah's spotless
kitchen. A new sense of responsibility gave birth to a bran-new sense of
courage. Vivian, watching from the kitchen window, saw Mr. Crusoe go into
the cellar. That was enough.
Running to Virginia's room, she grasped the little rifle which stood in
the corner. It was the only gun in the house which Vivian had ever used,
and her one experience with it had not given her a far-reaching knowledge
of fire-arms. Still, it was a gun, and guns concealed cowardice, and lent
power and dignity to one's bearing. Vivian knew that it was loaded.
Virginia always kept it ready in case a gopher poked his inquisitive
little nose above the ground. She knew, too, that a quick push of her
thumb would drive back the safety and leave the gun ready to shoot.
She ran down the hall and out the back door toward the root cellar. Her
heart was in her mouth, her breath came in gasps, her wide-open blue eyes
were filled with terror. When she reached the stone steps leading down to
the cellar she looked far less a heroine than a much frightened little
girl. Still, there was the gun! Vivian's nervous fingers kept pushing the
safety on and off--a rather terrifying sound to the ears of a much
surprised man, who, papers in hand, was coming up the steps.
Vivian saw the papers. She was right! Mr. Crusoe had been rifling Mr.
Hunter's private possessions. She raised the gun with a trembling hand.
"Mr. Crusoe," she faltered, "this gun is loaded, and if you try to pass
me, I--I'm very sure I shall shoot you. You sit down there in the cellar
and wait for Mr. Hunter."
Mr. Crusoe sat down. He was too surprised to do anything else. He had
faced guns many times before in his varied existence, but never had he
been confronted by a shaking .22 in the trembling hands of a very nervous
young lady. Moreover, the sound of a safety clicking nervously back and
forth is not conducive to peace. Mr. Crusoe did not expect Vivian to shoot
him, but he did entertain a fear that the gun might go off in his
direction and in spite of her. Considering silence the better part of
valor, he accordingly sought the farthest corner of the cellar and hoped
for the best.
Vivian sat upon the top step, the gun upon her knees. She had not looked
for such non-resistance on the part of Mr. Crusoe. Indeed, he looked less
fierce than she had ever seen him. Could she have observed the amused
smile which was quivering beneath Mr. Crusoe's black whiskers as he began
more fully to understand this peculiar situation, she would have been much
puzzled. To her, he was a cringing suppliant, and she a distinct
conqueror.
Still the minutes dragged themselves very slowly away. It seemed two
hours, though it was in reality but ten minutes before conqueror and
conquered heard the roll of returning wheels, the sound of voices calling
for Vivian, the approach of hurrying footsteps. Mr. Crusoe stirred
uneasily. He would have willingly saved Vivian from the embarrassment
which he knew was bound to follow, but it had been impossible. Vivian's
heart beat wildly. Now, at least, they would understand that she had been
right all along; now, perhaps, they would no longer think her such a
coward!
Embarrassment did follow! Embarrassment and tears and explanations and not
a little ill-concealed amusement. For one long hour Vivian, in spite of
sympathy and understanding and genuine admiration, wished she had never
been born. In that hour she discovered that a finer courage is necessary
to admit a mistake and to begin anew than to besiege a hobo in a
root-cellar. But she proved equal to the task, and Mr. Crusoe in the part
he played showed himself the gentleman he really was. For when Vivian was
convinced that Mr. Crusoe had been given the key by Mr. Hunter, that he
had been told to fetch the papers, and that he really was trustworthy
after all, she dried her tears, donned a fresh middy, and went quite alone
to offer her apologies.
She found Mr. Crusoe by the bunk-house. He had shaved in the meantime,
and when Vivian saw his clean firm chin, she knew it was partly the
whiskers which had made her level the gun at him.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Crusoe," she stammered. "You see, I thought you were just
a tramp, and at home we are always afraid of them. But I know now you
aren't. I know I've been wrong all the time, and--oh, I'm awfully glad the
gun didn't go off!"
Mr. Crusoe removed his battered old hat and offered his freshly-washed
hand.
"I'm glad, too, Miss Vivian," he said. "If it had, perhaps I couldn't have
told you how much pluck I think you've got stored away inside of you. And
as for your being suspicious of the likes o' me, I don't wonder a mite.
Only, you see, there are tramps and tramps. To the best of us, I guess
trampin' just means followin' roads that lead to shelters--to _homes_, you
see! And now you know I'm not the kind you thought I was, this here ranch
looks like a mighty good home to me."
"Then you won't go back to Cripple Creek?" asked Vivian. "If I were you
I'd stay right here."
"That's what I'm plannin' on," said Mr. Crusoe.