view of the fire we meets up with Hank Strong an' his wife. You know,
Hank's woman is just about as crazy to go to a fire as a boy to the
circus, an' she always comes in mighty handy to start a camp, take care
of the boys' horses an' the packs while we're a-workin'.
"Generally she'd make up a big pot of coffee and fetch it out to the
line. Once she comes a-ridin' along carryin' a pot full an' a bear
skeered her hoss--but that's nothin' to do with this yarn.
"Hank says that there's also a big smoke comin' up from the vicinity of
Granite Basin, an' the old man he says some one better go over there an'
see what's goin' on. Thar's a chap named Brown a-livin' in the Basin,
an' the Super, he's afraid, mebbe so he'd get caught in the fire an' be
singed some, the Basin bein' in the allfiredest lot of chapparal brush
you ever see.
"This feller Brown, he's a sort of pet of them boys over that a-way, him
bein' a lunger an' not able to do much but draw funny pictures for the
Sunday supplements. Seems he broke down back East an' comes West to try
an' git over it.
"There he sets a-drawin' pictures for them funny papers an' sendin' 'em
in regular, while he ses he's jist a-walkin' around to beat the
undertaker.
"Nobody else is a-livin' in the basin, there bein' nothin' but a little
old cabin, what a bee-man put up once, an' a few hives of bees Brown
bought along with the cabin. 'Them bees is jist to teach me habits of
industry,' ses Brown, when some of the boys asked him if he calculated
to git rich on the output of them hives.
"The old man he reckons he can't spare any of us old hands to go over
there, an' so he says to the young tenderfoot: 'Son,' he says, 'do you
reckon you can make it over there in the dark and find out what's doin'
in Granite Basin an' come back an' let us know?'
"The boy he ses he reckoned he could, only he didn't know the trail all
the way. Then Hank's wife she speaks up an' says she can go along as far
as the top of the mountain, an' show him the trail down into the basin.
"It sort of hacked the kid to have a woman show him the trail, but the
old man said it were the very idee, an' so she an' the boy struck off,
leavin' us to take care of the fire ahead.
"There wa'n't but one way into the basin an' that was down a graded
trail about two miles long from top to bottom that the bee man had made
to git in and out on.
"The lower part of this basin was one great mass of brush, an' as thick
as the hair on a dog's back, so you couldn't git through it only where
the brush had been cut out.
"When they gits to the top an' could see over the basin there wa'n't any
doubt but there was a fire all right an' it was mighty plain that if
Brown wa'n't already out of there it was time he was startin'.
"Hank's wife were a-dyin' to go down with him, but the kid he ses, 'This
here's my job, please,' and bluffed her out.
"'You look out you don't get cut off on the trail,' she warns him, 'the
way that fire's a-eatin' along the side of the basin, it's a-goin' to
reach the trail inside of an hour, an' there ain't no other way out
'ceptin' a foot path what goes up the side of the basin back of the
cabin, but it's more like a ladder than a trail an' you can't take your
hoss there a-tall.'
"Down into the basin goes the boy, while instead of goin' back to the
outfit the woman stopped there on a little point of rock where she could
look all over the basin an' waited to see what'd happen.
"Brown slep' out under a big ole oak-tree, an' as he gits near the cabin
the kid he lets out a yell or two to wake him an' finds Brown settin' up
in bed sort of half-dazed, what with the yellin' an' onnatural
brightness of the skies all abouts.
"Inside of five minutes they was a-ridin' for the trail up the mountain
with Brown a-settin' behind on the kid's horse. But it were too late.
When they reached the foot of the trail they could see where 'bout half
way up the whole blamed mountain was afire. Nothin' could pass through
it an' live, so there wa'n't nothin' to do but go back an' try to get
out on the foot trail.
"Brown he begs the kid to go an' leave him an' save hisself. 'I'm only a
worn-out shell, anyhow,' he ses, 'an' it's jist a question of time till
it's all over for me an' I cash in, but you got something to live for
ahead of you.'
"But the kid wouldn't stand for it.
"'Don't you talk to me 'bout leavin' you here like a rat in a trap,' ses
he, 'we'll make it up that trail all right; jist you hang onto me and
we'll make the hoss pack us as far as he can go, an' then we'll take it
afoot. If it comes to a showdown I can carry you easy enough.'
"So they rides the hoss up the trail till where it runs into a cliff
'bout twenty feet high. Here thar was a ladder to git up the cliff, an'
the kid he strips off the saddle, takes his water bag, an' turns his
hoss to shift fer hisself. Time they gits up that ladder pore Brown he
were all in an' had to lie down on the ground a-coughin' fit to kill
hisself.
"This trail was jist a foot trail cut through the chapparal, an' the
smoke an' heat was already a-rollin' down onto 'em where they was like a
blast from a furnace. The kid he wets their handkerchiefs from his water
bag an' they each tied 'em about their faces to sort of protect 'em a
little.
"The boy, he looks mighty anxiouslike at them big high walls of flames
a-comin' down toward 'em, an' fairly forced Brown to git on his back
'pick-a-back' like you'd take a little kid, an' started slowly up the
trail.
"Foot by foot he climbed to'rd the top. Sometimes the smoke got so thick
they had to lie down a minute clost to the ground to git their breath,
sometimes the wind dropped big blazin' brands onto 'em an' set their
clothes afire, an' he'd have to stop an' rub it out with his hands.
"Every time he took a look up to'rds the top, he'd see the fire a-comin'
closter an' closter to the trail. Pore Brown he tried to help him some
by walkin', but between the excitement an' the smoke gittin' into his
lungs, it were too much for him, an' he dropped down helpless as a
newborn baby.
"The kid, he takes a survey of things an', little as he knowed 'bout
fires in the chapparal, he seen mighty plain, that they were at the
critical pint, an' if they didn't git past the next hundred feet mighty
soon, the fire would cut 'em off, an' it would be good-bye gay world to
'em both.
"Then he hears a moan from Brown an', lookin' round, sees him lyin' flat
on the ground with one hand clapped over his mouth, an' tricklin'
between his fingers was a stream of blood. Didn't take him but a second
to know it were a hemorrhage; beats all what them fellers do learn at
them colleges, don't it?
"Brown were a-workin' away with one hand at the little pocket in his
shirt an', in his eagerness an' excitement, the button wouldn't come
open. The boy jumped to his side, tore the button loose, an' pulled from
the pocket a little tobacco sack with something in it. Brown he holds
out one hand palm up, an' nodded to the boy to open the sack, which he
did, an' then poured out into his hand a little pile of common table
salt. You know them lunger-fellers most of 'em carries a little sack of
salt agin' jist such emergencies. Brown he throwed his head back an'
swallowed every grain of it an', bimeby, the blood stopped running so
hard. He struggled to his feet, then waved his hand to'rd the top an',
with a beseechin' look in his eyes, tried to git the kid to savvy that
he was to go on an' leave him to die.
"But the boy he wa'n't made of that sort of stuff. He's jist about
skeered to death at the sight of the blood, but he pulls hisself
together, grabs Brown in his arms agin, an' grits his teeth for another
fight for their lives.
"Finally, he comes to a place where, about ten feet ahead, the fire was
clean acrost the trail. He puts Brown down for a minute, pulls off his
coat, lays it on the ground, an' pours over it what water was left in
his water bag. Then he wraps Brown's head an' shoulders in the coat an',
grabbing him up in his arms, agin makes a last dash through the smoke
an' fire.
"Seems like he hears a woman's voice above the roar of the fire an' he
sort of wonders is he gittin' a little loco with it all. Next he knows
he's a-drawin' in big gulps of air that ain't full of smoke, an' there's
a woman a-walkin' longside of him, steadyin' him as he staggers under
his load an' a-rubbin' out, with a wet gunny sack, the places where his
an' Brown's clothes are a-smokin'.
"It all appears as a horrible dream to him, an' fust thing he knows, he
don't know nothin', for he's gone an' keeled over in a dead faint. Don't
laugh, you fool; didn't you ever work at a fire till it seemed as if
your lungs was a-goin' to bust an' your heart was a-beatin' like a cock
patridge on a log?
"Then he gits a quart or more of cold water slap in the face, opens his
eyes, an' there's Hank's wife a-standin' over him. Clost by was Brown,
alive an' apparently uninjured. She knowed if he got through a-tall he's
bound to come out right about there and was a-watchin' for him.
"When we comes along 'bout three hours later, we finds the boy and the
woman hard at work, back-firin' along the old stage road an' the fire
pretty well under control on that side.
"Say, that kid were a sight to look at. He ain't got no more eyebrows or
lashes than a rabbit, an' that there curly mop of his was singed an'
scorched like the rats had been a chawin' onto it."
"And Brown?" asked Jack.
"Oh, Brown, why he come through all right. Saw a lot of his funny
pictures in the Sunday supplement last week. 'Peared like the fire done
him good."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
DUMMY
By permission _National Wool Growers' Magazine_
"Take him, Bob; take him, boy." The woman pointed to a coyote skulking
in the sage brush a hundred yards from the camp wagon beside which she
stood. The dog raced toward the animal which turned and stopped, a nasty
snarl coming from its lips, teeth bared, every hair of its mane erect.
Almost as large as a full grown wolf it outweighed the dog by many
pounds.
Surprised at the coyote's hostile attitude the Airedale stopped for a
moment, then advanced cautiously, realizing that this coyote differed
somewhat from those he had met before.
Instantly the coyote flew at the dog, burying its keen teeth deep in his
left leg, leaping quickly back to avoid a clinch, its jaws snapping like
castanets. The dog, though taken by surprise, fought with all the fury
of his breed, but being only a pup was manifestly overmatched. Realizing
the dangerous character of the coyote, the woman seized the camp axe
standing at the front wheel of the wagon and ran to the aid of her
protector.
The coyote tore loose from the dog's grip and jumped at her as she came
nearer. She swung the axe as the animal raised in the air, missed its
head by six inches, and, before she could gather herself for another
blow, it sank its fangs deep into her bare arm. Encouraged by her
presence the dog fastened himself to the animal's hindquarters, but
shaking him loose it lunged at her again. She stood her ground,
thrusting the axe at the brute in an endeavor to keep it at bay.
Meantime the door to the camp wagon opened, a boy about fifteen jumped
to the ground, in his hand a heavy automatic pistol. As the coyote
sprang at the woman's body he thrust the weapon under her arm almost in
the animal's face, and the shot that followed blew half its ugly head
away.
As the beast sank to the ground the woman dropped the axe, ran to the
wagon, picked up a rope hobble that lay on the tongue, tied it around
her arm above the wound and, with a short piece of stick, twisted the
improvised tourniquet until it sank deep into the white flesh. The boy,
the while uttering those strange inarticulate sounds of the deaf and
dumb, wrote a few words upon the slate that hung from his neck by a
leather thong and handed it to the woman. "The signal--shoot the
signal," she read.
She seized the automatic the boy had used, raised it above her head,
fired two quick shots, waited a moment, and fired two more. As she
listened there came through the still cold air an answer, sharp and
staccato as the spark from a wireless.
Then, and not until then, did the woman relax and sink to the ground as
if dead.
The physical disabilities of the boy had given him a keenness and
comprehension far beyond his years. He clambered into the wagon, drew
from its scabbard a heavy rifle, jumped to the ground and repeated the
signal three times. Could his ears have served him he would have heard
the answering shots, this time much nearer.
No rider in a Wild West relay race ever quit his pony with greater speed
than did Jim Stanley as he reached his camp, where with one quick glance
he realized what had happened. As he dropped beside his wife she opened
her eyes, grasped his hand and struggled to rise. The boy ran to the
wagon returning quickly with a small box, the well known red cross on
its black shining side proving it to be a "first aid kit." The woman
smiled faintly. Away back in the mountains the forest ranger's wife had
once showed her the box the government furnished all its rangers, and
when the lambs were shipped in August she coaxed Stanley to bring one
back. He rather laughed at the idea, but to please her, bought one and,
with a woman's foresight, it had always been kept in the camp wagon.
The prevalence of rabies among the coyotes was the one live topic in
every sheep and cattle camp all over the range country and, realizing
the serious nature of the wound, the man took the box from the boy,
opened it and seized the booklet which told briefly what to do in such
an emergency.
The pressure of the tourniquet was lessened, causing the wound to bleed
freely, a most valuable aid to its cleansing, and in a few minutes it
had been well washed with hot water, flooded with a strong solution of
carbolic acid and bound tightly with one of the bandages from the box.
In the meantime, the man had decided on his course. At a sign from him
the boy mounted the horse Stanley had ridden into camp and rode rapidly
off across the range. While he was gone, Stanley outlined his plans to
his wife. With good luck they could intercept the auto stage, that
passed down the road every day, at a point some thirty miles distant.
From there it was seventy-five miles to town which they would reach that
night in time to catch the midnight train to the nearest Pasteur
institute.
"But the sheep, Jim?" and the woman looked anxiously out on the range.
"We can't leave them all alone, you better let me make the ride by
myself and you stay here, for I can get through all right."
Stanley shook his head. "Not for all the sheep in the world would I let
you go alone." He kissed her cheeks.
"But Jim," she pleaded, "it's too much to risk and I'll make it without
a bit of trouble."
The boy was just turning the point of a little hill near camp driving
before him the two horses hobbled out the night before. Stanley pointed
to him. "Dummy can turn the trick all right enough, he's the best herder
in this whole range for his age, and he'll get 'em through if any one
can. He's only a boy, but he has a lot of good horse-sense and if the
weather holds out he'll work the herd from here to the winter range and
not lose a sheep."
"But we'll take the team with us; how can he move camp?" and she glanced
at the big roomy camp wagon.
"That saddle pony of mine will carry all the grub and bedding he'll need
and the wagon can stand right here till some of us can get back and haul
it away."
The man hung a nose bag full of oats on each horse, saddling them as
they ate, and while he was getting out the pack outfit, food, and other
supplies for the boy, she was writing his instructions on the slate,
supplemented by many signs and motions which he read as easily as the
written words. He was to stay in this camp two or three days longer,
then pack the pony with his camp outfit and drift the sheep slowly
toward the winter range seventy-five miles below.
"Take plenty of food," she wrote, "for it may be ten days before some
one gets out to relieve you. You know the way, don't you?"
Dummy nodded eagerly. He had come up with the sheep in the spring and
knew every camp and bed-ground on the trail.
"Don't you worry about him," Stanley told his wife, when she again spoke
of the danger of leaving the boy all alone. "He's short two good ears,
that's sure, but he more than makes up for them in gumption and
common-sense. If it don't come on to storm, he'll make it through all
right and by the time he gets there I'll have a man ready to relieve
him, if I'm not there myself."
"And if it does storm," he continued, "he'll probably do just about as
well as any one else, for out here, if it comes on a blizzard, all the
best man in the world could do would be to let the sheep drift before it
till they strike shelter."
Fifteen minutes later, the boy watched them ride out of sight, over a
ridge near camp. As the two figures were lost to view he turned toward
the wagon and took a short survey of his surroundings. Out on the range
twelve hundred ewes were peacefully grazing with no hand but his to
guide and protect them; what a chance to show the stuff in him! Deep
down in his heart he hoped that the man who was to come out from the
railroad to relieve him would be delayed for many days. It would give
him a chance to make good and show his worth.
[Illustration: "_Out on the range 1200 ewes were grazing_"]
For three days Dummy led an uneventful life. The dog was recovering from
his wounds, the sheep were doing well, and he had shot another rascally
coyote that came skulking about the camp one evening.
On the fourth day the sky was overcast with heavy clouds that seemed
threatening and, as the feed near camp was about gone, he decided it was
time to be moving. In two hours he was off, the dog limping along by his
side, the herd slowly grazing their way across the range.
As a precautionary measure he led the pack horse lest old "Slippers"
take it into his head to desert him. That night Dummy made camp under
the lee of some small hills where a few scattered cedars offered
fire-wood and shelter. The sun had set in an angry sky, there was a
strange feeling in the air, and the sheep seemed to sense an approaching
storm.
He bedded them down in the most sheltered spot he could find, set up his
little miner's tent close to a cedar and, after cooking his supper, took
the dog into the tent, tied the flaps and slept as only a tired boy of
his age can sleep.
The tent was lit with the dim gray of early dawn, when the dog's cold
nose on his face awoke him, and he was soon outside, opening up the fire
hole he had carefully covered the night before. The wind was blowing
a gale while overhead the sky was that dull leaden color that in the
range country means snow.
Late that afternoon he worked the sheep toward a line of low cliffs that
cut across the prairie and bedded them down in their lee, finding for
himself a snug overhanging shelf of rock, under which he placed his camp
outfit, and cooked his first meal since daylight.
Dummy dared not hobble out his horse in such a night, but after giving
him a small feed of grain he had brought from the wagon, staked the
animal in a little grassy wash near camp.
By dark the snow began to fall heavily and he knew that for him and his
woolly companions the morrow would be full of new troubles.
Lost to all sounds of the storm, the lad sat before the little campfire
under the overhanging rock and watched the snow drive before the wind.
With the confidence of one born and raised amid such conditions, Dummy
rather enjoyed the prospect of a struggle against the elements. His
parents were Basques from the Spanish Pyrenees, a sturdy dependable race
that for centuries have been sheepherders in their own land. Every
winter, from the open ranges of the West, come tales of "basco"
sheepherders facing death in the storms, rather than desert their herds.
Their devotion to their woolly charges, good judgment in handling them
and loyalty to their employers' interests, even unto death, is
recognized all over the western range country, until the name "basco"
stands for the best in sheepherders.
From such as these sprang this boy, deaf and dumb from his birth. His
father and his uncle were among the best herders in the state, and from
a child he had been used to the rough life of a sheep camp. Deficient as
he was in two vital senses, the remaining ones had been developed until
his ability to grasp and understand things about him seemed almost
uncanny. It was this knowledge of the boy's breeding and peculiarities
that made Stanley feel he would take the best possible care of the sheep
left in his charge.
When Dummy opened his eyes the next morning, the air was so full of snow
driving before a fifty-mile gale that he could not see a hundred feet
from camp. He cooked his breakfast, fed Slippers the last of the grain,
and waited for the storm to break, realizing that until it did it would
be folly to leave the shelter of the cliffs.
The sheep were getting restless and hungry and occasionally small
bunches drifted out into the storm in search of feed, but after
buffeting with the wind for a few moments were glad to come back. About
noon there came a lull in the gale and the snow came straight down
almost in clouds. The sheep were uneasy over the change, and even
Slippers seemed to sense some new danger.
Suddenly with a roar the wind swept upon them from a new direction so
that they were now exposed to its full fury, whereas, before, they had
been sheltered by the cliffs.
The sheep tried to face it, but the fierce wind was too much for them,
and they slowly drifted before the gale across the snow-covered range.
All that day Dummy struggled along behind the herd tired, cold, hungry,
and almost blinded by the frozen tears, leading the pack horse lest he
lose him. As for controlling the movements of the sheep, he did nothing
for they could travel in but one direction, and that was away from the
arctic blast which grew in strength as the day wore on. Wherever there
was a sign of anything eatable upon which the hungry animals could feed,
they ate even the woody stems of the sage or the dry yellow fibre-like
leaves of the Yuccas that here and there showed above the snow.
The short winter day began to wane, and darkness was slowly creeping
across the white cover that lay over the land. All sense of direction
and time had long since left the lad, but he struggled on, the dog
limping along at his side.
Just as the last signs of daylight faded away the sheep stopped moving,
and he was unable to start them again. He wrapped the lead rope of his
horse about a sage bush as best he could, then worked his way through
the herd looking for the cause of their stopping. Stumbling and falling
over snow-hidden rocks and bushes, he found himself almost stepping off
into empty space over a cliff, where the snow had built out from its
edge in such a manner as to conceal its presence, and, even as he threw
himself back from the step he was about to take, he saw several sheep
walk blindly out into the semi-darkness and disappear into the depth
below.
The loss of these roused into action every drop of his basco blood. In
the dim light he could just make out where the edge of the cliff lay
and, carefully working his way along it, beat the stolid mass of animals
back from the danger. By this time it was almost dark and he turned back
to find his horse, but after half an hour's search gave it up and
returned to the herd, hoping the animal might be with them somewhere.
He stumbled around in the snow for some time before he came up with the
tail enders of the herd slowly working their way through a break in the
cliff down which the leaders had evidently gone. He found the herd
huddled up in the shelter of the cliff and eagerly looked through them
for the pack horse with its precious burden of food and bedding, but
without success.
Once he stumbled over several soft objects in the dark which he made out
to be some of the sheep that had fallen over the cliff. When he finally
realized that the pack horse was gone, he knew where he could at least
get his supper and breakfast, and after starting a fire skinned out a
hind quarter of one of the fallen sheep and soon had some of it
roasting. Fortunately for the boy, he found piled against the cliff a
lot of poles that had evidently been part of an old corral, which made
it possible for him to keep the fire going all night and over which he
huddled dropping off to sleep only to be awakened by his numbed limbs
and body.