WARD HUNTS WOLVES
The fate of the four heifer calves became permanently wrapped in the
blank fog of mystery. Billy Louise watched for them when she rode out
in the hills, and spent a good deal of time heretofore given over to
dreaming in trying to solve the riddle of their disappearance. Charlie
Fox insisted upon keeping to the theory that they had merely strayed.
Marthy grumbled sometimes over the loss, and Ward--well, Ward did not
put in an appearance again that fall or winter and so did not hear of
the incident.
November brought a long, tiresome storm of snow and sleet and chill
winds, which even the beasts would not face, except when they were
forced. After that there were days of chilly sunlight, nights of black
frost, and more wind and rain and snow. Each little ranch oasis
withdrew into itself and settled down to pass the winter in physical
comfort and mental isolation. Even Billy Louise seldom rode abroad
unless she was compelled to, which was not often. The stage which
passed through the Wolverine basin twice a week left scanty mail in the
starch-box which Billy Louise had herself nailed to a post nearest the
trail. Now and then a chance traveler pulled thankfully out of the
trail, stopped for a warm dinner or a bed, and afterwards went his way.
But from October until the hills were green, there was never a sight of
Ward, and Billy Louise changed her mood and her opinion of him three or
four times a week.
Ward, as a matter of fact, had a very good reason for his absence. He
was working for a rancher over on the other side of the mountains, and
when he got leave of absence, it was merely that he might ride to his
claim and sleep there a night in compliance with the law, and see that
nothing was disturbed. He was earning forty dollars a month, which he
could not afford to jeopardize by any prolonged absence; and he was to
take part of his pay in cows. Also, he had made arrangements to keep
his few head of stock with the rancher's for a nominal sum, which
barely saved Ward from the humiliation of feeling that the man was
giving him something for nothing. Junkins, the rancher, was a good
fellow, and he had a fair sense of values. He knew that he could pay
Ward these wages and let him winter his stock there--I believe Ward had
seven or eight head at that time--and still make a fair profit on his
labor. For Ward stuck to his work, and he worked fast, with the drive
of his nervous energy and the impatience he always felt toward any
obstacle. Junkins considered privately that Ward was giving him the
work of two men, while he had the appetite of one. So that it was to
his interest to induce Ward to stay until spring opened and gave him
plenty to do on his own claim; and such was Ward's anxiety to acquire
some property and a certain financial security, that he put behind him
the temptation to ride down to the Wolverine until he was once more his
own master. He had sold his time to Junkins. He would not pilfer the
hours it would take to ride twenty miles and back again, even to see
Billy Louise; which proves that he was no moral weakling, whatever else
he might be.
Then, in April, he left Junkins and drove home a nice little bunch of
ten cows and a two-year-old and two yearlings. One of the cows had a
week-old calf, and there would be more before long. Ward sang the
whole of _Chisholm Trail_ at the top of his voice, as he drifted the
cattle slowly up the long hill to the top of the divide, from where he
could look down over lower hills into his own little creek-bottom.
"With my knees in the saddle and my seat in the sky,
I'll quit punching cows in the sweet by-and-by,"
he finished exuberantly and promised himself that he would ride down to
the Wolverine the very next day "and see how the folks came through the
winter." He wanted to tell William Louisa that he was some cowman
himself, these days. He thought he had made a pretty good showing in
the last twelve months; for when he first met her, at the Cedar Creek
ford, he hadn't owned a hoof except the four which belonged to Rattler,
his horse. He thought that maybe, if the play came right and he didn't
lose his nerve, he might tell William Louisa something else! It seemed
to him that he had earned the right now.
He rode three miles oblivious to his surroundings, while he went
carefully over his acquaintance--no, his friendship--with Billy Louise
and tried to guess what she would say when he told her what he had
wanted to tell her for a year; what he had been hungry to tell her.
Sometimes he smiled a little, and sometimes he looked gloomy. He ended
by hurrying the cattle down the canyon so that he might ride on to the
Wolverine that night. It would be tough on Rattler, but then, what's a
range cayuse made for, anyway? Rattler had had a snap, all winter; he
could stand a hard deal once, for a change. It would do the old skate
good to lift himself over fifty miles once more.
Whether it did Rattler any good or not, it put new heart into Ward to
ride down the bluff and see the wink of the cabin window once more. He
smiled suddenly to himself, threw back his shoulders, and lifted up his
voice in the doggerel that had come to be a sort of bond between the
two.
"I'm on my best horse and a-comin' on the run,
Best blamed cowboy that ever pulled a gun,"
he shouted gleefully. A yellow square opened in the cabin's side, and
a figure stood outlined against the shining background. Ward laughed
happily.
"Coma ti yi youpy, youpy-a, youpy-a," he sang uproariously.
Billy Louise turned her head toward the interior of the cabin and then
left the light and merged into the darkness without. Ward risked a
broken neck and went down the last bit of slope as if he were trying to
head a steer. By the time he galloped up to the gate, Billy Louise was
leaning over it. He could see her form dimly there.
"'Lo, Bill," he said softly and slid out of the saddle and went up to
her. "How you was, already?" Again his voice was like a kiss.
"'Lo, Ward!" (in a tone that returned the kiss). "Don't know whether
the stopping's good to-night or not. We've quit taking in tramps.
Where the dickens have you been for the last ten years?" And that, on
top of a firm conviction in Billy's Louise's mind that she did not care
whether Ward ever crossed her trail again, and that when he did, he
would have to do a lot of explaining before she would thaw to anything
approaching friendliness. Oh, well, we all change our minds sometimes.
"I felt like it was twenty," Ward affirmed. "Do I get any supper,
William? I like to have ridden my horse to a standstill getting here
to-night; know that? I hope you appreciate the fact."
"It's a wonder you wouldn't have started a little sooner, then," Billy
Louise retorted. "Along about Christmas, for instance."
"Wasn't my fault I didn't, William. Think I've got nothing to do but
chase around the country calling on young ladies? I've been a wage
slave, Bill-Loo. Come on while I put up my horse. Poor devil, I drove
cattle from Junkins' place with him, and they weren't what you could
call trail-broke, either. And then I came on down here. I've been in
the saddle since daylight, young lady; and Rattler's been under it."
"Well, I'm very sure that it is not my fault," Billy Louise disclaimed,
as she walked beside him to the stable.
"I'm not so sure of that! I might produce some pretty strong evidence
that the last twenty miles is your fault. Say, you didn't know I've
gone into the cow business myself, did you, William? I've been working
like one son-of-a-gun all fall and winter, and I'm in the cattle-king
class--to the extent of twelve head. I knew you were crazy to hear the
glad tidings, so I tried to kill off a horse to get here and tell you.
You and me'll be running a wagon and full crew in another year, don't
you reckon? And send reps over into Wyoming and around, to look after
our interests!" He laughed at himself with a perfect understanding of
his own insignificance as a cattle-owner, and Billy Louise laughed with
him, though not at him, for it seemed to her that Ward had done well,
considering his small opportunities.
To be sure, in these days when civilization travels by million-dollar
milestones, and the hero of a ten-dollar story scorns any enterprise
which requires less than five figures to name its profits, Ward and
Billy Louise and Charlie Fox--and all their neighbors--do not amount to
much. But it is a fact that real men and women in the real world
beyond the horizon work hard and fight real battles for a very small
success compared with Big Interests and the modern storyman. And I'm
telling you of some real people in a real world out in the sagebrush
country, where not even a story hero may consistently become a
millionaire in ten chapters. There is no millionaire material in the
sagebrush country, you know, unless it is planted there by the Big
Interests; and the Big Interests do not plant in barren soil. So if
twelve head of cattle look too trifling to mention, I can't help it.
Ward worked mighty hard for those few animals, and saved and schemed,
and denied himself much pleasure. Therefore, he did as well as any man
under the circumstances could do and be honest.
He did not do so very well when it came to telling Billy Louise
something. Twice during his visit he had to admit to himself that the
play came right to tell her. And both times Ward shied like a horse in
the moonlight. For all that he sang about half the way home, the next
day, and for the rest of the way he built castles; which proves that
his visit had not been disappointing.
He rode out into the pasture where his cattle were grazing and sat
looking at them while he smoked a cigarette. And while he smoked, that
small herd grew and multiplied before the eyes of his imagination,
until he needed a full crew of riders to take care of them. He shipped
a trainload of beef to Chicago before he threw away the cigarette stub,
and he laughed to himself when he rode back to the log cabin in the
grove of quaking aspens.
"I'm getting my money's worth out of that bunch, just in the fun of
planning ahead," he realized, while he whittled shavings from the edge
of a cracker-box to start his supper fire. "A few cows and calves make
the best day-dream material I've struck yet; wish I had more of the
same. I'd make old Dame Fortune put a different brand on me, pronto.
She could spell it with an F, but it wouldn't be football. If the
cards fall right," he mused, when the fire was hot and crackling, and
he was slicing bacon with his pocket-knife, "I'll get the best of her
yet. And--" His coffee-pail boiled over and interrupted him. He
burned his fingers before he slid the pail to a cooler spot, and after
that he thought of the joys of having a certain gray-eyed girl for his
housekeeper, and for a time he forgot about his newly acquired herd.
And then his day-dreams received a severer jolt, and one more lasting.
He began to realize something that he had always known: that there is
something more to the cattle business than branding the calves and
selling the beef.
When the first calf went to dull the hunger of the wolves that howled
o'nights among the rocks and stunted pines on Bannock Butte, Ward swore
a good deal and resolved to ride with his rifle tied on the saddle
hereafter. Also, he went back immediately, got a little fat, blue
bottle of strychnine, and returned and "salted" the small remnant of
the carcass. It was no part of his dreams to have the profit chewed
off his little herd by wolves.
When the second calf was pulled down in spite of the mother's defense,
within half a mile of his cabin, Ward postponed a trip he had meant to
make to the Wolverine and went out on the trail of the wolves. In the
loose soil of the lower ridge he tracked them easily and rode at a
shuffling trot along the cow-trail they had followed, his eyes keen for
some further sign of them. He guessed that there would be at least one
den farther up in the gulch that opened out ahead, and if he could find
it and get the pups--well, the bounty on one litter would even his
loss, even if he were not lucky enough to get one of the old ones. He
had a shovel tied to the saddle under his left leg, to use in case he
found a den.
So, planning a crusade against these enemies to his enterprise, he
picked his way slowly up the side of the deep gully that had a little
stream wandering through rocks at the bottom. His eyes, that Billy
Louise had found so quick and keen, noted every little jutting shelf of
rock, every badger hole, every bush. It looked like a good place for
dens of wolf or coyote. And with the sun shining down warm on his
shoulders, and the meadow larks singing from swaying weeds, and rabbits
scuttling away through the rocks now and then, Ward began to forget the
ill-luck that had brought him out and to enjoy the hunt for its own
sake.
Farther along there were so many places that would bear investigation
that he left Rattler on a level spot, and with his rifle and
six-shooter, went forward on foot, climbing over ledges of rock,
forcing his way through green-budded, wild-rose bushes or sliding down
loose, gravelly slopes.
One place--a tiny cave under a huge bowlder--looked promising. There
were wolf tracks going in and out, plenty of them. But there were no
bones or offal anywhere around, and Ward decided that it was not a
family residence, but that the wolves had perhaps invaded the nest of
some other animal. He went on hopefully. That side of the gulch was
cobwebbed with tracks.
Then, quite accidentally, he glanced across to the far side, his eyes
attracted to something which had moved. He could see nothing at first,
though from the corner of his eye he had certainly caught a flicker of
movement over there. Yellow sand, gray rocks and bushes, and above a
curlew circling, with long beak outstretched before, and long, red legs
stretched out behind. He almost believed he had but caught the swift
passing of a cloud shadow over there and was on the point of climbing
farther up his own slope, to where a yawning hole in the hill showed
signs of being pawed and trampled. Then an outline slowly defined
itself among a jumble of rocks; head, sloping back, two points for
ears. It might be a rock, but it began to look more and more like a
wolf sitting up on its haunches watching him fixedly.
Even while Ward lifted his rifle and got the ivory bead snugly fitted
into the notch of the rear sight with his eye, he would not have bet
two-bits that he was aiming at an animal. He pulled the trigger with a
steady crooking of his forefinger and the whole gulch clamored with the
noise. The object over there leaped high, came down heavily, and
rolled ten feet down the hill to another level, where it bounded three
or four times convulsively, slid a few feet farther, and lay still
behind a bush.
"Got you that time, you old Turk, if you did nearly fool me playing you
were part of the scenery." Ward slid recklessly down to the bottom,
sought a narrow place, jumped the creek, and climbed exultantly to
where the wolf lay twisted on its back, its eyes half open and glazed,
its jaws parted in a sardonic grin. Ward grinned also as he looked at
it. He gave the carcass a poke with his boot-toe and glanced up the
hill toward the rocks.
"Maybe you were playing lookout for the bunch," he said, "and then
again, maybe you ain't hooked up with a family; though from the looks,
you ain't weaned your pups yet--till just now." Leaving the wolf where
she lay, he climbed to the rocks where he had first seen her. They lay
high piled, but he could see daylight through every open space and so
knew there was no den. The base rested solidly on the yellow earth.
Ward stood and looked at the slope below. To the right and half-way
down was a ten-foot ledge, and below that outcropped a steep bank of
earth. He could not see what lay immediately below, but while he was
still staring, a pointed, gray nose topped by pert, gray ears poked
cautiously over the bank, hovered there sniffing, and dropped back out
of sight.
"You little son-of-a-gun!" he exclaimed and dug in his heels on the
sharp descent. "I've got you right where I want you, now."
The den was tunneled into the earth just over another ledge, which
underlay the bank there, and gave a sheer drop of ten or fifteen feet
to the slope below, where a thick fringe of blossoming cherry bushes
grew close and hid the ledge so completely that the den had been
perfectly concealed from across the gulch. It was a case where the
shovel was needed. Ward "flagged" the den by throwing his coat down
before the opening and went back to where Rattler waited. He was
jubilant over his good luck. With an average litter of pups, and the
old wolf besides, the bounty would make those two calves the most
profitable animals in the bunch, reckoned on the basis of money
invested in them.
With the shovel he enlarged the tunnel, and between strokes he heard
the whimpering of the pups. The sound sobered his face to a pitying
determination. Poor little devils, it was not their fault that they
were born to be a menace rather than a help to mankind. He was sorry
for their terror, while he dug back to where they huddled against the
farthest wall of their nest. He worked fast that he might the sooner
end their discomfort, and his forehead was puckered into a frown at the
harsh law of life that it must preserve its existence at the expense of
some other life. Yet he dug back and back, burrowing into the bank
toward the whimpering. It was farther than he had thought, but the
soil was a loose sand and gravel, and he made good headway.
Then, laying down his shovel, he reached into a hysterical squirm of
soft hair and sharp little teeth that snapped at his gloved hand. One
by one he hauled them out, whining, biting, struggling like the little
savages they were. One by one he sent them into oblivion with a sharp
tap of the shovel. There were eight, just big enough to make little,
investigative trips outside the den when all was quiet. Ward was glad
he had found them and wiped them out of existence, but it had not been
pleasant work.
He wiped the perspiration off his face with his handkerchief, pushed
his hat to the back of his head, and sat down on the ledge beside the
pile of dirt he had thrown out. He felt the need of a smoke, after all
that exertion.
It was while he was smoking and resting that he first became conscious
of the pile of dirt as something more than the obstacle between himself
and the wolf-pups. He blew a little cloud of smoke from his mouth,
leaned and lifted a handful of sand, picked something out of it, and
looked at it intently. He said "Humph!" skeptically. Then he turned
his head and stared at the ledge above and to the right of him, twisted
half around and scanned the steep slope immediately above the earth
bank, and then looked at the gulch beneath him. He took his cigarette
from his lips, said, "Well, I'll be darned!" and put it back again.
With his forefinger he turned over a small, rusty lump the size of a
pea, wiped it upon his sleeve, and bent over it eagerly, holding it so
that the light struck it revealingly. His face glowed. Save the want
of tenderness in his eyes, he looked as though Billy Louise stood
before him; the same guarded gladness, the same intent eagerness.
Ward sprawled over that pile of gravel and sand and searched with his
fingers, as young girls search a thick bank of clover for the magic
four leaves. He found one other small lump that he kept, but beyond
that his search was barren of result. Still, that glow remained in his
face. Finally he roused himself as though he realized that he was
behaving foolishly. He made himself another cigarette and smoked it
fast, keeping pace with his shuttling thoughts. And by the time the
paper tube was burned down to an inch-long stub, he had won back his
manner of imperturbable calm; only his eyes betrayed a hidden
excitement.
"Looks like there's money in wolves," he said aloud and laughed a
little. "Old Lady Fortune, you want to watch out, or I'm liable to get
the best of you yet! Looks like I've got a hand to draw to, now.
Youp-_ee-ee_!" His forced imperturbability exploded in the yell, and
after that he moved briskly.
"I've got to play safe on this," he warned himself, while he scalped
the last of the pups. "No use getting rattled. If she's good as she
looks, she's fine. She'll help boost my little bunch of cattle, and
that's all I want. I ain't going to go hog-wild over it, like so many
do."
He went over and skinned the mother wolf, and with the pelts in a
strong-smelling bundle, returned to the sand pile and filled his
neckerchief as full as he could tie it. Then he went down into the
gulch, jumped the creek with his load--and got a foot wet where his
boot leaked along the sole--and climbed hurriedly up to where Rattler
waited and dozed in the sunshine, with the reins dropped to the ground.
Rattler objected to those fresh wolf-skins, and Ward lifted a
disciplinary boot-toe to his ribs. His mood did not accept patiently
any unnecessary delay in getting home, and he succeeded in making
Rattler aware of his mood. Rattler laid back his ears and took the
trail in long, rabbit-jumps for spite, risking his own and his master's
bones unchecked and unchided. The pace pleased Ward, and to the risk
he gave no thought. He was reconstructing his air-castles on broader
lines and smiling now and then to himself.