One day Wade remarked to Belllounds: "You can never tell what a dog is
until you know him. Dogs are like men. Some of 'em look good, but
they're really bad. An' that works the other way round. If a dog's born
to run wild an' be a sheep-killer, that's what he'll be. I've known dogs
that loved men as no humans could have loved them. It doesn't make any
difference to a dog if his master is a worthless scamp."
"Wal, I reckon most of them hounds I bought had no good masters, judgin'
from the way they act," replied the rancher.
"I'm developin' a first-rate pack," said Wade. "Jim hasn't any faults
exceptin' he doesn't bay enough. Sampson's not as true-nosed as Jim, but
he'll follow Jim, an' he has a deep, heavy bay you can hear for miles.
So that makes up for Jim's one fault. These two hounds hang together,
an' with them I'm developin' others. Denver will split off of bear or
lion tracks when he jumps a deer. I reckon he's not young enough to be
cured of that. Some of the younger hounds are comin' on fine. But
there's two dogs in the bunch that beat me all hollow."
"Which ones?" asked Belllounds.
"There's that bloodhound, Kane," replied the hunter. "He's sure a queer
dog. I can't win him. He minds me now because I licked him, an' once
good an' hard when he bit me.... But he doesn't cotton to me worth a
damn. He's gettin' fond of Miss Columbine, an' I believe might make a
good watch-dog for her. Where'd he come from, Belllounds?"
"Wal, if I don't disremember he was born in a prairie-schooner, comin'
across the plains. His mother was a full-blood, an' come from
Louisiana."
"That accounts for an instinct I see croppin' out in Kane," rejoined
Wade. "He likes to trail a man. I've caught him doin' it. An' he doesn't
take to huntin' lions or bear. Why, the other day, when the hounds treed
a lion an' went howlin' wild, Kane came up, an' he looked disgusted an'
went off by himself. He hunts by himself, anyhow. First off I thought he
might be a sheep-killer. But I reckon not. He can trail men, an' that's
about all the good he is. His mother must have been a slave-hunter, an'
Kane inherits that trailin' instinct."
"Ahuh! Wal, train him on trailin' men, then. I've seen times when a dog
like thet'd come handy. An' if he takes to Collie an' you approve of
him, let her have him. She's been coaxin' me fer a dog."
"That isn't a bad idea. Miss Collie walks an' rides alone a good deal,
an' she never packs a gun."
"Funny about thet," said Belllounds. "Collie is game in most ways, but
she'd never kill anythin'.... Wade, you ain't thinkin' she ought to stop
them lonesome walks an' rides?"
"No, sure not, so long as she doesn't go too far away."
"Ahuh! Wal, supposin' she rode up out of the valley, west on the Black
Range?"
"That won't do, Belllounds," replied Wade, seriously. "But Miss Collie's
not goin' to, for I've cautioned her. Fact is I've run across some
hard-lookin' men between here an' Buffalo Park. They're not hunters or
prospectors or cattlemen or travelers."
"Wal, you don't say!" rejoined Belllounds. "Now, Wade, are you
connectin' up them strangers with the stock I missed on this last
round-up?"
"Reckon I can't go as far as that," returned Wade. "But I didn't like
their looks."
"Thet comin' from you, Wade, is like the findin's of a jury.... It's
gettin' along toward October. Snow'll be flyin' soon. You don't reckon
them strangers will winter in the woods?"
"No, I don't. Neither does Lewis. You recollect him?"
"Yes, thet prospector who hangs out around Buffalo Park, lookin' fer
gold. He's been hyar. Good fellar, but crazy on gold."
"I've met Lewis several times, one place and another. I lost the hounds
day before yesterday. They treed a lion an' Lewis heard the racket, an'
he stayed with them till I come up. Then he told me some interestin'
news. You see he's been worryin' about this gang thet's rangin' around
Buffalo Park, an' he's tried to get a line on them. Somebody took a shot
at him in the woods. He couldn't swear it was one of that outfit, but he
could swear he wasn't near shot by accident. Now Lewis says these men
pack to an' fro from Elgeria, an' he has a hunch they're in cahoots with
Smith, who runs a place there. You know Smith?"
"No, I don't, an' haven't any wish to," declared Belllounds, shortly.
"He always looked shady to me. An' he's not been square with friends of
mine in Elgeria. But no one ever proved him crooked, whatever was
thought. Fer my part, I never missed a guess in my life. Men don't have
scars on their face like his fer nothin'."
"Boss, I'm confidin' what I want kept under your hat," said Wade,
quietly. "I knew Smith. He's as bad as the West makes them. I gave him
that scar.... An' when he sees me he's goin' for his gun."
"Wal, I'll be darned! Doesn't surprise me. It's a small world.... Wade,
I'll keep my mouth shut, sure. But what's your game?"
"Lewis an' I will find out if there is any connection between Smith an'
this gang of strangers--an' the occasional loss of a few head of stock."
"Ahuh! Wal, you have my good will, you bet.... Sure thar's been some
rustlin' of cattle. Not enough to make any rancher holler, an' I reckon
there never will be any more of thet in Colorado. Still, if we get the
drop on some outfit we sure ought to corral them."
"Boss, I'm tellin' you--"
"Wade, you ain't agoin' to start thet tellin' hell-bent happenin's to
come hyar at White Slides?" interrupted Belllounds, plaintively.
"No, I reckon I've no hunch like that now," responded Wade, seriously.
"But I was about to say that if Smith is in on any rustlin' of cattle
he'll be hard to catch, an' if he's caught there'll be shootin' to pay.
He's cunnin' an' has had long experience. It's not likely he'd work
openly, as he did years ago. If he's stealin' stock or buyin' an'
sellin' stock that some one steals for him, it's only on a small scale,
an' it'll be hard to trace."
"Wal, he might be deep," said Belllounds, reflectively. "But men like
thet, no matter how deep or cunnin' they are, always come to a bad end.
Jest works out natural.... Had you any grudge ag'in' Smith?"
"What I give him was for somebody else, an' was sure little enough. He's
got the grudge against me."
"Ahuh! Wal, then, don't you go huntin' fer trouble. Try an' make White
Slides one place thet'll disprove your name. All the same, don't shy at
sight of anythin' suspicious round the ranch."
The old man plodded thoughtfully away, leaving the hunter likewise in a
brown study.
"He's gettin' a hunch that I'll tell him of some shadow hoverin' black
over White Slides," soliloquized Wade. "Maybe--maybe so. But I don't see
any yet.... Strange how a man will say what he didn't start out to say.
Now, I started to tell him about that amazin' dog Fox."
Fox was the great dog of the whole pack, and he had been absolutely
overlooked, which fact Wade regarded with contempt for himself.
Discovery of this particular dog came about by accident. Somewhere in
the big corral there was a hole where the smaller dogs could escape, but
Wade had been unable to find it. For that matter the corral was full of
holes, not any of which, however, it appeared to Wade, would permit
anything except a squirrel to pass in and out.
One day when the hunter, very much exasperated, was prowling around and
around inside the corral, searching for this mysterious vent, a rather
small dog, with short gray and brown woolly hair, and shaggy brows half
hiding big, bright eyes, came up wagging his stump of a tail.
"Well, what do you know about it?" demanded Wade. Of course he had
noticed this particular dog, but to no purpose. On this occasion the dog
repeated so unmistakably former overtures of friendship that Wade gave
him close scrutiny. He was neither young nor comely nor thoroughbred,
but there was something in his intelligent eyes that struck the hunter
significantly. "Say, maybe I overlooked somethin'? But there's been a
heap of dogs round here an' you're no great shucks for looks. Now, if
you're talkin' to me come an' find that hole."
Whereupon Wade began another search around the corral. It covered nearly
an acre of ground, and in some places the fence-poles had been sunk near
rocks. More than once Wade got down upon his hands and knees to see if
he could find the hole. The dog went with him, watching with knowing
eyes that the hunter imagined actually laughed at him. But they were
glad eyes, which began to make an appeal. Presently, when Wade came to a
rough place, the dog slipped under a shelving rock, and thence through a
half-concealed hole in the fence; and immediately came back through to
wag his stump of a tail and look as if the finding of that hole was
easy enough.
"You old fox," declared Wade, very much pleased, as he patted the dog.
"You found it for me, didn't you? Good dog! Now I'll fix that hole, an'
then you can come to the cabin with me. An' your name's Fox."
That was how Fox introduced himself to Wade, and found his opportunity.
The fact that he was not a hound had operated against his being taken
out hunting, and therefore little or no attention had been paid him.
Very shortly Fox showed himself to be a dog of superior intelligence.
The hunter had lived much with dogs and had come to learn that the
longer he lived with them the more there was to marvel at and love.
Fox insisted so strongly on being taken out to hunt with the hounds that
Wade, vowing not to be surprised at anything, let him go. It happened to
be a particularly hard day on hounds because of old tracks and
cross-tracks and difficult ground. Fox worked out a labyrinthine trail
that Sampson gave up and Jim failed on. This delighted Wade, and that
night he tried to find out from Andrews, who sold the dog to Belllounds,
something about Fox. All the information obtainable was that Andrews
suspected the fellow from whom he had gotten Fox had stolen him.
Belllounds had never noticed him at all. Wade kept the possibilities of
Fox to himself and reserved his judgment, and every day gave the dog
another chance to show what he knew.
[Illustration: "I'm beginnin' to feel that I couldn't let her marry that
Buster Jack," soliloquized Wade, as he rode along the grassy trail.]
Long before the end of that week Wade loved Fox and decided that he was
a wonderful animal. Fox liked to hunt, but it did not matter what he
hunted. That depended upon the pleasure of his master. He would find
hobbled horses that were hiding out and standing still to escape
detection. He would trail cattle. He would tree squirrels and point
grouse. Invariably he suited his mood to the kind of game he hunted. If
put on an elk track, or that of deer, he would follow it, keeping well
within sight of the hunter, and never uttering a single bark or yelp;
and without any particular eagerness he would stick until he had found
the game or until he was called off. Bear and cat tracks, however,
roused the savage instinct in him, and transformed him. He yelped at
every jump on a trail, and whenever his yelp became piercing and
continuous Wade well knew the quarry was in sight. He fought bear like a
wise old dog that knew when to rush in with a snap and when to keep
away. When lions or wildcats were treed Fox lost much of his ferocity
and interest. Then the matter of that particular quarry was ended. His
most valuable characteristic, however, was his ability to stick on the
track upon which he was put. Wade believed if he put Fox on the trail of
a rabbit, and if a bear or lion were to cross that trail ahead of him,
Fox would stick to the rabbit. Even more remarkable was it that Fox
would not steal a piece of meat and that he would fight the other dogs
for being thieves.
Fox and Kane, it seemed to the hunter in his reflective foreshadowing
of events at White Slides, were destined to play most important parts.
* * * * *
Upon a certain morning, several days before October first--which date
rankled in the mind of Wade--he left Moore's cabin, leading a
pack-horse. The hounds he had left behind at the ranch, but Fox
accompanied him.
"Wade, I want some elk steak," old Belllounds had said the day before.
"Nothin' like a good rump steak! I was raised on elk meat. Now hyar,
more'n a week ago I told you I wanted some. There's elk all around. I
heerd a bull whistle at sunup to-day. Made me wish I was young ag'in!...
You go pack in an elk."
"I haven't run across any bulls lately," Wade had replied, but he did
not mention that he had avoided such a circumstance. The fact was Wade
admired and loved the elk above all horned wild animals. So strange was
his attitude toward elk that he had gone meat-hungry many a time with
these great stags bugling near his camp.
As he climbed the yellow, grassy mountain-side, working round above the
valley, his mind was not centered on the task at hand, but on Wilson
Moore, who had come to rely on him with the unconscious tenacity of a
son whose faith in his father was unshakable. The crippled cowboy kept
his hope, kept his cheerful, grateful spirit, obeyed and suffered with a
patience that was fine. There had been no improvement in his injured
foot. Wade worried about that much more than Moore. The thing that
mostly occupied the cowboy was the near approach of October first, with
its terrible possibility for him. He did not talk about it, except when
fever made him irrational, but it was plain to Wade how he prayed and
hoped and waited in silence. Strange how he trusted Wade to avert
catastrophe of Columbine's marriage! Yet such trust seemed familiar to
Wade, as he reflected over past years. Had he not wanted such trust--had
he not invited it?
For twenty years no happiness had come to Wade in any sense comparable
to that now secretly his, as he lived near Columbine Belllounds,
divining more and more each day how truly she was his own flesh and the
image of the girl he had loved and married and wronged. Columbine was
his daughter. He saw himself in her. And Columbine, from being strongly
attracted to him and trusting in him and relying upon him, had come to
love him. That was the most beautiful and terrible fact of his
life--beautiful because it brought back the past, her babyhood, and his
barren years, and gave him this sudden change, where he lived
transported with the sense and the joy of his possession. It was
terrible because she was unhappy, because she was chained to duty and
honor, because ruin faced her, and lastly because Wade began to have the
vague, gloomy intimations of distant tragedy. Far off, like a cloud on
the horizon, but there! Long ago he had learned the uselessness of
fighting his morbid visitations. But he clung to hope, to faith in life,
to the victory of the virtuous, to the defeat of evil. A thousand proofs
had strengthened him in that clinging.
There were personal dread and poignant pain for Wade in Columbine
Belllounds's situation. After all, he had only his subtle and intuitive
assurance that matters would turn out well for her in the end. To trust
that now, when the shadow began to creep over his own daughter, seemed
unwise--a juggling with chance.
"I'm beginnin' to feel that I couldn't let her marry that Buster Jack,"
soliloquized Wade, as he rode along the grassy trail. "Fust off, seein'
how strong was her sense of duty an' loyalty, I wasn't so set against
it. But somethin's growin' in me. Her love for that crippled boy, now,
an' his for her! Lord! they're so young an' life must be so hot an' love
so sweet! I reckon that's why I couldn't let her marry Jack.... But, on
the other hand, there's the old man's faith in his son, an' there's
Collie's faith in herself an' in life. Now I believe in that. An' the
years have proved to me there's hope for the worst of men.... I haven't
even had a talk with this Buster Jack. I don't know him, except by
hearsay. An' I'm sure prejudiced, which's no wonder, considerin' where I
saw him in Denver.... I reckon, before I go any farther, I'd better meet
this Belllounds boy an' see what's in him."
* * * * *
It was characteristic of Wade that this soliloquy abruptly ended his
thoughtful considerations for the time being. This was owing to the fact
that he rested upon a decision, and also because it was time he began to
attend to the object of his climb.
Bench after bench he had ascended, and the higher he got the denser and
more numerous became the aspen thickets and the more luxuriant the
grass. Presently the long black slope of spruce confronted him, with its
edge like a dark wall. He entered the fragrant forest, where not a twig
stirred nor a sound pervaded the silence. Upon the soft, matted earth
the hoofs of the horses made no impression and scarcely a
perceptible thud.
Wade headed to the left, avoiding rough, rocky defiles of weathered
cliff and wind-fallen trees, and aimed to find easy going up to the
summit of the mountain bluff far above. This was new forest to him,
consisting of moderate-sized spruce-trees growing so closely together
that he had to go carefully to keep from snapping dead twigs. Fox
trotted on in the lead, now and then pausing to look up at his master,
as if for instructions.
A brightening of the dark-green gloom ahead showed the hunter that he
was approaching a large glade or open patch, where the sunlight fell
strongly. It turned out to be a swale, or swampy place, some few acres
in extent, and directly at the foot of a last steep, wooded slope. Here
Fox put his nose into the air and halted.
"What're you scentin', Fox, old boy?" asked Wade, with low voice, as he
peered ahead. The wind was in the wrong direction for him to approach
close to game without being detected. Fox wagged his stumpy tail and
looked up with knowing eyes. Wade proceeded cautiously. The swamp was a
rank growth of long, weedy grasses and ferns, with here and there a
green-mossed bog half hidden and a number of dwarf oak-trees. Wade's
horse sank up to his knees in the mire. On the other side showed fresh
tracks along the wet margin of the swale.
"It's elk, all right," said Wade, as he dismounted. "Heard us comin'.
Now, Fox, stick your nose in that track. An' go slow."
With rifle ready Wade began the ascent of the slope on foot, leading his
horse. An old elk trail showed a fresh track. Fox accommodated his pace
to that of the toiling hunter. The ascent was steep and led up through
dense forest. At intervals, when Wade halted to catch his breath and
listen, he heard faint snapping of dead branches far above. At length he
reached the top of the mountain, to find a wide, open space, with heavy
forest in front, and a bare, ghastly, burned-over district to his right.
Fox growled, and appeared about to dash forward. Then, in an opening
through the forest, Wade espied a large bull elk, standing at gaze,
evidently watching him. He was a gray old bull, with broken antlers.
Wade made no move to shoot, and presently the elk walked out of sight.
"Too old an' tough, Fox," explained the hunter to the anxious dog. But
perhaps that was not all Wade's motive in sparing him.
Once more mounted, Wade turned his attention to the burned district. It
was a dreary, hideous splotch, a blackened slash in the green cover of
the mountain. It sloped down into a wide hollow and up another bare
slope. The ground was littered with bleached logs, trees that had been
killed first by fire and then felled by wind. Here and there a lofty,
spectral trunk still withstood the blasts. Across the hollow sloped a
considerable area where all trees were dead and still standing--a
melancholy sight. Beyond, and far round and down to the left, opened up
a slope of spruce and bare ridge, where a few cedars showed dark, and
then came black, spear-tipped forest again, leading the eye to the
magnificent panorama of endless range on range, purple in the distance.
Wade found patches of grass where beds had been recently occupied.
"Mountain-sheep, by cracky!" exclaimed the hunter. "An' fresh tracks,
too!... Now I wonder if it wouldn't do to kill a sheep an' tell
Belllounds I couldn't find any elk."
The hunter had no qualms about killing mountain-sheep, but he loved the
lordly stags and would have lied to spare them. He rode on, with keen
gaze shifting everywhere to catch a movement of something in this
wilderness before him. If there was any living animal in sight it did
not move. Wade crossed the hollow, wended a circuitous route through the
upstanding forest of dead timber, and entered a thick woods that skirted
the rim of the mountain. Presently he came out upon the open rim, from
which the depths of green and gray yawned mightily. Far across, Old
White Slides loomed up, higher now, with a dignity and majesty
unheralded from below.
Wade found fresh sheep tracks in the yellow clay of the rim, small as
little deer tracks, showing that they had just been made by ewes and
lambs. Not a ram track in the group!
"Well, that lets me out," said Wade, as he peered under the bluff for
sight of the sheep. They had gone over the steep rim as if they had
wings. "Beats hell how sheep can go down without fallin'! An' how they
can hide!"
He knew they were near at hand and he wasted time peering to spy them
out. Nevertheless, he could not locate them. Fox waited impatiently for
the word to let him prove how easily he could rout them out, but this
permission was not forthcoming.
"We're huntin' elk, you Jack-of-all-dogs," reprovingly spoke the hunter
to Fox.
So they went on around the rim, and after a couple of miles of travel
came to the forest, and then open heads of hollows that widened and
deepened down. Here was excellent pasture and cover for elk. Wade left
the rim to ride down these slow-descending half-open ridges, where
cedars grew and jack-pines stood in clumps, and little grassy-bordered
brooks babbled between. He saw tracks where a big buck deer had crossed
ahead of him, and then he flushed a covey of grouse that scared the
horses, and then he saw where a bear had pulled a rotten log to pieces.
Fox did not show any interest in these things.
By and by Wade descended to the junction of these hollows, where three
tiny brooklets united to form a stream of pure, swift, clear water,
perhaps a foot deep and several yards wide.
"I reckon this's the head of the Troublesome," said Wade. "Whoever named
this brook had no sense.... Yet here, at its source, it's gatherin'
trouble for itself. That's the way of youth."
The grass grew thickly and luxuriantly and showed signs of recent
grazing. Elk had been along the brook that morning. There were many
tracks, like cow tracks, only smaller, deeper, and more oval; and there
were beds where elk had lain, and torn-up places where bulls had plowed
and stamped with heavy hoofs.
Fox trailed the herd to higher ground, where evidently they had entered
the woods. Here Wade tied his horses, and, whispering to Fox, he
proceeded stealthily through this strip of spruce. He came out to an
open point, taking care, however, to keep well screened, from which he
had a glimpse of a parklike hollow, grassy and watered. Working round to
better vantage, he soon espied what had made Fox stand so stiff and
bristling. A herd of elk were trooping up the opposite slope, scarcely a
hundred yards distant. They had heard or scented him, but did not appear
alarmed. They halted to look back. The hunter's quick estimate credited
nearly two dozen to the herd, mostly cows. A magnificent bull, with
wide-spreading antlers, and black head and shoulders and gray hind
quarters, stalked out from the herd, and stood an instant, head aloft,
splendidly significant of the wild. Then he trotted into the woods, his
antlers noiselessly spreading the green. Others trotted off likewise.
Wade raised his rifle and looked through the sight at the bull, and let
him pass. Then he saw another over his rifle, and another. Reluctant and
forced, he at last aimed and pulled trigger. The heavy Henry boomed out
in the stillness. Fox dashed down with eager barks. When the smoke
cleared away Wade saw the opposite slope bare except for one fallen elk.
Then he returned to his horses, and brought them back to where Fox
perched beside the dead quarry.
"Well, Fox, that stag'll never bugle any more of a sunrise," said Wade.
"Strange how we're made so we have to eat meat! I'd 'a' liked it
otherwise."
He cut up the elk, and packed all the meat the horse could carry, and
hung the best of what was left out of the reach of coyotes. Mounting
once more, he ascended to the rim and found a slope leading down to the
west. Over the basin country below he had hunted several days. This way
back to the ranch was longer, he calculated, but less arduous for man
and beast. His pack-horse would have hard enough going in any event.
From time to time Wade halted to rest the burdened pack-animal. At
length he came to a trail he had himself made, which he now proceeded to
follow. It led out of the basin, through burned and boggy ground and
down upon the forest slope, thence to the grassy and aspened uplands.
One aspen grove, where he had rested before, faced the west, and, for
reasons hard to guess, had suffered little from frost. All the leaves
were intact, some still green, but most of them a glorious gold against
the blue. It was a large grove, sloping gently, carpeted with yellow
grass and such a profusion of purple asters as Wade had never seen in
his flower-loving life. Here he dismounted and sat against an
aspen-tree. His horses ruthlessly cropped the purple blossoms.
Nature in her strong prodigality had outdone herself here. Pale white
the aspen-trees shone, and above was the fluttering, quivering canopy of
gold tinged with green, and below clustered the asters, thick as stars
in the sky, waving, nodding, swaying gracefully to each little autumn
breeze, lilac-hued and lavender and pale violet, and all the shades of
exquisite purple.
Wade lingered, his senses predominating. This was one of those moments
that colored his lonely wanderings. Only to see was enough. He would
have shut out the encroaching thoughts of self, of others, of life, had
that been wholly possible. But here, after the first few moments of
exquisite riot of his senses, where fragrance of grass and blossom
filled the air, and blaze of gold canopied the purple, he began to think
how beautiful the earth was, how Nature hid her rarest gifts for those
who loved her most, how good it was to live, if only for these
blessings. And sadness crept into his meditations because all this
beauty was ephemeral, all the gold would soon be gone, and the asters,
so pale and pure and purple, would soon be like the glory of a dream
that had passed.
Yet still followed the saving thought that frost and winter must again
yield to sun, and spring, summer, autumn would return with the flowers
of their season, in that perennial birth so gracious and promising. The
aspen leaves would quiver and slowly gild, the grass would wave in the
wind, the asters would bloom, lifting star-pale faces to the sky. Next
autumn, and every year, and forever, as long as the sun warmed
the earth!
It was only man who would not always return to the haunts he loved.