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[Illustration: SLOWLY HE WAS LET DOWN]
ROSS GRANT
TENDERFOOT
BY
JOHN GARLAND
AUTHOR OF
"Ross Grant, Gold Hunter"
"Ross Grant on the Trail"
Illustrated by R. L. Boyer
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
1917
COPYRIGHT 1915 BY
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
Ross Grant, Tenderfoot
To
Mr. and Mrs. C. H. Tewksbury
whose life in the Wyoming Mountains has
made Ross Grant, Tenderfoot, possible, I
cordially dedicate this book
INTRODUCTION
WHEN I went over the same route, some time before Ross Grant traveled it,
from Cody eighty miles into the snow-capped Shoshones, I found how
welcome a "Doc Tenderfoot" would be in the gold mining camp at the end
of the route. There was, in camp, the superintendent of one of the mining
companies, a man who had never had any instruction in things medical
or surgical, but who, with a steady hand and a cool head, and an acquired
knowledge of "first aids," was often called on in case of sickness and
accident, as there was no doctor nearer than Cody. Such a state of
affairs greeted Ross Grant when he arrived with his medical "emergency
chest" and his real knowledge of the use to which its contents should be
put.
Also, I found a certain "outfit" of men, not McKenzie in name but in
nature, waiting to "jump" certain valuable "claims" provided the owners
failed in any particular to measure up to the requirements of the law.
Their intention was to do the "jumping" legally and not through "gun
play," which is becoming an obsolete custom in that great state.
Then, too, I discovered over on a real Meadow Creek Valley--exactly
the same place that Ross found--a real "Dutch Weimer" afflicted with
snow-blindness, imprisoned for months at a time in the little valley
because of the danger from snowslides on the mountainsides.
And, by the way, if you should ever follow this same interesting
trail from Cody up into the mountains, you would find "Ross Grant,
Tenderfoot" an accurate guide-book until you reached the end of the
stage route. There you would find that Miners' Camp is a fictitious
name applied to a real place. And if you should chance to be in camp on
the Fourth of July, you would realize fully the difficulties that Ross
had to contend against in the vast snowfalls. For the year I visited
the mountains the glorious Fourth was celebrated by snow-shoe races down
the mountainsides! There are snow-storms every month in the year there,
but Miners' Camp is comparatively free from snow during August and
September.
These are the months, then, when gold hunters, "prospectors," are
most numerous in the mountains. I saw them everywhere with their "pack
outfits" bound on wooden saddles, seeking in the rocks for indications
of a fortune that is as elusive in their business as the proverbial
"pot of gold at the end of a rainbow."
But, although Ross Grant did not immediately find a fortune, he found
what is far more desirable, the development of muscle, quick wit and
nerve in the situations which he was obliged to face and conquer in these
adventure-breeding mountains.
"Ross Grant, Gold Hunter" tells of the hero's further adventures in the
mountains and of his hard won "find."
In "Ross Grant on the Trail" he meets many discouragements, but finally
conquers them.
John Garland.
Contents
I. A BORN SURGEON 13
II. A STEADY HAND 34
III. DOC TENDERFOOT IN ACTION 56
IV. THE FOURTH MAN 78
V. A MAN WHO NEEDED BRACING UP 98
VI. THE MEN OF MEADOW CREEK 121
VII. HALF-CONFIDENCES 140
VIII. ROSS'S "HIRED MAN" 159
IX. SURPRISES 176
X. A NEWCOMER ON MEADOW CREEK 197
XI. MEADOW CREEK VALLEY MISSES LESLIE 216
XII. A CALAMITY BEFALLS ROSS 236
XIII. THE SEARCH 258
XIV. A PERILOUS JOURNEY 277
XV. A NEW CAMP 297
XVI. THE INGRATITUDE OF WESTON 312
XVII. A RANDOM SHOT 330
XVIII. A HUMILIATING DISCOVERY 348
XIX. AN UNEXPECTED VICTORY 363
Illustrations
Page
SLOWLY HE WAS LET DOWN _Frontispiece_
MAP OF THE MEADOW CREEK TRAIL 59
"WHAT'S THE LATEST WORD?" 72
HE STRUCK THE TRAIL 134
BESIDE THE DYNAMITE BOX 203
THE SNOW HID IT FROM VIEW 309
MAP OF THE CROOKED TRAIL 359
"YOU'VE PAID FOR IT" 367
ROSS GRANT, TENDERFOOT
CHAPTER I
A BORN SURGEON
DR. FRED GRANT, recalled in haste from his daily round of professional
visits by a telephone message from his nephew, leaped out of his carriage
over the yet moving wheel, and, stuffing an open letter into his pocket,
rushed up the walk and into his office, which occupied a wing of his
commodious house.
A sight met his eyes which was not uncommon, situated as he was in the
midst of the coal fields of Wyoming Valley in Pennsylvania. Stretched
out on the leather couch lay a man from the mines, black and grimy, his
right arm crushed. Two other miners, also blackened with coal-dust, sat
on the edges of their chairs, their eyes following the movements of Ross
Grant, the doctor's nephew and self-constituted assistant.
Those movements had been rapid and effective. Again and again had this
seventeen-year-old boy been brought face to face with such cases as
this, and he handled it promptly and wordlessly. Words, indeed, would
have been wasted, as none of his callers spoke English. He had quieted
the sufferer with a hypodermic injection of morphine, stripped the
injured arm, cleansed it, and treated it with a temporary dressing.
Then, with the bandages firmly in place, he had gone to the telephone
and patiently called up house after house until he found his uncle.
When Dr. Grant entered the office, he found Ross calmly taking the
temperature of the wounded man.
"He must have met with the accident at least an hour before they got him
here," the boy explained, "for he was suffering awfully. I thought I
ought to fix him up before trying to find you."
His uncle nodded with satisfaction, and bent over the man. "All right,"
he commended briefly, but his tone said more. Words were not always
necessary to an understanding between uncle and nephew.
The younger man was an abridged edition of the older in form and feature.
In movements the two were alike only so long as Ross was aiding the
doctor on such an occasion as this. Then there were in both the same
alertness and quiet intentness, the same compression of the lips and
narrowing of the eyes. But when the strain of the hour was past and
the miners gone, the boy's manner changed. The alert quality which
characterized the uncle at all times seemed to desert the nephew, and
his movements became slow. From the born surgeon in embryo he became a
rather awkward, self-conscious boy.
Throwing himself into a chair behind the table, he drew toward him
Gray's "Anatomy," and began reading at a line marked by a paper-cutter,
his closely cropped head grasped in both hands.
The older man moved around the room restlessly, occasionally glancing
with troubled eyes at the figure behind the table. Standing finally in
front of the window, he drew the letter from his pocket, smoothed it out,
and read it again.
In front of him, in the valley, lay Pittston and Wilkes-Barre, with
Scranton in the distance, and beyond, the sun-burned hills, almost hidden
now by the smoke from a hundred coal-breakers, and by the late August
haze.
"Ross," began Dr. Grant abruptly, without turning, "I'm afraid you are
going to meet disappointment--to a certain extent. I have a letter from
your father."
The boy raised his head with a jerk. "Do you mean that he forbids----"
"No,"--the doctor turned slowly,--"not exactly. He expects to send for
you in a few days, and will tell you himself."
Ross's chin came up. "And I shall not be twenty-one for nearly four
years yet!" he exclaimed aggressively.
His uncle looked at him with more sternness than he felt. "Remember,
Ross, that he is your father and that you owe him----"
Ross interrupted hotly, looking longingly at the letter. "I don't owe
him as much as I do you and Aunt Anne."
Dr. Grant made no reply, nor did he share the letter. Putting it into
an inner pocket, he left the office, and presently Ross heard the sound
of wheels on the drive. Dr. Grant was starting again on his interrupted
round of calls.
The boy leaned back and drew a deep breath. His father was going to
send for him, and would then tell him--what? That he could not enter
a medical college? That he could not become a surgeon? That he must
fit himself for a business career? His chin came up again. He looked
around the office lingeringly. It had been the heart of his home for
seven years. It represented to him all that he wished to become. His
father was almost a stranger to him; his uncle had stood in the place
of a father since he, a sickly boy of ten, had been sent from the city
to gain health on the hills which girdle Wyoming Valley.
He had gained health. In so far he had fulfilled his father's wishes.
But, in addition, he had gained a knowledge and been settled in a desire
extremely displeasing to Ross Grant, Senior, who expected to train his
only son to continue his own business.
"Grant & Grant" was the father's ambition; "Dr. Grant" the son's.
Presently Dr. Grant's wife appeared in the doorway of the office. She
was a short, round woman, with a laughing face and a pretty, bustling
air of authority. Stopping abruptly, she shook a chubby forefinger at
Ross.
"All day to-day," she accused, "you have bent over that book."
Ross, his elbows planted on the table and his chin resting on his fists,
shook his head. He did not look up.
"I've been studying Gray on Anatomy, Aunt Anne. Got to master him."
Aunt Anne bobbed energetically across the room, and slammed the volume
shut. "There!" she cried triumphantly. "Get out and walk five miles, and
strengthen your own anatomy!"
Under her light tones and in the affectionate touch of her hand as she
ran her fingers through his hair, Ross detected an undercurrent of
solicitude, which brought forth a counter-accusation. Rising hastily, he
laid both hands on her shoulders, and looked down from an altitude of
five feet ten.
"Aunt Anne, you know what father wrote to uncle, don't you?"
Mrs. Grant's eyes fell. "Better take a good run over the mountain,
Ross," she parried.
Ross's hands slipped from her shoulders. "I see there's no use asking
either of you what he wrote."
Mrs. Grant flecked some dust from the table. "Sometimes, Ross," was her
only reply, "disappointment is the very best and most strengthening tonic
we can take."
She turned away, adding without glancing back as she left the room: "I
do wish, Ross, that you'd get out and exercise more. You would conquer
Gray's 'Anatomy'--and all other difficulties--more quickly if you
would."
"I guess you're right, Aunt Anne," assented Ross.
"Yes," scolded Aunt Anne to her sister in the living-room--but the
scolding rested on a very apparent foundation of love--"Ross always
agrees with me about taking vigorous exercise--and then never takes it.
Now watch him walk, will you?" she fretted, looking out of the window.
Her sister, busily sewing, paused with suspended needle, and glanced
out. Ross was going slowly down the drive, his head bent forward, his
youthful shoulders carelessly sagging, his long arms aimlessly hanging,
giving him a curiously helpless appearance at variance with his large
frame.
"It's Ross's own fault," declared Aunt Anne. "He doesn't like to exert
himself physically. Not that he's lazy," defensively, "for he isn't.
He would work all night over a patient, and never think of himself; but
to get out and exercise for the sake of exercising, and straightening
himself up, and holding himself, somehow--well, I've talked myself
hoarse about it, and then found that he had been reading some medical
book or other all the time I was talking!"
Here Aunt Anne laughed silently, and ran her shears through a length
of gingham, adding, as if the addition were a logical sequence to her
monologue:
"It's a mystery to me how his father can feel so disappointed in him."
"Disappointed in Ross?" exclaimed the sister in a tone of wonder.
Mrs. Grant nodded. "His father sends for him once a year, sees him for a
day or two when Ross is at the greatest disadvantage in unaccustomed
surroundings--you know the stepmother is a woman of fashion; and the
result is that he is so awkward and slow and tongue-tied that his
father--well," Mrs. Grant bit off her thread energetically, "of course,
we feel tender on the subject because we have had Ross now for seven
years, and we think a better boy never lived. But now the time has
come," her voice trembled, "when we must give him up."
"Will his father forbid his going to medical college?" asked the sister.
Mrs. Grant hesitated. "No, I don't think he will forbid it; but he will
prevent it--if he is able," she added significantly.
Two days later the summons from Ross Grant, Senior, arrived in the shape
of a telegram brief and to the point. "Take night-train," it read,
"September first. Reach office at nine."
"Ross," worried Aunt Anne as she straightened his tie and hovered around
him anxiously the afternoon of September first, "you'd better get a new
hat in Scranton. This one is--well, I think you better appear before Mrs.
Grant in a new one."
"All right, aunt."
Dr. Grant extended his hand, and gripped Ross's. "Remember, my boy, that
the telegram appointed nine A. M. as the time for your appearing."
Ross laughed. "Don't you worry, uncle," he returned confidently. "I
shall be at the office before father gets there."
But, despite his confidence, it was nearly ten the morning following
before he stepped out of the elevator of a Broadway office building and
presented himself hesitatingly before the clerk in his father's outer
office.
His hesitation was due to his appearance. His hat, new the afternoon
before, was soiled and pierced by the calk of a horse's shoe. His
shirtfront was also soiled and then smeared over by a wet cloth in a
vain effort to remove the dirt. His right coat-sleeve was wrinkled, and
bore marks of a recent wetting. About his clothes lingered a subtle
"horsy" odor, which caused the clerk to sniff involuntarily as he
curiously looked over the heir to the house of Grant before disappearing
into the inner office.
When he returned he bore the crisp message that Ross was to wait until
his father had time to see him.
Ross waited. He retreated to a window through which the sunshine
streamed, and there sat, industriously drying his wet sleeve. He pulled
it, and smoothed it, and stretched it, only to see it shrivel and shrink
while he waited. The clerk occasionally glanced with no abating of
curiosity from the boy to the clock. Two hours passed. Others waiting
in that outer office grew restless. They read. They took quick turns
about the room. They went out into the corridor, and returned. At
last, one by one, they were ushered into the inner office, while Ross
still waited.
It was past twelve before his father sent for him, and the first glance
the boy encountered was one of displeasure.
"Did you come in on the night-train?" was the elder Grant's greeting.
"Yes, sir."
The father frowned, and looked up at a clock which ticked above their
heads.
"I telegraphed you that I could see you at nine."
Ross sank into a great padded, leather-upholstered chair. All about him
were evidences of luxury, but he was conscious only of his father's
displeasure and of his own disreputable appearance. He studied his hands
awkwardly, and stumbled in his reply.
"I should have been here by nine, sir, but for an accident which occurred
on the ferry----"
"Accident?" His father's tone softened.
Ross looked at his coat-sleeve. "There was a fine horse, a big bay that
stood behind a truckster's cart. He took an apple. It lodged in his
throat, and he nearly choked to death." The boy hesitated and glanced
up. "I got it out," he explained simply, adding apologetically, "I got
awfully mussed up doing it, though."
"You!" Grant burst out, paying no attention to the apology. "You got it
out!" He leaned forward, genuinely interested. "How did you do it?"
Ross warmed under the interest in the tone. "I was standing in the
bow of the boat, just over the rail from the horse, and I saw what
the trouble was. There was no one else who seemed to know what to do."
He spoke modestly. "The horse would have died before we reached the
landing; and so," simply, "I ran my arm down his throat, and got the
apple."
"You did!" ejaculated Grant. He leaned further forward. "And what
prevented the horse from chewing up your arm while you were after the
apple?"
"A bootblack's brush," Ross explained. "A boy was rubbing up a man's
shoes near me; and I grabbed his brushes, and got busy. One of the deck
hands helped me prop the horse's mouth open. I threw off my coat"--here
Ross surveyed himself ruefully, and left the subject of the horse; "and I
got pretty dirty all over. Couldn't help it. There wasn't any time to
think of keeping clean. But after we got over on the New York side
the owner of the horse took me to a stable, and helped me to clean
up; but--I don't think it's much of a success."
Mr. Grant leaned back in his swivel chair, rested his elbows on the arms,
and fitted his finger-tips together. His imagination, country-trained
in his youth, was supplying some of the details which his son had
omitted. He nodded his iron-gray head, and narrowed his eyes, a trick
common to all the Grants when intent on any subject.
"Quick work," he remarked after a pause. His eyes were taking the measure
of his son. "It had to be quick work," he added as if to convince himself
that Ross could act swiftly.
"Where did you get breakfast?" was his next question.
"I haven't had any," Ross replied. "I tried to get here by nine
o'clock."
A low whistle escaped the father. He arose, and reached for his hat,
which lay on the top of a safe behind him. "We'll go out to lunch now."
Ross glanced doubtfully from his father's well-groomed person to his
own dirty coat.
"Perhaps, father, you'd like me to go out alone so long as----"
"Nonsense!" interrupted Grant brusquely.
As they left the room, he took his boy's arm. There was little
resemblance between the two. Ross had his uncle's head with its
high brow and well-shaped chin, lean cheeks, and prominent ears. He was
taller than his father, but wholly lacked his father's energetic
manner and erect carriage.
"You graduated in June from Wyoming Seminary," the father stated as they
entered a large Broadway restaurant and sat down near the door.
"Yes, sir."
"No honors?"
The boy's eyes fell. "No, sir. I stood tenth in a class of thirty-four."
Evasion of the truth was not one of Ross's strong points.
"And," stated his father, "it took you five years to do a four years'
course."
Ross looked his father squarely in the eyes, and lifted his chin a
little. The father noticed for the first time that the boy's chin could
indicate aggression.
"I flunked on mathematics. But I made them up the next summer, and went
on."
Again Grant looked at his son attentively, the son who retrieved his
failure and "went on."
"You're seventeen," he said abruptly. "What's next?" The question, as
both knew, was superfluous.
"Medical college," Ross answered as abruptly as the question had been
put. "I am preparing for the entrance examinations in the University of
Pennsylvania. I want to go down and take them in January, and at the same
time pass upon a couple of subjects in the freshman year."
There was a gleam of curiosity in Grant's deep-set eyes as he put the
next questions.
"Haven't I told you repeatedly that I shall never advance one penny on a
medical education for you?"
"Yes, sir." Ross's eyes met his father's steadily but respectfully.
"And I shall not ask you to advance a cent."
"But haven't I forbidden your uncle, also, to help you out?"
"Yes, sir, and Uncle Fred has no intention of helping me. He'll keep
the letter and the spirit of the law you have laid down."
"Well, then----"
Ross smiled quietly. "But you have never forbidden my getting a medical
education through my own efforts; and that, father, is what I intend to
do."
Ross Grant, Senior, found himself looking into eyes which he recognized
as strangely like his own and shining with the same determination which
in himself had established a thriving business and built up a moderate
fortune. Never had he been so interested in his son. Never had he so
coveted him for a business career. But, as he ate a moment in silence,
young Ross's determined voice seemed to be repeating in old Ross's
ears, "That, father, is what I intend to do."
During the remainder of the meal the elder Grant listened attentively
to the younger's plans. To Ross this was a new experience. After the
first irritation over his tardiness, his father had not once oppressed
him with that sense of disapproval and disappointment which usually sent
him back to his uncle with a buoyant relief at his escape from New York.
Still, he was not deceived. He knew that his father's summons had to do
with the thwarting of his surgical career; and he was prepared to argue,
persuade, do anything short of actual defiance, to gain permission to
work for the object toward which all his inclinations pulled.
As they made their way up Broadway through the noon-hour crowd, a
feminine voice behind them suddenly piped out excitedly:
"There he is, Kate, right ahead of you--that tall, round-shouldered young
man. He's the one I told you about on the ferry this morning. I tell you
what, he made all the men around step lively for a few minutes."
Ross suddenly quickened his pace. His face flushed uncomfortably, but
the voice of "Kate's" companion was still at his heels.
"Why, he grabbed them brushes and was over the rail as quick as a cat,
and had that horse's mouth open before its owner even knew that it was
chokin'----"
Ross, Senior, strode along behind Ross, Junior, now in a vain attempt
to keep up. He chuckled in a sly enjoyment of the boy's embarrassment.
"He certainly can move, I see," he muttered, "when he has something to
move toward--or away from!"
But the mutter was lost on Ross seeking an escape from that voice of
praise by dodging in and out among the crowd until his father lost sight
of him, and found him again only at the entrance to the office building.
When the two were again seated in the private office, the father for
the first time broached the matter which he had called the son from
Pennsylvania to hear; and, had he studied the boy for months, he could
not have overcome his opposition more tactfully and completely.
"Ross," he began quietly, "I am not going to forbid your going to a
medical college this year or any other year. To be honest with you, I
admire your grit. I believe it will bring you success. And so, as I say,
I am not going to forbid your entering the University of Pennsylvania.
But--I am going to ask a favor of you."
Ross's eyes sparkled. His father swung around, and, picking up a pencil,
marked aimlessly on a pad lying on the big mahogany desk.
"Well, father."
"I am going to ask you to help me pay a debt which I owe--and the payment
will certainly spoil this year so far as college is concerned."
Grant paused. He did not look up, but he heard Ross draw a deep breath.
Then there was silence.
"Keep in mind," Grant began again, "that I am not requiring this of
you--I am asking it."
"Yes--sir."
The tone gave the father the uncomfortable impression that he was
assisting at a surgical operation on his son, but he bent his head a
little lower over the pad, and traced figures more carefully as he
began abruptly on a seemingly new subject.
"Have I ever told you about my Western partner, Jake Weimer?"
"No, sir."
"Well, I started business in the West without a cent, and it was Weimer
who gave me my start. He was running a store in Butte, and took me with
him. I have managed to get beyond a start, but Weimer never has. After I
came East he lost his share of our earnings, and turned prospector. Ever
since he has spent his life trying to squeeze gold out of the mountains.
Again and again he has staked out claims, and I've grub-staked him to
the finish. For twenty-five years this has gone on. So far, none of
the properties have amounted to much; still, we hold them; there's
always a chance of a rise in value."
Grant drew straight, heavy lines on the pad as he told the story of
his grub-staked partner. He fell easily into the vernacular of the
gold-fields.
"Four years ago Weimer went prospecting among the Shoshones in Wyoming
over near Yellowstone Park. There he began development work on some
deserted claims, a few miles from Miners' Camp."
Here Grant pulled a letter from his pocket, and consulted it.
"The claims, it seems," he continued, "had been originally worked by two
men named Allen and Waymart McKenzie. They did the required work for
three years, and then threw up their job and left Wyoming. Now they're
back again, wishing, evidently, that they had never left."
Ross nodded. His eyes had not left his father's face.
"Weimer has felt from the first that he would make good on these claims.
He has sent me quartz from time to time, and I've had it assayed.
It carries moderately high values in gold, silver, and lead; but, as
the camp is eighty miles from a railroad, up among almost impassable
mountains, where it's impossible to get the quartz to a smelter, I
confess I have paid but little attention to Weimer's work. It has
seemed a waste of energy, despite his enthusiasm."
Grant suddenly threw himself back in his chair. His manner took on a
keener edge, and his tone became brisker.
"But this year things bid fair to change there because the Burlington
Railroad is surveying a line from Cody, and a boom is in prospect for
next summer. Our claims have suddenly acquired a new importance; they
promise to become valuable."
"Then," commented Ross in a low, constrained tone, "Weimer will get
beyond a 'start' at last."
Grant regarded his son keenly. He did not answer the comment directly.
"According to the law of Wyoming," he continued, "one hundred dollars'
worth of work a year for five years must be done on a claim, or five
hundred dollars' worth all together within five years, before the
tract can be patented, by which I mean before the owners can receive a
clear title to it. Now, Weimer has done four years' work all right;
but this year, the fifth and last in which he can hold the claims without
fulfilling the conditions of work to the full, he is failing because
of snow-blindness. It seems he had an attack last spring, and was obliged
to stay in his cabin for weeks at a time instead of working."
Ross cleared his throat. "And if he fails----"
"We lose the claims, and the McKenzies get them back." Grant again
consulted the letter. "Weimer got a man named Steele to write this--an
Amos Steele in Miners' Camp. He writes that the McKenzies are taking
advantage of some technicalities in the law. They have already filed
a claim on the tract based on their three years' former occupancy.
This will clear the way for them to take possession in case Weimer
fails with the work. Steele goes on to say that, if the claims are
saved, some one must come out and look after them--preferably some one
with a personal interest in the property."
Mr. Grant laid the letter down, adding slowly, "If you go, I shall give
you a substantial personal interest."
There ensued a pause. Ross sat motionless. His gaze had left his
father's face, and was fixed on the rug.
"Now, knowing," Grant continued, "that Weimer has set his heart on these
claims, I can't desert him. That work must be done and the claims
patented."
There was another pause. Grant looked at his son expectantly, but still
Ross neither moved nor spoke.
"Weimer is a good sort," Grant went on tentatively. "You'd like Weimer.
He's a big man and jolly in every pound of his avoirdupois. Great
story-teller--stories worth listening to, what's more. You wouldn't
be dull with him."
Grant leaned forward suddenly, and asked directly the question to which
his son felt there could be but one reply in view of his father's appeal.
"My boy, will you go?"