DOC TENDERFOOT IN ACTION
BESIDES Steele, there were three other passengers inside the stage
that night. One was the assistant manager of the Embar Ranch, south of
Meeteetse. He had been to Omaha with a car-load of cattle. The remaining
two were miners whom Steele had picked up in Butte. This much Ross
learned from the driver. He learned many other things by listening to
the conversation between Hillis, the manager, and Steele, although
all the while he was keenly observant of his surroundings.
The stage was bowling along smoothly over a road as level as a floor and
flooded by brilliant moonlight. Behind them Cody faded into silvery
mist, guarded by the huge shadowy bulks of the Big Horn Mountains. Ahead,
houseless and treeless, stretched the shelf until the shimmering mist
cut off the sight. And in the distance, so far ahead that sometimes he
blended with the mist, rode the horseman in the sheepskin coat.
"Hi, there, Andy," called the ranch-manager; "who is that fellow ahead?"
Andy, the driver, turned, and looked down through the open flap into the
cavernous darkness of the stage. "Don't know. Didn't find out. I have
seen fellers, though, that can give more information about themselves
per square inch than that same chap ahead there."
"I never saw 'im in these parts before," returned Hillis.
"Nor I." The driver spat over the flank of the right wheeler. "Gid'ep
there, Suke, ye slowmy, you! Hike it, old Blue! Git out of this!" And,
having thus jogged the energy of the leaders, Andy gave his attention
again to Hillis. "Hain't ever set eyes on that brown chap before. I
guessed back there he was bound fer Embar. Looks like a puncher."
"I wish"--the assistant manager of the Embar spoke forcefully--"that he
and seven or eight more were bound for the Embar."
"Short of hands, eh?" questioned Andy, whirling his "black snake" so
skilfully that the lash missed the heads of the wheelers, and touched the
flank of the nigh leader.
"Short of hands?" Steele broke in. "Who isn't short of hands from Butte
to Omaha--especially in Wyoming? I've been out two weeks advertising
and hunting men, and here I am back again with two only."
Ross turned half around in his high seat, and grasped the low back. "Is
labor as scarce as that in Miners' Camp?" he burst out in a brusque,
astonished tone which betrayed a personal interest.
"As scarce as diamonds," returned Steele, adding with a laugh, "and
almost as expensive."
Andy pushed back his hat, and surveyed his young companion with
curiosity. There was a little stir in the coach also.
"It must be"--Amos Steele spoke as if the matter had been debated
before--"that you are related to Ross Grant of New York."
"Yes," returned Ross, "I am his son."
He was conscious of becoming an immediate centre of speculation.
"I wondered," remarked Steele, "when I saw your name on the hotel
register. Going out to Camp, are you?"
"Yes," Ross hesitated. "In answer to that letter you wrote father for
Mr. Weimer."
"Oh!" Steele's tone was edged with astonishment.
"Come out to see to the work, did ye?" asked Andy.
"Yes."
Andy glanced sidewise, and Ross caught the look of incredulity.
[Illustration: "Regular Trail from Miner's Camp to Weimer's, Etc."]
"Expected to hire men to do it, did ye?" That Andy was a general
information bureau was due to his faculty for asking questions.
"Yes, I do," emphatically.
The present tense of the reply did not escape the listener's attention.
"Weimer has tried to hire," volunteered Steele; "but it's no use."
"Why not?" demanded the boy.
"Well, in the first place, as I said, there hain't enough men to supply
the demand; and, in the second place, no man in his senses is going away
over on the Creek, where he'll be shut in for months, when he can just
as well stay down in Camp, and get the same wages."
"Shut in for months?" repeated Ross slowly.
Andy explained. "Along about first of February ye're shut in fer
sartain. Trail fills up, and there's apt to be snowslides any time on
old Crosby."
Ross sat with widening eyes staring out into the moonlight, and wondering
with tightening muscles what he was "up against." The vagueness of his
father's knowledge concerning Weimer's work had not counted in New
York. But here, swinging along toward Miners' Camp with two-thirds
of the width of the continent between himself and his friends, Ross
realized that this vagueness had put him at a disadvantage.
The two men behind him began discussing the cattle market, and the
stage slid down the side of the first mesa of the Wyoming bad lands
and into the coulee, or dry creek, at the bottom. The level road was
left behind. Up hill and down plunged the horses ahead of the rocking,
tipping stage. There was no regular road. A dozen tracks showed the
differing routes of as many drivers. To Ross it seemed as if destruction
were imminent every time they came to the top of one of the short,
steep hills. But Andy jammed on the brake hard, and, giving a peculiar
little whistle, yelled carelessly, "Git out of this."
Presently Andy took advantage of the rattle of wheels and hoofs to say
to Ross: "Steele is boss of the Gale's Ridge work up to Camp. They keep
open all winter; t'other company shuts down."
"Shuts down?" repeated Ross.
"Yep, has to. Men go down t' Cody t' work on the Project. Hard work to
keep men in Camp through the winter. When the railroad goes up there,
'twill be different."
Some one inside the stage struck a match.
"On time, ain't you, Andy?" asked Steele's voice; "it's twelve-thirty."
"Yep," returned the driver. "Here's Dry Creek."
The road, a well-defined track here, was hemmed in between a creek-bed
on one hand and a hill on the other. On top of the hill, silhouetted
against the star-studded sky, appeared a wagon with a white bellying
canvas top. Around it, covering the hilltop and the side clear down
to the track was a soft white moving mass that caused Ross to give a
startled exclamation.
"Why--that looks like--it _is_ sheep!" he ejaculated. "Sheep by the
hundreds."
"Sheep's the word!" returned the driver. "This is Sheepy's layout.
That's his wagon up yon. He herds fer parties in Cody. There's nigh
seven hundred of them sheep. Never seen such a flock before, did ye?"
Before Ross could reply, the stage swung around a corner of the hill
and Andy, with a sharp whistle, drew up the leaders abruptly. They were
in an open space in front of the stage camp, half cabin and half dugout
driven into the hillside. Beside the dugout was a low, stout corral,
outside of which were a haystack and a jumble of bales of hay. As the
stage stopped, the door of the dugout opened, and a man loomed large
against a dim light within.
But all this Ross did not notice at the time. His attention was riveted
on the horse just ahead ridden by the stranger. Around and around it
whirled, unmindful of the quirt and spur of the rider.
"Pretty ridin'," remarked Andy, spitting appreciatively over the wheel.
The men inside the stage clambered out with grunts at their stiffened
limbs, and leaned against the wheels watching. The man in the doorway
stepped out, and thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked calmly
while the horse placed its four feet together and humped its back with a
momentum which sent the rider high in the air.
When he came down, he settled himself in the saddle, drew up on the
reins, and dug his spurs into the horse's flank. The animal, his
nostrils distended and the foam flying from his mouth, without any
warning rose on his hind legs, and threw himself backward. The rider
freed one foot from the stirrup; but the other caught, and horse and
rider went down in a heap. There was a deep groan from both, and then
silence. If the men had seemed indifferent before, they made up in
activity now. With a flying leap Andy was down from his high seat. The
stage-camp man rushed forward, and threw himself on the horse's head,
while the others pulled the unconscious rider from beneath the animal's
body.
"Leg's done for," Ross heard Steele say as they carried the wounded man
into the dugout.
Ross clambered awkwardly down from his seat, and followed. He nearly fell
over an empty chicken-coop and into the one little room of the dugout.
"Put 'im here," directed the stage-camp man, whom the others called
Hank. He pointed to the blankets in the corner from which he had crawled
ten minutes before.
"Here, boy," Steele said with pale-faced absorption, "smooth the blankets
up."
Ross, half dazed by his strange and unexpected surroundings, slowly and
clumsily did as he was directed, and they laid the unconscious stranger
down carefully, his left leg hanging limply from a point half-way
between knee and hip. Then the men straightened up, and looked at one
another.
"A bad job," muttered Hank.
"Take 'im back to Cody?" asked Steele.
Hillis shook his head. "Doctor there went to Thermopolis this morning."
Suddenly the daze which had beclouded Ross's brain cleared away. He woke
up, and his whole attention focused itself on the prostrate man. In a
moment he became alert, resourceful, and active. His boyish hesitation
fell from him. He threw off his top-coat, tossed his cap with it to the
uncovered board table, and, kneeling by the man's side, laid his ear
on the heart.
"Go out," he said authoritatively to the astonished men, "and bring in my
smallest trunk. Hurry, for this chap will be conscious in just a moment."
No one stirred.
Whipping out his jack-knife, Ross cut a strap which secured the chaps,
and caught one leg at the ankle. "Help me pull 'em off," he cried
urgently.
Some one stooped to the other foot, and the chaps were off. Kneeling
beside the wounded leg, with his knife, Ross ripped the trousers from
ankle to thigh, and exposed a bloody wound.
"Compound fracture," he exclaimed after a brief examination.
Then he looked up. "Where's that chest?" he demanded. "I must cleanse
this and bandage it at once."
The cock-sureness of the boy's tone and the sight of the skilful touch
of his fingers on the wound galvanized the two miners into action, and
in a moment the emergency chest was beside Ross.
"Hot water," was his next command, as he fumbled with the key, "and a
small dish"--his eye fell on the table--"that salt cellar, with every
grain of salt washed out. Quick!"
The wounded man had recovered consciousness now, and was groaning, and
clinching his fists, and rolling his head from side to side in agony.
"Are you a doctor?" asked Steele incredulously.
"My uncle is," Ross returned briefly, "and I'm going to be."
The answer, coupled with a view of the contents of the chest and Ross's
manipulation of those contents, brought relief to the men.
He had produced a hypodermic syringe, and with a tiny morphine tablet
dissolved in the salt cellar he began operations which lasted the greater
part of two hours, and employed every man present.
"Bring in that hen-coop," directed Ross; "we can use that for a double
inclined plane to stretch the leg over."
Steele, who had so recently issued orders to a slow and clumsy boy, now
quietly obeyed this embryo surgeon. Hillis was holding bandages, while
Hank and Andy were doing something which filled their souls with wonder,
namely, making long, narrow bags from grain sacks out of which wheat
had been hastily dumped.
"By the great horn spoon, what're these fer?" Andy demanded in an
undertone, running the big needle deep into his thumb. "Jehoshaphat!"
Hank shook his head helplessly. He plumped a stick of wood into his rusty
old stove, and refilled a kettle from a water pail which stood on a box.
Steele dragged in the triangular chicken-coop, and laid it beside the
wounded man, who was moaning mechanically and drowsily now.
Ross arose, and set a bottle of alcohol on the table. He looked
critically at the coop. "The very thing," he muttered with eyes alight.
"How fortunate that I fell over it coming in!" Then he paused in thought.
Miners' Camp and Meadow Creek were forgotten. Forgotten were Weimer and
the neglected work. A "case" lay before him, a man needing the help that
it was life for the boy to give.
When, at last, the belated stage was ready to move on, the men, again
in their overcoats, lined up and looked down at the sleeping patient. He
lay with the knee of the wounded leg over the peak of the chicken-coop,
padded thick and soft with blankets, the leg held secure and motionless
between heavy sand-bags. Down the leg from knee to foot on either side
ran strips of adhesive plaster with loops protruding below the foot. And
attached to the loops was a small bag loaded with stone.
"To reduce the fracture," Ross explained briefly. He was on his knees,
measuring the well leg with a tape measure from the haircloth trunk.
"See, this leg is longer now because the broken parts of the thigh bone
in the other have been driven past each other, and the muscles have
contracted, shortening the leg. The weight on the foot will stretch
the muscles and allow the ends of the bone to meet again."
"Jehoshaphat!" exclaimed Andy softly. "He's lucky to have you come
trailin' down the pike just behind 'im. But see here, fellers," the
driver turned to the others; "yer Uncle Samuel will dock me this time
sure, fer the mail won't reach Meeteetse in time fer the stage up to
Miners' Camp!"
"Miners' Camp!"
The exclamation burst involuntarily from Ross. He arose. The tape measure
dropped from his hands. He drew his hand across his wet forehead. He had
seen the stage load prepare to go on without a thought that he ought
to go also. His one idea had been the care of the nameless man on the
blankets.
"Miners' Camp," he repeated; "why, I ought to go on!"
"Not much," cried Hank in lively alarm. "What 'ud I do with him and all
that toggery?" jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the chicken-coop.
"Of course," was Ross's decision in a low tone, "I can't desert
him--but I ought to go on."
A few moments later, Andy's four bronchos pounded up the hill beyond
the stage camp and disappeared, leaving Ross standing beside the window
watching. The man on the blankets breathed heavily. A big yellow cat
purred around Ross's legs. Hank poked the fire.
"Guess I'll rustle some grub now," the latter said in awkward
solicitude. "Ye're all in, ain't ye, Doc?"
Ross turned from the window wearily without replying, and for the first
time looked about the cabin.
It was roughly boarded, with a hard dirt floor. In addition to the
bench, the only seats were boxes in which "canned goods" had been stored
away. A pile of wood lay behind an old stove propped up on boxes in
lieu of legs. A cupboard containing some tin cups and thick plates, a
few pans and skillets, and a shelf heaped with magazines half a year
old completed the furnishings of the room.
Suddenly Ross's eyes lighted on the wounded man's sheepskin coat, which
had been cast hurriedly aside on the floor. Lifting it, he stepped to
the door, and commenced to shake it energetically. Out of the breast
pocket fell a small object. It hit the stone in front of the door
with a metallic ring. Ross picked it up, and looked down into the
photographed face of a winning girl with smiling eyes, curved lips, and
plump cheeks. The picture was a little oval set in a gilt frame. On the
back in a girlish hand was written the inscription, "To Lon Weston."
"Weston, huh?" came Hank's voice at Ross's elbow. "I never heard of Lon
Weston before. Wonder where he hails from."
Hank glanced speculatively at the sleeper, then took a deep earthenware
dish from the cupboard, beat its contents with a spoon, greased a
skillet, and set it on the fire.
"Men fergot t' eat," he grumbled, "'n' fergot t' feed the horses.
They fergot everything except him. They'll be one hungry lot when they
land in Meeteetse."
He raised the smoking skillet, and gave a deft toss, which sent the
flapjack spinning into the air, turned it over, and settled it back with
the baked side uppermost.
"Nice-looking girl that!" he muttered absently, immediately adding, "Here
ye are--flapjacks 'n' coffee!"
Late in the afternoon the injured man aroused himself groaning. He
stared at Ross with eyes which gradually cleared as a realization of
his environment was borne in on him.
"I say, Doc," he muttered, biting his lips with the pain, "I'm all to
the bad, ain't I?"
"Leg's used up for a few days, that's all, Mr. Weston," returned Ross
cheerfully.
The man turned his head quickly. His eyes widened and he seemed to
forget his pain. For a long moment he lay motionless looking from Ross to
Hank, who grinned hospitably at him from the stove.
"Cheer up down there," said Hank in jovial strain, "the worst is yet
t' come, fer I'm makin' ye some puddin', and even my mother 'ud
say that puddin' ain't one of my strong pints!"
The sick man did not smile. He merely stared at the speaker until Hank
disappeared, a water pail in hand, bound for the spring. Then he threw
out a hand toward Ross and asked abruptly:
"Where did you get it?"
Ross, turning a flapjack awkwardly, looked inquiringly over his shoulder.
"Get what?"
"The name--Weston?"
Ross smiled and then, partly because he was embarrassed and partly
because he thought the injured man would be, turned his back before
answering, "A picture fell out of your coat and I--we--saw the name
written on the back, 'Lon Weston.'"
There was no reply, and presently Ross added, "I put the photo back in
your pocket and hung the coat above your head there on the peg. Guess
you can reach it."
Still no reply, and Ross, looking around, found his patient with head
turned away, eyes closed and lips pressed tightly together in his beard.
Suddenly, in the open doorway appeared a figure that Ross had not seen
before. A shaggy head was advanced cautiously within the cabin and the
owner peered at Weston curiously. Then, evidently understanding his
closed eyes to mean sleep, the stranger backed out precipitately and sat
down on the bench outside the door. From this vantage point he peered
around the jamb from time to time eyeing Ross and his patient in turn.
"Good-evening," said the former as the stranger showed no signs of
speaking.
The shaggy head appeared in the doorway and nodding briefly, was
withdrawn, just as Hank, coming with the water, called, "Well, Sheepy,
what's the latest word up your way?"
It was Luther, otherwise "Sheepy," the herder whose wagon crowned the
adjacent hill. He was Hank's daily caller.
"There ye are, Doc," exclaimed Hank entering with the water. "Puddin'
fer Weston, and flapjacks 'n' coffee fer you and me with cabbage 'n'
spuds thrown in. Fill up."
It was a menu which was not varied to any great extent in the days which
followed, strange days for "Doc Tenderfoot," as Hank called Ross.
[Illustration: "WHAT'S THE LATEST WORD?"]
Every night at midnight one of the two stages plying between Cody and
Meeteetse stopped at the stage camp for supper and horse feed. Every
noon the other stage stopped for dinner on its return trip. Between
times, horsemen came and went, occasionally, men from the ranches on
Wood River and the Grey Bull, miners "packing" their beds behind them,
prospectors going out of the mountains for the winter, and every day
during the first week there was Sheepy. Sheepy usually came toward night
when his flock had been driven in from the range and rounded up by the
faithful shepherd dog near the canvas-topped wagon.
One day, the last of the week, after Ross had had a particularly trying
time with his patient, he left the latter asleep, and going outside, sat
on the bench in the sunshine watching Hank who was repairing the corral.
Presently Sheepy joined him, first refreshing himself, as usual, with a
long look at the snoring Weston.
"Once I seen a feller that rode like him and looked like him, only his
hair and beard," Sheepy announced finally in a hoarse whisper. "I seen
'im ridin' in ahead of th' stage that night, and I thought 'twas
th' other chap."
Ross listened without interest. Sheepy filled a pipe with deliberation
and lighted it. Then, clasping a worn knee in both hands he spoke again
out of the corner of his mouth.
"That feller had hair light as tow and his face clean of beard, but he
rode the same and his eyes was the same. He was a puncher off the cattle
ranges. Used to ride past my wagon alone about once a week headin' fer
town. Went in the edge of the evenin' always."
"And where were you?" asked Ross still without interest.
"Down in Oklahomy. I was herdin' sheep fer old man Quinn."
Ross looked at Sheepy with new interest. "I heard the men on the train
talking about old man Quinn and the sheep that he lost. Were you there
at that time?"
Sheepy nodded. "I sartain was. That's two years gone by."
"And did you see what was going on--driving the sheep into the river,
I mean?" questioned Ross eagerly.
The sheep-herder shook his grizzled head. "It wa'n't off my range that
the sheep was drove, but another feller's called Happy. He seen there
was four men done it. It was night--dark night, and they didn't stop to
say howdy ner make any introductions. They shot Happy's dog and got
away over the bluff with a thousand sheep. They was drunk, all of 'em,
but not too drunk not t' know what they was doin'. Old man Quinn got
three of 'em. He's been after the other ever since."
"Do you think he'll be caught?"
Sheepy moved his shoulders helplessly. "Don't know. Old man Quinn he
never lets up on a thing. Took 'im two years t' find three. Bet he
don't give t'other up."
"Why did they drive the sheep over the bluff?" asked Ross.
Sheepy frowned. "Cattlemen claimed the sheep had crossed the dead line.
Cattlemen are always claimin' that, and they push the line further
and further in on the sheep and claim more of the range every year.
They do here. They did down in Oklahomy. The sheep owners and cattlemen
had a row at the big cattle round-up on the North Fork. It was after
the round-up, when the cow punchers was feelin' pretty gay and let
themselves loose, that them four drove old man Quinn's sheep over
the bluff."
There was a pause, and then Sheepy went back to the original subject.
"The feller that looked like him and rode like him," jerking his thumb
over his shoulder, "used to ride past when I was shakin' grub in my
wagon. He used t' go grinnin' mostly and starin' at his hoss'
ears. And he alus went with his fixin's on, tan chaps and a red silk
'kerchief 'round his neck and Indian gloves with these here colored
gauntlets. Oh, he struck the trail in his good togs all right--bet he
went t' see some girl 'r other!"
This was the last information that Ross received from Sheepy for several
months. The following morning there arrived from Cody a supply wagon
which replenished the sheep-herder's larder, and then, the sheep having
eaten the range bare for miles around the dugout, the canvas-topped
wagon was attached to the supply wagon and drawn to another hilltop
ten miles away. With it went Sheepy only faintly regretting the loss
of companionship at the dugout. The seven hundred sheep that his dog
rounded up and drove in advance of the wagons were the companions with
which he was best acquainted.
"It wouldn't ha' been a bad idee," Hank remarked when the last bleat
died away in the distance, "if Sheepy could ha' stayed all winter. He
ain't generally long on talk--none of them herders be--but he was some
one t' have around, and once in a while his tongue breaks loose."
Ross drew a long breath and thought of Meadow Creek.
In the afternoon Hank resumed his repairs on the corral, leaving Weston
asleep and Ross kneeling beside his medicine chest sorting its contents.
The sorting done, the boy arose noiselessly and closed the lid of the
chest. Then, turning, he looked down on the head of the sleeper. For
the first time he noticed that Weston's hair, thick and unkempt, was
dull in color and had a dead look at variance with its evident health.
Tiptoeing across the floor he bent over the recumbent man and gently
raising a lock of his hair looked wonderingly at the roots. The sight
caused him to utter an exclamation which disturbed the sleeper. He
straightened himself and stepped back precipitately.
The hair was tow-colored at the roots.