Produced by Darleen Dove, Roger Frank, Mary Meehan and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE LAND OF STRONG MEN
BY A. M. CHISHOLM
AUTHOR OF _"Precious Waters" and "The Boss of Wind River"_
ILLUSTRATED BY
FRANK TENNEY JOHNSON
New York
THE H. K. FLY COMPANY
Publishers
Copyright, 1919, by
THE H. K. FLY COMPANY
[Illustration: _Before the heavy snows these bunches were rounded up and
driven to the ranch._]
CONTENTS
I Lost and Found
II A Death Bed
III Angus Asserts Himself
IV Judge Riley--Drunk and Sober
V Angus in Love and War
VI Gain and Loss
VII The Frenches Again
VIII Old Sam Paul Makes a Proposition
IX Dorgan
X Before the Race
XI A Hold-up
XII The Race
XIII Mainly About Chetwood
XIV A Fight with a Grizzly
XV Faith Winton Turns Up
XVI A Talk with Judge Riley
XVII A Crisis
XVIII Christmas at the Frenches
XIX Introducing Mrs. Foley
XX An Enemy at Work
XXI Watching
XXII Brother to Brother
XXIII Faiths's Farm
XXIV A Demand and Answer
XXV Cross Currents
XXVI Conspiracy
XXVII While Shelling Peas
XXVIII Mrs. Foley on Marriage
XXIX Sudden Death
XXX Strangers Ask Questions
XXXI The Auction
XXXII Chetwood Unmasked
XXXIII Another Surprise
XXXIV A New Complication
XXXV Braden Misses Some Papers
XXXVI Turkey Plays a Hand
XXXVII Duplicate Deeds
XXXVIII Garland Plays a Hand
XXXIX The Turning of the Screw
XL Signs and Omens
XLI Terror
XLII Outlaws!
XLIII Taking the Trail
XLIV The Red Avenger
XLV The Great Show-Down
XLVI Strong Men
XLVII Peace
ILLUSTRATIONS
Before the heavy snows these bunches were rounded up and driven to the
ranch
He turned the corner, and came full upon a huge, old-man grizzly
Angus swung his arm against it, and it roared in his ear
To Faith these trips were a novelty, opening a world new and wonderful
The Land of Strong Men
CHAPTER I
LOST AND FOUND
It was light, but not yet day. The shadows of the night seemed to
linger, to retreat with reluctance; and as they were beaten back by the
sun, still far below the eastern curve of the earth and further
blockaded by giant mountain ranges also to the eastward, the clinging,
gray morning mists of early Fall came to replace them. In the pallid
light, a-swim with vapor, objects loomed gigantic and grotesque.
The house which stood among the mists was of squared timbers, mortised
and fitted. It was unpainted, and the interstices were neatly filled
with plaster. The main part was two stories in height, but back of this
and joined to it was another log building, long and low. Evidently this
had been the original dwelling, to which the more pretentious structure
had been added. From one window of this rear building a light glimmered.
The house was surrounded and in summer would be shaded by trees,
cottonwoods and soft maples; but these had shed most of their leaves and
the ground was yellowed with them. Close beside the house ran an
irrigation ditch in which clear mountain water purred and gurgled
softly. To the south loomed the roofs of stables, sheds, high corrals
and stacks of hay and straw. Beyond these were cleared, level fields. To
the northward, protected to some extent by the buildings and trees, was
a small orchard in neat rows.
Now, the light in the rear window went out, and a moment later a door
opened and a boy emerged. He was apparently about eighteen, but
unusually tall and long of limb. At a casual glance he seemed to run to
legs and arms, but a second look would have shown that his chest was
broad and deep, and that his apparent ungainliness was due to age
merely. His face, naturally dark, was tanned to the color of an old
saddle. The cheekbones were high, the nose prominent, the mouth straight
and the boyish jaw firm. The eyes were dark, steady and sombre, shaded
by black eyebrows which slashed straight across the face, meeting above
the nose. The darkness of complexion, the heavy brows, the straight
mouth conveyed an expression almost of grimness. The boy wore a battered
felt hat, a fawn mackinaw coat, pants thrust into high socks and a pair
of moosehide moccasins. In his right hand he carried a rifle, in his
left a small cotton bag. The wooden handle of a knife stuck from a
jam-sheath in his belt.
For a moment he stood sniffling the morning air like a dog, and then
with a light swiftness which gave the lie to his apparent ungainliness,
made for the stables. In a few moments he led out a brown pony. He tied
the cotton bag to the cantle, thrust the rifle into a saddle holster and
swung up.
As he did so there was the sound of running feet, and a girl sped toward
him from the house.
"Angus! Wait a minute!" she cried. She was apparently a couple of years
younger than the boy, slim, brown of hair, eye, and face, delicate of
feature. She held out a paper-wrapped parcel. "Here's some doughnuts for
your lunch," she said.
But the boy frowned down at her. "I've got my lunch," he said tapping
the cotton bag. In it there was bread and cold meat, which he esteemed
manly fare.
"But you like doughnuts," said the girl, "and I thought--I thought--"
Her eyes filled with moisture which was not that of the mists, and the
boy either because of that or affected by the silent argument of the
doughnuts, relented.
"Oh, well, give 'em here," he said, and dismounting untied the bag,
thrust in the doughnuts, made all fast again and remounted. "Tell father
I'll be back in time to feed the stock to-night."
"Yes, Angus. I hope you'll get a deer."
"Sure, I'll get one," the boy replied confidently. A thought seemed to
strike him. "Oh, thanks for the doughnuts."
The girl beamed at this belated recognition. She felt fully repaid for
both the cooking and the early rising. For when a brother is going
hunting naturally his thoughts are far above such things as doughnuts
and younger sisters. Recognizing the propriety of this she turned back
to the house.
The boy rode fast. He passed the boundaries of the ranch, followed a
road for a mile and then, turning into a beaten cattle trail, headed
eastward toward the flanks of a mountain range showing beneath the
skirts of the rising mist.
The trail wound sinuously, rising from benchland to benchland, but the
boy stuck to it, for he knew that cattle invariably choose the easiest
way. Also he knew the country so near home like a book, or rather better
than he knew any written books. To him the land, lying as yet much as it
came from the hands of the Creator, carried more messages and held more
interesting things than any printed pages. Grouse scuttled aside or rose
with a roar of wings, and the boy eyed them regretfully. Once he caught
sight of a coyote, an arrogant, bushy-tailed youngster which, apparently
knowing that he was in a hurry, stood in full view watching him. Once he
stopped short at a momentary glimpse of something in thick bush. But as
he did not see it again, he rode on.
While he still rode in the shadow of the eastern hills, the sun from
behind them struck the face of the western range ten miles or more
across Fire Valley. Behind that again it glinted on peaks still capped
with the snows of the previous winter. The sunshine moved downward to
the valley and eastward across it in a marching swath of gold. In that
clear, thin air to the keen eyes of the boy, peaks and rocks and even
trees miles away were sharply defined. Below him was a lake, pale silver
where the mists that still clung to its surface had parted. Half an hour
later it would take on the wondrous blue of mountain waters. But the boy
did not care for that, nor just then for the great unfolding panorama of
rolling, timber-clad hills, bare, gray peaks and blue sky. He was an
hour late and, as everybody knows, the early morning is the best time to
hunt.
He had intended to enter a pass leading into the hills and turn from it
up a big draw which he knew held blacktail, but he gave up the idea and
turned along the base of the mountain. He was now in a country of
jackpine with huge, scattered, gloomy firs and chumps of cottonwood.
Numerous little spring-fed creeks ran through it, and there were rocky
coulees and small ponds. It was an ideal country for whitetail. There
the boy dismounted, hung his saddle from a tree out of the reach of a
possible porcupine, and put his pony on a rope. He glanced around
mechanically, noting the exact position and registering landmarks. Then
he levered a cartridge into the chamber of his rifle, dropped the hammer
to half cock, tucked the weapon under his arm and struck off parallel
with the base of the mountain.
In motion the impression of awkwardness vanished. He walked with the
peculiar straight-footed, bent-kneed slouch which is the distinctive
mark of the woodsman and moccasin wearer; and is, moreover, extremely
easy because the weight of the body cushions on the natural
shock-absorbers, the ball of the foot and the bend of the knee, and so
is quite a different method of locomotion from the ordinary heel-jarring
stride. Also it is much faster than it looks. And so the boy moved
easily and silently, his moccasined feet automatically avoiding sticks
and loose stones.
He did not hurry. Now and then he stopped, his eyes keen as a young
hawk's fixed on some ill-defined object, and he remained absolutely
motionless until it defined itself to his gaze. Occasionally he
inspected the soft ground, but though he saw many impressions of the
hoofs of deer he paid little attention to them. He followed the only
practical method of still-hunting, prowling along quietly and
watchfully.
But luck seemed against him. Twice, in spite of his care, he heard the
thumping beat which told that deer, alarmed, were making a get-away, but
he did not see them. Being pardonably proud of his eyes and his ability
to move quietly, the boy was disgusted. Noon came and he had no meat. He
sat down by a spring which gushed cold from the base of a hill, and ate
his bread and meat and two doughnuts. Of the latter four remained. These
he saved against an emergency, and stretching himself on a patch of
yellow, sun-dried grass went to sleep like a young dog.
In an hour he awoke, stretched himself, drank from the spring and
circling toward the mountain began to work back toward his pony. He had
covered perhaps half the return distance when he came suddenly upon a
young buck. At the same time the buck caught sight of him and set sail
for the protection of thick brush.
Though taken by surprise, the boy was unflurried. He planted his feet
solidly, swung his rifle swiftly but without hurry, caught the leaping
form fair with the bead and squeezed the trigger. A second time the
rifle rapped on the heels of its own echo, and the buck pitched forward
sprawling, the stiffening gone from his slim limbs which kicked
convulsively.
But instead of running forward eagerly, the boy scarcely shifted his
position as he pumped another cartridge into place. As the deer did not
rise he fed two fresh shells to the magazine methodically. There was no
youthful triumph in his face. Instead it showed a certain
dissatisfaction.
"Ought to have downed him first shot," he muttered, and went forward. He
turned the deer over finding that the first bullet had stuck too far
back. Laying the rifle aside he stuck the animal and proceeded to dress
him. Completing his task he rose and scanned the brush thirty yards away
for a convenient sapling on which to hang his meat.
As he looked, his eye was arrested by a movement in the bushes of
something dun or brown. Without taking his eyes from the spot he stooped
for his rifle, cocked it and advanced slowly.
When he was within thirty feet of the bushes they shook, and the boy
halted, throwing his rifle forward, the butt halfway to his shoulders.
Then, from the shelter of the bushes out stepped a girl.
She was apparently several years younger than the boy, slight, straight,
fair of hair, with clear blue eyes which, however, seemed a little puffy
and reddened. Her face, too, was streaked as with tears, and one sheer
stocking was torn so that the flesh peeped through. She held her arms
straight by her sides, her fists gripped tight. Plainly she was
frightened, but though her mouth quivered a little she looked the boy
straight in the face.
If it had been a grizzly he would have been less surprised. The girl was
a stranger and, moreover, her dress of neat brown linen, her shoes, and
even the sheer, torn stockings, showed that she did not belong in that
neighborhood.
"Hallo!" he said. She gave a little, gasping sigh of relief.
"Why," she said, "you're just a white boy." She spoke with a faint
little lisp, which was really enticing. But her words did not please the
boy who privately considered himself a good deal of a man.
"What did you think I was?" he asked in as gruff a voice as he could
attain.
"I thought you were an In-di-an," she said, pronouncing the word in
syllables; "a growed-up--I mean a grown-up-In-di-an."
Having known Indians all his life the boy found her words unflattering.
"What made you think that?" he queried.
"Because you looked so black and bloody," she told him frankly.
The boy was disgusted. What business had this girl to call him black?
"What's a kid like you doing away out here?" he demanded severely. And
he added wickedly: "Don't you know these woods are full of grizzlies and
cougars and wolves? It's a wonder you weren't eaten alive."
The girl shivered and glanced fearfully back into the gloom of the firs.
"I didn't mean to get lost, really."
"Lost, are you?"
"I was," she said, "but now, of course, you've found me. I'm not afraid
now, because I know you wouldn't let anything hurt me."
At this belated tribute to his manhood the boy's expression softened.
"Well, I guess you're safe now," he admitted. "How did you get lost, and
where from?"
"I got lost from Uncle Godfrey's ranch."
"Do you mean old Godfrey French's ranch?"
"I mean Mr. Godfrey French's ranch," she corrected him. "You'll take me
there, won't you, like a nice boy?"
The boy snorted. The ranch in question was nearly ten miles distant. Of
course she would ride his pony. He did not in the least mind the
walking, but it meant that he would have to leave the deer until the
next day, and meat was needed at home. However, there was no help for
it.
"I suppose I'll have to," he said with the candor of his age. "How did
you get lost?"
Her explanation was commonplace. She had gone for a ride in the morning,
and the mountains had seemed closer than they were. Tiring she had
dismounted, and had been unable to catch her pony. She had followed him
until finally he had disappeared, by which time she was hopelessly
confused.
"Then," she said, "I walked and walked, and I found a lot of paths, but
they didn't seem to go anywhere. I--I was frightened. And then I heard
two shots and I ran as hard as could, and when I saw you I was
frightened again. But now of course it's all right."
The boy grunted. It was just like a girl to let her pony get away, and
get lost, and follow cattle trails all over the country instead of
taking her bearings and striking for home as any intelligent being would
have done. Girls were fools, anyway. They were always getting into
trouble, and dumping themselves down on a man to be looked after. If old
Godfrey French was her uncle, why in blazes didn't some of the French
boys take care of this kid? They hadn't anything else to do.
The boy had little or no use for the French family, which held itself a
little aloof from most of the inhabitants of the district. It consisted
of Godfrey French, his four sons and one daughter. The sons were young
men. They were all big, powerful young fellows, and one of them, Gavin,
was reputed to be the strongest man in the neighborhood. The daughter, a
long-limbed slip of a girl who rode like a cow-puncher, was about the
boy's age. Though Godfrey French had a ranch it was worked scarcely at
all. The boys did not like work, and apparently did not have to. Godfrey
French was reputed to have money. His ranch was a hang-out for what were
known as "remittance men", young Englishmen who received more or less
regular allowances from home--or perhaps to keep away from home. There
were rumors of gambling and hard drinking at French's ranch.
"Well, I'll take you home," the boy said. "You can ride my pony. He's on
a rope a mile from here. But I'll have to hang up this buck, or the
coyotes will chew him."
He found two small saplings close together, bent them down, trimmed them
and lashed their tops. Over these he placed the tied legs of the buck.
With a little search he found a long dry pole. With this he had a
tripod. As he hoisted with the pole the spring of the saplings raised
the buck, which dangled clear, out of reach of all four-footed
marauders. The girl watched him, wide-eyed. To her it seemed a
marvellously clever piece of engineering.
"Well, now we'll be going," the boy announced. He started at his
ordinary pace, but reduced it immediately because she seemed very tired.
Coming to a creek she hesitated and stopped.
"Won't you wash your face and hands, please?" she said.
The boy stared at her, but washed obediently. So did she, and began to
dry her face with a tiny handkerchief at which the boy cast a glance of
contempt. He drew forth his own, which was two feet square, and
originally had been figured in red and yellow, but unfortunately the two
colors had run together.
"Here, take this," he said. But the girl looked at the variegated square
suspiciously.
"No, thank you. I'm afraid it's not san--sanitary."
"It ain't--what?" the boy queried.
"I mean it's not clean."
"Sure it's clean," he returned indignantly. "You're mighty particular,
seems to me." Struck by a sudden thought he took the remains of his
lunch from his pocket and opened it, exposing four sadly crushed
doughnuts. "I don't s'pose you'd eat these, would you? Maybe they ain't
sanitary enough."
But the girl who had had nothing to eat since morning, eyed the
delicacies longingly.
"I--I'll take one, thank you."
"Eat the bunch," said the boy generously. "I've had all I want. Sit down
and rest. There's no rush."
The girl sat down, munching the crushed doughnuts with keen enjoyment,
while the boy stretched on the grass, his head pillowed in his locked
hands watched her curiously. Looking up she met his gaze.
"They're awfully good," she said. "Did your mother make them?"
"My mother is dead. Jean made 'em. She's my sister."
"What is your name, please?"
"My full name is Angus Struan Mackay."
"How do you spell it?"
"M-a-c-k-a-y."
"But k-a-y spells 'K'. Why do you pronounce your name 'McKi'?"
"Because it is," young Mackay replied with finality.
"How many brothers and sisters have you?"
"There's just father, and Jean and Turkey and me."
"'Turkey'!" she exclaimed. "What a funny name! Is it a boy or a girl?"
"His real name is Torquil," young Angus explained, "after my
grandfather. He's just a kid, like you. What is your own name?"
"I am Faith Winton."
"Faith Winton French?"
"No, just Winton. Uncle Godfrey isn't really my uncle. That is, he is my
mother's uncle by marriage. My mother is dead, too. My father is Sewell
Winton."
She stated the fact proudly; but the boy was unimpressed.
"What does your father do for a living?" he asked.
"My father is a great artist."
"Is that so," said young Mackay. "You mean he paints pictures?"
"Of course he does--great pictures. But I suppose, living here, you've
never seen them." Her tone expressed pity.
"I've never seen painted pictures that looked like anything at all,"
Angus Mackay returned with contempt. "There was a teacher at our school
that painted things, but you could not tell what it was all about. She
would paint what she would call a cow, but it would look like a horse,
all but the horns, and a poor horse, too. Has your father come here to
paint?"
"No, he isn't well. He thought the change might do him good, but it
doesn't seem to. We are going away in a few days."
But young Mackay was not interested in the painter's health, nor was he
specially interested in the painter's daughter. His immediate object now
that she had finished the doughnuts was to get her off his hands. And so
he set a good pace toward his pony, saddled, shortened the stirrups and
helped the girl up. No longer restrained by her inability to keep up
with his stride, he struck a swift, swinging gait which was faster than
the pony's walk. He paid little or no attention to girl or pony. It was
their business to keep up with him. He led the way without hesitation,
around sloughs, down coulees, through timber. When they had been
traveling thus for an hour or more he stopped suddenly.
"Somebody is shouting," he said. "It will be your people looking for
you, likely. We will just wait here. You had better get down, for I am
going to shoot and he might not stand still."
He fired three shots close together, and after an interval three more.
Soon afterward they could hear a distant whoop. Mackay answered, and in
a few minutes the search party which had been strung out combing benches
and coulees, began to converge upon them.
First came Kathleen French, a dark-haired, blue-eyed girl sitting
astride a slashing, blaze-faced sorrel, and following her, her three
brothers, Blake, Gerald and Lawrence, the latter leading the pony which
had evaded Faith Winton. The pony had come in, it appeared, with the
saddle twisted down under its belly and kicked to flinders, and the
Frenches had united in blaming Larry, the youngest, who had given Faith
the pony and saddled it for her.
"And lucky for you she wasn't hurt," Blake told him. He was a big,
powerfully built man, with a heavy, florid face which was already
beginning to show signs of the life he led. "If she'd been smashed up
you'd have got yours."
Larry, a rangy, hawk-faced youngster, eyed his brother insolently. "I
would, hey! Well, not from you, and you can make a note of that."
"Shut up!" said the sister. "Quit your scrapping. We may as well be
drifting. Climb up on this pony, Faith."
Faith Winton held out her hand. "Good-by, Angus Mackay. And thank you so
much for finding me, and for the ride, and for the doughnuts."
Young Mackay shook hands limply. "That is all right," he said,
embarrassed. But Kathleen French was reminded of an omission.
"We're a nice lot!" she exclaimed. "Not one of us has thanked him for
looking after Faith. Well _I_ do, anyway. It was good of you, Angus
Mackay."
"Oh, sure," Gerald French concurred carelessly. Not so heavily built as
his brother Blake, he was as tall and finer drawn. His face was oval,
his eyes dark and lazy, and his voice a drawl. "Thanks, Mackay."
"Ditto," said young Larry.
Blake French, reaching into his pocket pulled out a roll of currency and
stripped off a bill. "No, no, Cousin Blake!" Faith Winton exclaimed, but
he held it out to the boy.
"Here you are, Mackay. That's better than thanks. I guess you can use
it."
But the boy made no movement to take the money. "I was not bringing her
home for money, nor for thanks either," he said uncompromisingly.
Blake laughed loudly. "I never heard of a Mackay refusing money."
The boy scowled at him. "There will be other things you have not heard
of," he said coldly.
Blake French stared at him, and laughed again.
"Well, give him a kiss, Faith. Maybe that's what he'd like. Or has he
had it?"
"Cousin Blake, you're horrid!" the girl cried indignantly.
"The kid isn't used to talk like that, Blake," Kathleen told him. "Have
some sense."
"Where would he get it?" young Larry asked insolently. For answer his
brother cursed him.
"Cut that out, Blake," Gerald drawled, but his tone was edged.
"Then let that young pup keep a civil tongue in his head," Blake
growled.
"Pup, hey?" said young Larry. "Well, I'll never make a yellow dog,
anyway." The insinuation was obvious. Blake's face blackened with fury,
but wheeling his horse he rode off after the girls. Gerald and Larry
with brief nods to young Mackay, followed.
The latter stood looking after them, his heavy brows drawn in a frown.
Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he lengthened his stirrups and
swung up on his pony.