"THE WOOFER" APPEARS.
Presently Stella heard the clatter of many pony hoofs on the turf, then
a succession of yells, and Ted, Ben, and Bud galloped into the circle of
light made by her fire.
"Hello, what have we here?" asked Ted, riding up and flinging himself
from the saddle.
"I found this Indian girl, Singing Bird, daughter of Cloud Chief, lying
here with a wound in her breast that would have killed an ordinary
mortal, but I think she is getting better."
"We got worried about you when you did not return for supper, and
started out to find you. If we hadn't seen the reflection of your fire
against the sky we would have passed you by. How did this happen?"
"She tells me she is the squaw of Running Bear, with whom you had an
argument at the beef issue."
"Yes, I remember him. What about him? Why is he not here to take care of
his wife?"
"He shot her and left her here to die, because he was tired of her, and,
she says, because she would not reveal to him a secret."
"He certainly is a precious scoundrel, and deserves worse than I gave
him, and if I ever meet him again I won't do a thing to him."
"But we must get this girl to a camp where she can be cared for, Ted. It
is cruel to leave her here on the cold ground when she can have a cot
and plenty of blankets."
"I don't know how we are going to manage it to-night."
"One of you can ride back to camp, and get the wagon and a lantern, and
come back for her. She ought to have better attention than I can give
her here."
"That's all right. Bud, ride back to camp and get the wagon out, and
fill it with blankets and my medicine chest, and get back here as soon
as your team will bring you."
Ben had sauntered down to where the willows were seen, and soon returned
with a big armful of wood, which he tossed upon the fire, then sat just
outside the blaze and popped away with his revolver at the little balls
of pale-green light, the wolves' eyes, which he saw floating among the
tall grass, and he always knew when he had made a bull's-eye by the
howl, and the thrashing around that followed it.
Ted sat with Stella, watching the Indian girl, who had again fallen into
a deep sleep.
"Did she say what her secret is?" asked Ted.
"No, I didn't ask her, and I don't intend to. If she wants to confide in
me, well and good, but I am not a sharer of other peoples' troubles or
secrets. I have as many of my own as I can take care of."
It was almost dawn when they heard the rumble of wagon wheels, and Bud
drove over the top of the hill, and came toward them.
"By my Aunt Hester's black cat's tail, I never had sech a time gittin' a
team hitched up as this one. It took me an hour to ketch 'em out o' ther
pony herd, and yer talks about drivers, I'd jest as soon try ter drive
two bolts o' red-hot chain lightning. But I've got all ther ginger
worked outer 'em now, an' I reckon that nigh bay will not never buck no
more."
"Now we'll see if she can be moved," said Ted. "I think we can lift her
right on the blanket on which she is lying, and into the wagon, if you
will lend a hand, Stella."
Each of the four took a corner of the blanket, and with some difficulty,
for Singing Bird suffered excruciating pain with every motion, they got
her into the wagon and started for the camp, driving slowly over the
rough ground.
It was almost daylight when they reached camp, where willing hands
helped to make the girl comfortable in a tent which Ted rigged up.
Then Ted and Stella went to work with all their surgical skill, and soon
had Singing Bird's wound properly dressed. Stella stood guard over her,
and nursed her as tenderly as if the Indian had been a sister of her
blood.
Ted had stayed the herd until Singing Bird should be well enough to get
up. The pasturage was fine, and after their arduous drive Ted thought
that it would do the cattle no harm to have a long rest.
He was undecided what to do with the Indian girl. It was not altogether
practicable to take her with them, and it did not seem to be the humane
thing to leave her behind to again fall into the hands of her brutal
Indian husband.
At last one morning Stella announced that Singing Bird was almost well.
On account of her health and generally fine physical condition she had
made rapid progress toward recovery.
"What are we going to do with her?" asked Ted, when Stella announced
that Singing Bird was well enough to travel.
"I don't know what she wants to do," said Stella. "One thing I am sure
of, I am not going to see her come to any harm. I have grown very fond
of her, for she is a sweet, good girl."
"Let us ask her what she wants to do. I suppose we shall have to abide
by her decision, for we cannot turn her adrift."
Singing Bird was sitting in front of her tent in the sun, watching the
cowboys sitting around their camp, weaving horsehair bridles, cleaning
their guns, mending their clothes, and doing other things that fall to
the leisure of a cow camp.
"Singing Bird, you are well now, and able to travel," said Stella,
sitting down on the grass.
The girl looked at her and then at Ted with an expression of alarm in
her face. They both saw that she feared what was coming.
"What do you want to do, Singing Bird? We must be on the trail again,
for we have a long way to go to the big pasture to the north," Stella
continued.
"I want to stay with you, sister," said the Indian girl simply. "I will
die if you send me away. I will slave for you if you will only let me
stay near you. I have no one else on earth. My husband has cast me out;
my father will not have me back; the white man does not want the Indian.
I am alone in the world. You have saved my life. I am your slave."
"That settles it," said Stella, with the hint of tears in her eyes. "You
shall stay with me, dear. Ted, get ready to move the herd whenever you
are ready. Singing Bird goes with me."
"All right," said Ted, glad that the matter was so easily disposed of.
"You can do whatever you want to with this outfit. If you say she goes,
why, she goes."
He went out to where the boys were to give orders for getting the herd
on the move again.
"We'll hit the trail in the morning," he said. "It will take some time
to break camp, and we might as well stay around here the rest of to-day
and get an early start in the morning."
Far out on the prairie they heard a cheery shout, and saw coming toward
them a horseman, driving before him a bunch of six steers.
"Git on to ther new herd crossin' our trail," said Bud derisively.
"Jumpin' sand, hills, but thet feller hez a big bunch o' cattle."
"Wonder where he got them all. He's surely a big drover," said Kit.
But the stranger hustled the six steers into the camp, and pulled up a
scrawny little cayuse, and, taking off his hat with a flourish to Stella
and Hallie, who had joined the boys, said:
"Your pardon, ladies an' gents, but what may be ther brand that is
burned inter ther hides o' yer esteemed cattle?"
Ted looked at him questioningly, and saw a tall, thin, bronzed
individual, dressed in a most unusual costume for a cow-puncher, for
such he evidently was from the manner in which he had driven the cattle,
and the way in which he sat and handled his horse.
He had a strange face, half humorous and half sinister. One moment he
would be merry and gay, but in an instant, and for an instant only, it
would change to suspicion and caution. He was lean of frame, but very
muscular, and his eyes were of a keen, piercing blue.
"Any particular reason for wanting to know?" asked Ted quizzically,
smiling up at the tatterdemalion of a cowboy.
"Well, I reckon," was the drawling reply. "I picked up six strays out
here a ways, an' they don't belong ter no brand in this yere part o'
ther country, so I suspicions they belong ter some pilgrims' road brand.
Now, yours is ther only bunch o' trail cattle what's passed this way
recently, an' me, bein' wise ter ther ways o' ther plains, hez ther
hunch thet they might be yours. Right cute o' me, wa'n't it?"
Ted laughed at the chap's half-humorous, half-serious manner.
"Our brand is the Lazy Z," he replied.
"Then them critters aire yourn. Look 'em over, an' if they don't belong
ter you, hand 'em back, an' I'll make 'em ther noocleus o' a herd o' my
own."
Ted rode up to the six strays, which were peacefully grazing not far
away, and examined the brand. They belonged to the herd, all right, and
he said so.
"Well, stranger, much obliged to you for picking them up and bringing
them in," said Ted. "Now, what can I do for you? Those critters are
worth a hundred dollars or more to this outfit. I'll split with you."
"No, you won't, stranger, seein' it's all ther same ter you. I may be a
measly, fleabitten, hongry, lone maverick o' ther plains, but thar's one
thing I ain't, an' that's a 'lost and found' department, 'suitable
reward offered, an' no questions asked.' When I picks up a man's strays
I hands 'em in if I can find him, or if I was so blame' hongry I
couldn't resist ther temptation I might butcher one fer ther sake o'
sinkin' my molars inter a tenderloin steak. But thet's ther wust a
feller could say fer me. If ther critters aire yours, take 'em, an'
welcome."
"All right, pardner," said Ted, who had taken a fancy to the fellow. "At
least, you'll eat with us."
"Shore I'll break bread. I'm as hongry ez a shipwrecked sailor. When
does ther tocsin sound?"
"The dinner bell will ring in about half an hour. Get down and turn your
cayuse out to graze, and join us about the fire."
"Which means ter open ther mouth o' my war bag, an' give up my
pedigree."
"Something like that," said Ted, with a laugh.
The ungainly cow-puncher slid out of his saddle like an eel, and slipped
the saddle and bridle off his pony, and, giving it a slap on the haunch,
sent it out to eat.
Throwing his horse furniture on the ground near the fire, he squatted in
the ring of boys about, and proceeded to roll a cigarette in a leisurely
way.
"Say, hombre," he said, looking at Ted. "You've got a mighty tidy outfit
yere."
Ted nodded, and continued to watch the stranger's face.
"Which outfit mought it be?" asked the cow-puncher, picking a live coal
out of the fire and placing the end of his cigarette against it.
"Moon Valley, Black Hills," said Ted.
"An' your name mought be----"
"Ted Strong."
The stranger paused with his cigarette halfway to his lips, and lifted
his eyebrows.
"Sho! Yer don't say?"
"But I do."
"Well, I'm right proud ter meet up with yer, an' be able ter do yer a
small service. My handle is numerous, not because I've ever had any
serious reason ter change ther one my daddy give me, but because ther
cow-punchers has a most humorous way o' hitchin' whatever label they
thinks fits onter a man."
"What's your present label?" asked Ted.
"Ther cognomen what I packs with me now is sure fantastical. I'm known
on ther Western free range as 'The Woofer.'"
"'The Woofer'? That's a strange name."
"It ain't my real name, which is 'Tennessee Al.'"
"How did you come to be named 'The Woofer'?"
"Well, it's jest a piece o' foolishness," said the cow-puncher, laughing
at the recollection of it.
"Tell us about it."
"Well, it was this away: About two year ago last Chrismus I wuz punchin'
cows over on Coburn's ranch. Chrismus Eve ther boys got some cagy, an'
we all decided ter go inter Cut Bank, ther tradin' town some ten mile
away, an' cellybrate. It wuz a bad night, with ther wind blowin' out o'
ther nor'west, an' ther promise o' a bliz.
"Wallace Coburn balks some at ther boys leavin' ther cattle, fer he sees
thet thar's some danger o' their driftin' in ther night. But yer don't
can up a lot o' cow-punchers Chrismus Eve when they wants ter go, so
finally he grunts out that we kin go, an' off we starts.
"'Fleshy' Wheeler, so called because he wa'n't no bigger round nor a
lemonade straw, kep' a saloon in Cut Bank, an' thar wuz ter be a day.
Well, we-all went ter ther dance, which progressed beautiful, when one
o' ther boys come in an' announces that a big herd o' cattle had drifted
through ther town while we wuz trippin' ther light fantastic toe, and
that one o' ther critters had fallen inter ther town well.
"Naturally, ther town people objected ter havin' range cow mixed in with
their drinkin' water, an' hinted strong that it wuz up ter us
cow-punchers ter git it out, at ther same time emphasizin' their
invitation with a lot o' shiny six-shooters.
"Well, we goes inter caucus, an' decided thet ther cow belongs ter ther
Coburn outfit, an' that we're too humane ter let a pore critter stay in
a well Chrismus Eve, when joy an' peace an' merriment is reignin'
everywhere.
"Now, as you-all knows, when a cow is hauled out o' a bog or a well she
don't feel no gratitood, she jest gits mad plumb through an' h'ists her
tail, an' runs fer ther fust thing she sees afoot, with her horns ready
fer immediate business.
"Before we goes out ter git ther cow outer ther well, we tells Fleshy
ter stand guard at the door, an' when ther cow charges, ter let us in,
then slam ther door in ther cow's face. He agrees.
"We ropes ther cow, an' altogether pulls her out an' puts her on terry
firmy. Then we hits it up fer ther house, with ther cow as mad as a
woman scorned, an' only two jumps behind me, what is ther last man ter
git under way.
"Ther boys hits ther house, an' Fleshy lets 'em in, but me, bein' some
feet behind, he doesn't see, at least, that's ther way he explains ter
me later, an' he slams ther door in my face jest ez ther cow arrives.
"My only chance is ter keep runnin', an' I starts around ther house,
hopin' that when I gits ter ther door ag'in Fleshy will have discovered
his mistake, an' have it open hospitablelike fer me, but cold feet fer
ther cow.
"But, no, ther door is closed an' bolted, an' I start on another lap
around ther house with Mrs. Cow a-snortin' an' a-blowin' in my immediate
vicinity, an' comin' fast. Every time I hit ther ground with my hoofs I
grunted 'woof.' I wuz gittin' winded, what with runnin' an' yellin', so
thet I wuz gruntin' 'woof' most all ther time.
"Inside, all wuz merriment, an' me runnin' fer my life, fer ther cow wuz
most industrious, an' didn't know what it wuz ter git tired.
"Well, ter make a long tale short, I kept runnin' an' gruntin' 'woof' at
every jump, ther sweat runnin' down an' freezin' on my clothes, until
mornin', when ther cow gits tired an' goes away. Then ther boys comes
out an' finds me, an' says they're mighty surprised ter see me, havin'
conclooded that I'd gone home.
"'We hear somethin' goin' "woof" all night, an' thought it wuz ther
cow,' says Fleshy, 'an' we didn't dast open ther door fer fear she'd
want ter come in, an' as there wuz ladies there, it wouldn't do. Wuz
that you what was woofin' all night?'
"After that I wuzn't nothin' ter them boys but 'The Woofer.'"