PART ONE

1

In all her days of presenting the spectacular, Cheyenne had never

witnessed a more even contest than was now being staged this day in

the early autumn of 1932, at the circus grounds in the city's suburbs.

It was a race between a midget and a lout.

The little man ducked under the garish banners portraying the wonders

of the Kid Show, raced the interval to the "big top" of the Great

International, then back again, closely followed by a lanky oaf whose

longer strides evened the contest.

"I'll cut yer ears off," the pursuer snarled, as the midget swung

around the pole supporting the snake banner, thus gaining a distance

on his enemy. "En I'll cut yer heart out," the big one yelled as he

stumbled and almost fell.

As evidence that he would make good his terrifying threat, the lout

flourished a clasp-knife in his right hand; with his left, he made

futile grabs at the midget's coat tail.

The crowd that watched this contest was not of the circus. It was a

gathering of those who came to the lot at an early hour to watch the

Circus City set up shop for the one-day stand in this western

metropolis. Some of the onlookers were railroad men, off duty; some

were cow hands from nearby ranches; a few Indians from the reservation

beyond the willow-fringed Lodgepole Creek, lent their stoical

presence, while several soldiers from the newly christened Fort Warren

with or without official sanction, were on hand to witness the setup.

It was the accepted judgment of those present that the midget and the

lout were staging a ballyhoo--a "come-on"--preliminary to the opening

of the Kid Show. There was no applause as the little man outwitted his

follower by an adroit dodge under the ticket wagon. No one tripped

the lout as the race led through the assembled crowd. If the contest

was a part of the day's program, no spectator seemed willing to play

"stooge" in this preliminary performance.

Some distance to the north where the two great tents of the main show

came together, a group of workmen were operating a stake driver. In

this gang the midget knew he would find understanding friends. If he

could gain sufficient distance to undertake this straightaway, he

would find help. He dived between a spectator's legs, turned to the

right, and ran for this haven of hope.

Two things interrupted his plans. A ramshackle auto moved across his

path. To avoid collision, the midget veered his course to step in a

hole and fall sprawling at the feet of the man clambering out of the

machine. His pursuer was on him in an instant. "I tole ye I would cut

yer heart out," he panted as he brandished the knife. But before he

could execute the threat, the knife was struck from his uplifted hand.

The lout screamed with pain as he grabbed his wrist. "Yu've broke my

arm," he shouted as he danced around the big man. "Why don't ye pick

on one of yer size?" The stranger took in the situation at a glance.

The slanting forehead and the evil though childish face revealed a

moron with whom words of reason would have little effect. He said

nothing.

It was the midget who took charge. He scrambled to his feet, took a

few deep breaths, brushed the dust off his coat, and ordered the moron

back to the side show. "Go back to your mother," he commanded. "Go

right back to Mamie and tell her what you've been doing, and tell her

all of it. Don't look for your knife; I'll get that for you when you

get over your tantrum."

The midget watched the retreating figure. "His mother is a fine

woman," he explained to the stranger. "Has charge of costumes and

assists in makeup. That dunce is with her on a few days vacation from

a school for the feeble-minded.

"And now, Mister, I want to thank you for your timely help. You

probably saved my life, for you can't tell what a half-wit will do,

when in a tantrum and armed with a knife. All my life I've had the

enmity of half-wits. The big ones tease 'em and they take it out on

the little fellow.

"Well, that's that, as dear Marie Dressler says. I certainly am

indebted to you, Mister. What's your name, Mister? I surely ought to

know the name of the man that probably saved my life."

"My name is Welborn, Sam Welborn. I live quite a distance back in the

hills."

"And my name is David Lannarck, and I've got a score of other names

besides, to include Shorty, Prince, Runt, Half-Pint, and others. I'm

with the Kid Show. I was getting my stuff in shape for the opening

when Alfred decided to work on me with that knife. And he about got it

done, because there were none of the show people around to take him

off me. The spectators thought it was some sort of a pre-exhibition.

"And now, Mr. Welborn, let's go down to the cook tent and get a cup of

coffee, and then you can look around the lot until the shows open. I

want you to be my guest for the day. I feel that I can never repay you

for what you have done. If you ever want any help or aid that a little

fellow like me can give, call on me; there are a few things that I can

do."

"Well I do need some help, right now," said Welborn. "I want to

dispose of a couple of bears."

"Bears? What kind of bears?"

"Two black bear cubs, fat and fine and just ready to be trained. I

caught them up in the hills, and find that I have about as much use

for them as I would have for a yacht, or a case of smallpox. I've

tried turning them loose, but they won't go. Knowing that the show was

to be here today, I brought them down in the trailer, hoping some one

wanted two healthy cubs to fit into an act or exhibition."

"Bears, bears," mused the midget. "Truth is, Mr. Welborn, I'm not

posted on the bear market. Offhand, I would say that they were not

worth much to a show that was losing money by the bale. You see, this

good old year of '32 is a bust. A depression hits a circus first and

hardest. Just now, we are cutting the season and have planned a

straightaway back to winter quarters. Instead of going down through

Fort Collins, Greeley, Denver, Pueblo, with a swing through Texas, we

have canceled everything. We play this Union Pacific right through to

Omaha and thence back home by direct rails. So a pair of bear cubs

wouldn't be much of an asset right now."

"Anyhow, let's look 'em over while I think up a plan." The midget

recovered Alfred's knife from the dust and walked over to the trailer

that he noted had a wooden coop of slats aboard. He climbed up on the

wheel where he could see two black, wooly objects, scarcely a foot

high, and nearly that size in length and breadth.

"They do look fat and in good fur," he commented, "and from the way

they are working on the slat on yon side, you won't have them long.

They would be out of the pen in another half-hour."

"That's the point to the whole matter. You just can't keep 'em penned

in, and you can't keep 'em barred out. They have reached the pest

stage and are incorrigible. Now I didn't expect to get much out of

them anyhow," continued Welborn. "If I could find a home for them,

where they would earn their keep, I would be willing to give them to

such a party. Oh, I know it sounds sort of mushy," he hastened to

explain as he noted the questioning look on David's countenance, "but

I killed their mother for raiding our truckpatch and hogpen and I

found these little fellows up near the den, starving and unable to

fend for themselves. I took them home, fed them milk and bread and

sugar and brought them up to where they are. But they have reached the

stage where something must be done. As you see, they are hard to pen

up and it's worse to turn them loose. Life to them is one continuous

round of wrestling, scrapping, knocking over anything that's loose,

and tearing up anything in reach. Whipping them does no good. They cry

and beg until you are sorry and then it's to do all over again. I just

couldn't kill them; it would be like killing a pet dog. So I just

thought that if I could find someone to take them and care for them,

it would be good riddance and give me time to go back to my work."

"Well, that solves the problem," said the midget, gleefully. "I've got

your party. He's old Fisheye Gleason right here with the show. We can

deal with that old buzzard as freely and as profitably as if we were

in a cutthroat pawnshop. Hey, you fellows," he called to some passing

laborers, "have any of you seen old Fisheye in the last hour?"

"Fisheye is linin' up the wagons in the menag," said one of the men.

"Er he may be up at the marquee tellin' the boss where to route the

show," said another. "Maybe he's got Beatty cornered, tellin' him a

new plan fer workin' the cats this afternoon," leered another. The

leader pointed to the far end of the big animal tent.

"I've got him located," said David. "Now you fix that slat so the

bears won't leave for the next hour and we'll work on Fisheye. He has

been with this plant ever since Uncle Ben took it out as a wagon show.

Hear him tell it, he set Barnum up in business and loaned the Ringling

boys their first money. Fisheye is a romancer, unhampered by facts.

But he's a wise old man at that.

"Fisheye Gleason still has his first dollar. He wears the same

corduroy pants that Uncle Ben gave him on his twenty-first birthday.

If we had the time he would tell us his personal experiences with

every celebrity in the circus world. We haven't the time, and we've

got to work fast and cautious.

"Now Fisheye would balk and walk away on us if we offered him these

bears for nothing; he just wouldn't understand it. He dickers in

animals a little; trains 'em and has 'em doing things right away. He

likes 'em and they like old Fisheye. Why, he can take these little

bears and have 'em turning somersaults, dancing, and climbing to their

perches in no time. Then he sells 'em into some big act.

"Fisheye is our meat for this play, but don't sell out too quick."

Leaving the cubs to the further destruction of their cage, the

prospective salesmen wended their way through a maze of sidewalls,

poles, unplaced wagons, cages. On past the refreshment booth that was

setting up in the central area; past a score of elephants, swaying in

contentment over the morning hay; past camels, llamas, zebras, and

other luminaries, to the far end of the big tent where a group of

laborers were aiding two elephants to line up the last of the cages

and vans in a proper circle around the enclosure.

It was all confusing enough to the big Westerner, but the little man

knew where to go. He pressed forward to where a little, old, dried up

"razorback" was regaling two of the workmen with words of experience

if not wisdom.

"'En I told Shako," he declared with emphasis, "that he never could

win back old Mom's confidence, till he got a big armload of sugarcane

en doled hit out to her. En shore enough when we got to Little Rock

and Shako got holt of some sugarcane, he win that old elephant's

respect instanter. En that ain't all! When we got to Memphis en hit

into that big storm, why ole Mom--" But the audience died away to one

man as the midget's voice interrupted.

"Say, Fisheye, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Mr. Welborn. Meet

Mr. Welborn, Mr. Gleason. Mr. Welborn here dickers a little in native

animals and has a couple of the slickest, fattest, neatest bear cubs

I've seen in years. He's got too much business to give any time to

training them and I told him of your success with animals and he wants

to make a deal with you."

"What kind of a deal? And where's yer bars?" Fisheye was alert to the

business up to knowing the full import of the deal.

"They are out here in a coop--on a trailer. He brought them down out

of the mountains this morning."

"Did ye ketch 'em this mornin'?" queried Fisheye as he followed the

two salesmen to the truck.

"Naw, he's had 'em in training for two months. Best of all, he knows

how to take care of their hair, how to feed 'em. Look, there they are,

alike as two peas and ready to climb a pole or turn a somersault."

Fisheye was peering through the slats. "I wish we had 'em out whar I

could see 'em better. Now what's yer deal, Prince? Ye said somethin'

about a deal?"

"Well, it's like this, Fisheye. Mr. Welborn could go right on training

these bruins and peddle them through an ad in _Billboard_ for a sure

two hundred smackers, surely by Thanksgiving--"

"Two hundred nothin's," retorted the wary Fisheye, who was not to let

a fancy price go by without protest. "Thar's no bar in the world wuth

a hundred dollars. Why up in the Yallerstone, they offer to give 'em

away!"

"Sure they do, or did last year. They are the old mangy bears that

bother tourists, Jesse James bears, that they want to get rid of. But

they wouldn't sell you a cub for love or money. Bears are scarce this

year. They hint of a bear famine up there.

"And anyhow, you didn't let me finish. Why if you owned these bears

and had 'em climbing an injun ladder right up to their perch in the

animal act, had 'em dancing, turning somersaults, you would ask a half

grand for them and never bat an eye. They would be worth it, and you

know it. But rather than go through the work of getting them ready,

Mr. Welborn is willing to take an even hundred for the two. Better

still, he'll let you make a note for the hundred due in ninety

days--or say Christmas. By that time you've got the bears sold and

your note paid, and jingling the difference."

Fisheye was squinting through the slats. "I wish we had 'em out whar a

man could see what he's buying."

"Haven't you got an empty cage where we could turn them out in the

daylight?" asked the sales manager.

"Shore I have. I jist got pie Rip's cage all cleaned out an ready fer

what come."

"Well, get it open. Cut loose the trailer, Mr. Welborn, and we will

back it in by hand. Here, Happy, you and Joe help push this trailer in

to where Fisheye shows you. These cubs need initiating anyhow."

The trailer was unhooked and carefully backed in through a passage

laid out by the versatile Fisheye. A door was opened in one of the

unplaced cages and the little bears pushed out into a new world. They

scrambled to a far corner, faced about, and waited for the next move.

"There they are," cried the midget enthusiastically, "black as

midnight, fat as butterballs and ready for work." To be sure, the

little salesman could not see up to the level of the cage floor, but

his sales talk never ceased. "How much am I offered, men," he called

out in a voice simulating an auctioneer. "How much for the two?"

"Now you jist cut out yer comedy until I can squint 'em over," said

Fisheye impatiently. "Kin ye move 'em around a little, Mister?"

Welborn reached his hand through the bars and clucked to the little

scared bruins. Hesitatingly they crept up to the extended hand and

then sat up. They were surely butterballs as the midget proclaimed.

"You can't tell which is Amos and which is Andy. Can you, Fisheye?"

challenged the salesman.

"Naw! I don't know 'em by name but that un is the oldest. In twins or

even litters thar's one that's oldest. That un is the oldest, he

starts to doin things fust. Now you jist tell me all over again,

what's yer proposition about me owning these little b'ars?"

"Well, it is as I said. Mr. Welborn here will take your note for an

even hundred for both bears. The note will be due Christmas. We can go

right over to the ticket wagon and have Lew draw the note, payable at

the Wabash Valley Trust Company for an even hundred, and the cubs are

yours. And here's another thing," David motioned Fisheye over to

another wagon and out of Mr. Welborn's hearing. "Here's the rest of

the plan. I am going to offer this man Welborn ninety dollars for your

note. He won't be bothered by having to send it to the bank, and he'll

take my offer. There's where I come in; I make a ten spot without any

investment."

"How come?" squawked the amazed Fisheye. "Ye don't own no bars, ye

ain't out no cash, en ye draw a sawbuck. Now jist why can't this

mountain man take ninety dollars in folding money offen me and cut out

all this bankin' stuff. I don't want any note at the Wabash Valley

nohow. They'd jist harass me into payin' it. Jist cut all that out and

let him take the foldin' money."

"Well, maybe he will," sighed the super salesman. "But I thought as

cheap as they were, I ought to have a ten spot out of it. But I resign

in your favor. It's all among us folks anyhow. Just you go over and

spot him the ninety and see if you win."

Fisheye went back of a neighboring cage to search himself for the

needed cash. The salesman turned to Welborn who in the whole deal had

said never a word. "It worked out all right," chuckled the midget.

"Fisheye is saying spells over his bankroll and is kissing some of the

tens and twenties a fond and reluctant farewell. He will offer you

ninety dollars and you take it. It's better than I'd hoped. You see,

Fisheye has his money sewed to him and it makes it hard to acquire.

Some of it will be plastered together, for Fisheye hasn't taken a bath

since part of the Barnum-Jenny Lind Special went off the bridge at

Wheeling. The little bears will always know their Fisheye, day or

night."

At this juncture Fisheye returned and counted down the cash. Two of

the twenties and one ten, were printed in the early twenties.

"And now, Mister Welborn, we will have that cup of coffee and I must

go to work. I want you to see the Kid Show and the Big Show as my

guest. I'll have the boys park your machine and trailer right back of

our show where it will be safe until you want it. After the main

performance we will have dinner, say about four o'clock and we will

call it a day."

"I think you should have this money," said Welborn as they drank their

coffee. He handed Fisheye's keepsakes to David. "I did not expect

anything and I am satisfied that the bears are in good hands."

"Not a cent," said David, waving the money aside. "I still owe you

more than I can ever repay. Besides all this, we've done Fisheye a

good turn. He'll have those cubs doing things before snow flies."

"He has always wanted a Happy Family Act, and now he's got a start.

From time to time he will add native animals like foxes, raccoons,

badgers, and maybe a porky or two and label them 'Native Americans'

and sell them to someone, cage and all, before next season."

"Fisheye is versatile. Every winter he has a bunch of misfit dogs, and

out of the outfit he'll get some smart ones that will train well. He

is good, too, on a dog and pony act. Once a zebra got its leg broke in

swinging one of the big poles in place. It looked like there was

nothing to do but shoot it. But Fisheye salvaged the cripple; he

taught it to get up and down with the leg in splints; cured him,

except for a slight limp, and finally sold the beast as the only zebra

that was ever broken to harness. Fisheye is a grand old liar but he's

a fine animal man."

2

Circuses--the big ones, with menageries--have a tradition: "the show

must go on." Storms, fires, rail disasters, major accidents--even

death--shall not deter. The show _must_ go on. The Great International

had lived fully up to this tradition. In all of its growing years, it

had met and overcome any and all obstacles that might hinder its

progress and promises. In the years past, a versatile routing agent

could and did avoid many minor financial losses by routing the show to

other fields. If a mine strike prevailed in one section, that district

was missed by careful routings; if the boll weevil prevailed, the

cotton belt was a closed field; if wheat failed in the Northwest, or

mills were closed in Gary, the bookings were deflected to other marts.

But the year 1932 was different; fertile fields there were not. It was

not a case of dodging; it was a plain case of trying to hit. And there

was no place.

The Great International was making a brave effort to stem the tide of

depression. Its great spread of canvas billowed over many new and

novel attractions. It boasted of the largest herd of tame elephants in

all the world. Its aerial acts were new to the circus lovers of

America. Its grand opening was a riot of splendid colorings and

beauty, never surpassed in all pageantry. Yet old Depression was

winning at every stand. Historic Cheyenne, with its years of

background in gathering humanity to its playdays, was little better

than the rest. Business prudence dictated the routings from here on,

and the route led to winter quarters. It was as David Lannarck said:

"We play the U.P. to Omaha and then home."

Sam Welborn, the man from the mountains, enjoyed the Kid Show,

immensely. The trained cockatoos, the big snakes, the many freak

people, the brief but snappy minstrel show, were some of the varied

features. But best of all, Welborn watched the antics of his little

friend of the morning adventure. He came on the little stage, first as

a swaggering general, then as an admiral, last as a real doughboy of

the United States Army. Dancing, bowing, and waving the flag, he won

generous applause. Later, he came on as Cupid with bow and arrow, and

made some fine shots into a target representing a heart. His song

number was appropriate to this act.

Following this performance, David conducted his friend to the marquee

of the Big Show and passed him in to greater glories. "I will see you

before the performance is over," he said in parting.

The Big Show was not cut or curtailed. From the grand opening to the

closing number the full production was given without a hitch. Sam

Welborn, seated in the reserve section was back to boyhood days. He

watched the many features of the bewildering panorama with childish

enthusiasm. It was a great show. Just before the finale, he was joined

by his little friend.

"Our next stop will be the dining car," said Davy as they followed the

crowd out the main entrance. "I have something I want to talk over

with one of you Westerners and I think you are the man."

"Maybe I am not a Westerner," said Welborn quietly.

"Why you live out here, don't you?" retorted Davy.

"Yes, I live out here, a great ways out, clear out to the rim of

things. If it wasn't for the mountains hemming the horizon, our 'wide

open spaces' would be without limit. I live beyond the Medicine Bow

Mountains over next to North Park. My nearest neighbor is two miles

away. I am fifteen miles from a filling station."

"Why, I didn't know there was a place in America that was fifteen

miles from a filling station. The oil companies are surely overlooking

a bet. Anyhow, every word you speak confirms my opinion that you live

at the right place." The two had arrived at the dining tent where a

head waiter was assigning the guests to their places among the many

tables.

"We'll sit here, Tony, if you don't mind," said Davy as he ushered his

guest to a table apart from the rest. He carried a high chair from

another table and signaled a waiter. "This is what I have in mind, Mr.

Welborn; I want to run away--run away from the yaps and yokels and the

gawkers and get out where nobody can see me and where I can act just

like a man. I am twenty-nine years old. For fifteen years I have been

the 'objective' of the gawking squad. I'm sick of it. I want to run

away when I see a crowd coming. When I am on the platform, I see

nothing but dumb faces; if I am on the ground, I see nothing but legs.

It's too tough a lifetime assignment. You understand I am not

complaining of my lot as a midget, but I am fed up on the role. I want

a rest--a change. And just now, is a good time to make the change from

a game where I've grown stale. My financial affairs are in good shape,

thanks to one of the finest men in all America, and I want to lay off

this freak business until I can look on it without vomiting.

"Two things woo me to this country: your wide open spaces, where

seeing a human being is reduced to the very lowest limit; and second,

I find that in playing vaudeville houses in the winter time, I develop

a sinus trouble that sticks with me until I get back here to the

mountains where it disappears entirely. Yes sir! When I hit the table

lands of Denver, Pocatello, Casper, Rawling, Laramie, or this town,

old Sinus passes right out of the system. For the last five years I

have been planning to come to these Highlands and dig in--where

humanity is the scarcest. Just awhile ago, you described the exact

spot of my dreams. Now what's your reaction? Can I do it?"

"Do you mean that you would want to spend the winter with me, back in

the hills?" The big man's question was quietly put but he stopped

eating, awaiting the answer.

"Sure, that's what I mean. Next winter, next summer, and then some. I

want to get away from this," waving his hand in a circle to include

the showgrounds. "And get to that," and he pointed west. "I want to

get out where I can wear overalls; have a dog--or maybe five dogs--out

where I can ride a hoss and chaw scrap-tobacco and spit like a man. I

want to get away from being gawked at during all my waking hours. This

thing here, is getting on my nerves. I feel like I want to commit

murder when a simpering Jane looks at me, snickers and says, 'ain't he

cute?' I want a ball bat to club every country jake doctor that looks

me over and asks about my pituitary gland. Gee, gosh, but I do want to

get away from that. I want to exchange these human nitwits for cows,

calves, sheep, hosses,--broncho hosses, pintos--but not little

round-bellied shetlands. I want to boss around among chickens, geese,

turkeys, pigs--"

"How about a couple of burros?" interrupted the listener.

"That's it! Burros! I hadn't thought of burros--me on one of

'em--slapping with my hat to get two miles to the gallon! That's it,

burros! Two of them is better!"

"And how about snows? There may be a snow yet this month that is

deeper than you are tall."

"Whoopee for the snow!" yelled the midget. "Me with a mackinaw and

boots, and mittens and a shovel. Snow! Clean white snow! I love it!

But I haven't seen any clean snow for years. All that you ever see now

is the dirty slush that they scrape off the streetcar tracks. I sure

would be disappointed, Mister Welborn, if you didn't have a lot of

clean snow. And you have some sort of a shack, don't you? And we can

cut a lot of wood, and have plenty of blankets--en books and

magazines. And we can haul out a lot of grub, and a first-aid kit and

such. And you don't have a big family, do you, Mister Welborn, and I

wouldn't be much in the way, would I?"

"No, I am all alone," said Welborn trying as best he could to answer

the many questions. "I have no family and I do have a shack that is

very comfortable. It has a fireplace and a stove. I have plenty of

blankets and wood and grub. But what about sickness--home-sickness!

What about the terrors of loneliness that sometimes drive people mad!

The wide open spaces have their handicaps, as I well know. For a year

or more I have had just that experience. I have suffered, along with

the joys of being wholly alone. Truly, I went into it with a bigger

aversion to human society than you have, and I have not escaped.

"Yes, I have a shack, a good one, and a few score acres, but it's not

a ranch. It's not stocked, has no barn or stables, and no crop but the

native grass. It was a dreamer's plaything and I bought it with scant

savings that should have been spent on another project. But it looked

like I just had to own it in order to carry on."

"What's your other project?" asked Davy, curious to know why a man

with a ranch would not be ranching.

"Mining," replied Welborn. "Placer mining back in a canyon or gulch

that never felt a human footfall before I stumbled into it. It's a

limited thing--limited to this ravine that is not more than fifty feet

wide and a half a mile long. It was probably the old stream bed back

before the Tertiary ages, but when the troubled mountain took another

surge, it was left high and dry, twenty feet above water. I was

working it this summer but the little bear cubs took most of my time.

It takes a full day to lug enough water up to the canyon levels to

wash out a pan of gravel. It takes the big part of the day to lower a

sack of gravel down to the water, but at that, I have made wages. Now,

I have an old rocker that was abandoned in the stream bed, but I need

a pump so I can use the rocker right on the gravel bar. As it is a

one-man job, it should be a force pump with a gasoline engine. All

this costs money and it takes a long time to pan out enough dust to

pay the bill. Really I had the money, but I just had to spend it in

buying the cabin and land that was the only entrance to the placer

bed. I just couldn't work the one without owning the other. Then too,

I will have to blast a hole in the rock wall to get the pump located,

after that, one year is all I want. One year's work will clean up all

that one man ought to have. Of course I have practically lost this

summer on account of the bear cub capers, and winter is at hand, but

the outlook is better, thanks to your diplomacy and aid. With the

money, I can live this winter and accomplish many things. By spring, I

should be under full production."

"But you wouldn't stay up there in that solitude with no person around

but an old grouch that probably would not have a word to say for days

at a time?"

"Yes I think I would," said Davy slowly but firmly. "I think I can

risk my case as to care and friendship with a man who is considerate

to little bears."

Some of the circus people had finished the meal and were filing out of

the tent, but Davy stayed, grimly determined to win his point. "About

what would be the cost of this proposed mine equipment, and could I do

some ranching around there while this was going on?"

"I figure it will take three hundred dollars to buy the pump,

pump-jack and engine; these, with a few lengths of hose and some

dynamite, are all that's required. Of course there will be some labor

costs in getting the pump installed, but three hundred will pay all

bills."

"Is that all? Why we can get that amount from Lew up at the ticket

wagon. He will cash my check for that amount and be glad to do it.

Holdups, you know, pass up checks. Therefore, Lew likes checks. When

do you want it? Let's get it now while there is a lull in business,

and you can take the pump and pipe and other gadgets right back with

you in the truck."

"Do you mean that you will go with me--now--on the truck? It's more

than a hundred miles to Carter's filling station and fully twenty

miles more over the roughest roads--or rather no roads--to the Gillis

place and then two miles more. Why, it's an all-night trip if we were

to start right now!"

"No, I am to stick with the show to Omaha. We are to be in North Bend,

tomorrow; Grand Island, Friday; Omaha, Saturday; and then the payoff.

I will have some things to do in Omaha. I want to telephone home and

ask about some friends; I will talk to my financial boss and learn if

he is still weathering the financial storm and then I am ready for the

big jump out to your place. Can you meet me here with this

truck-trailer outfit, say about Wednesday? I will have about three

hundred pounds of baggage, and we must stock up with grub against

getting snowed in. Can you meet me here Wednesday? Or, if you are too

busy, can you send someone?"

"Why sure I'll meet you--Wednesday or any other day--here or any other

place you say." The man of the mountains was absorbing some of the

little man's enthusiasm. "Sure I'll meet you, but you work so fast and

drive right through that I can hardly keep up. Why, we hardly drive

through with one thing until you have another. If I seem indifferent

and not very responsive, it's because I haven't caught up yet. Think

of it! Ten hours ago I was coming out of the hills with a serious

problem that was hindering my work. Now, I am rid of the problem, have

ninety dollars in cash; have the offer of all the funds I need, and

prospects of a fine companion all through the dreaded winter. The

change from poverty to riches has been so rapid that it's more like a

dream than a reality. And here's the worst feature of the whole

business," continued Welborn as the two made their way to the ticket

wagon. "Here's the fly in the ointment. My side of the equation has

been nothing but plus, plus. I am fearful that yours will be more than

minus. You are tired of the mob; you want to get away from the crowds.

You have a mental picture of the ranching business; horses, cattle,

cowboys, knee-deep grass billowing through the great open spaces. It's

your dream to land right in the midst of such surroundings, and your

disappointments will be terrible to endure. I have no such ranch and

there's none nearer than ten miles of my place. Most of the cattle

nowadays are purebred; the cowboys are cow hands, feeders, and

care-takers--without a mount--and many of them never saw a pair of

chaps and few wear ten gallon hats like the picture books show. That

stuff belongs to the rodeos and dude ranches. Why the Diamond A Ranch

over on Mad Trapper Fork is a model for any manufacturing plant. It

has bookkeepers, salesmen, feeders from 'aggy' schools. You won't like

that; it's not up to the standards of your dream. Of course you will

like old Jim Lough of the B-line Ranch. He's ninety and used to be a

tough hombre of the old school. But now he's out of the picture, his

son Larry runs the ranch, and he is soon to give way to a young

college girl who is up on foreign markets and the like.

"My fears are that what you see and experience will not be the picture

of beauty and action that you had dreamed about. My poor little place,

without livestock or feed--or action--will be a terrible

disappointment."

"Well we will make a ranch out of it. The building of a ranch will be

more pleasure than the possession of the finished product," rejoined

Davy stoutly. "We will raise some feed, buy a few sheep and from there

on, watch us grow! But early in this venture, I must get me a pony--a

pinto, preferably--small enough for me to ride and big enough to go

places. Then I'm all set. Hi, Lew!" The midget had climbed up on the

wheel of the ticket wagon and was tapping on the window. "Cash my

check for three hundred dollars and meet my podner, Mister Welborn."

"Your partner in what?" queried the accommodating Lew, as he slid back

the window and began to count out the cash. "What's your racket now,

Prince? Have you hooked up with Ben-a-Mundi in that Crystal Readings

graft, or is it a short-change racket?" Lew aided Davy up to the shelf

where he could sign the check. "Better look out, Mister Welborn, your

partner here is a slicker--a regular city grafter. He skins his

friends just to keep in practice. Paying you this little lump is just

a bait. Later, he'll spring the trap for the big money." Lew slipped a

rubber band around the money and handed it to Davy.

"You had better look 'em over for counterfeit bills," retorted Davy as

he handed the money to Welborn. "This bird puts out more counterfeit

money than he does genuine. And say, Lew, you and Jess think of me

when you are huddled around the stove this winter with a lot of

razorbacks--me out in the great open spaces feeling fine, and clear of

mobs and nitwits. You fellows will have the razorbacks throw another

basket of cobs in the old smoky stove, and I and Mr. Welborn here,

will be toasting our feet before a log fire in the big fireplace--"

"Oh ho, it's that ranch thing that you have been chinning about for

the last five years," chuckled the treasurer of the Great

International. "How many calves will you brand next year? And where's

your chaps and your spurs? And say, that three hundred won't buy your

bridle, let alone a ranch and a hoss. You remember Carter, don't you,

Prince? The broncho-buster that we had in the grand opening last year.

Why his saddle cost an even grand and he paid fifty per for his

Stetsons. Where's your outfit, kid?"

"Why my outfit is still in the supply house in Omaha," countered the

midget. "I am to take it out when you and Jess come back through here

with the Adkins-Helstrom Great Congress of Living Wonders. I'll meet

you here on that date in my full regalia. Anyhow, much obliged, Lew,

and Mr. Welborn I will help you out with the car and trailer so that

you can load out tonight." Down at the edge of the lot where the city

streets pointed to the business district of the city, the ancient

model paused for the final conference between the new partners.

"Now what's your address, Mr. Welborn?" asked Davy, searching about

for pencil and paper. "If any of our plans go haywire, I would want to

let you know."

"And that's just another inconvenience in the business," replied

Welborn in a cautious manner. "My mail address is Adot. I get--"

"Adot? Adot? Where? What?" interposed the midget. "A dot on what?"

"The post office is Adot," replied the miner. "Capital _A-d-o-t_,

Adot. It was probably so named from its importance on the map. It's

just a wide spot in the road and a dirt road. We get mail twice a week

and I am fifteen miles away. Neither will the telegraph lines help;

there's no station nearer than this town. I have no telephone. The

only way I could be reached, would be for you to go to the

broadcasting station in Omaha and put through an S.O.S. on Tuesday

night, as I have a radio. But you would have to put the call in early

as I am going to be in this town bright and early Wednesday morning."

"That's the spirit," crowed the little man. "Both of us, right here in

Cheyenne, Wednesday morning. I will be here unless this Union Pacific

folds up and quits. Why when you come to think of it, I wouldn't want

to be where there was mail deliveries, telephones, and such; that's

what I am running away from, that and the mob. Good-by, Sam," he

called out, as the car took the green lights. "I'll meet you here on

the A-Dot."

"Good-by, Prince," said the big man as the car got under way.

That night, an ancient model T followed by a ramshackle, home-made

trailer, pulled away from the shipping platforms of the Cheyenne

Outfitting & Supply Company loaded to the guards with pump, pump jack,

pipe, lag-screws, wrenches, hand drills, dynamite, fuses and caps, and

a hundredweight of groceries. Cramped under the wheel, driving as

carefully as his cargo would warrant, sat Sam Welborn, the second

happiest man west of the Missouri. The happiest man west of the big

river was flouncing around in his berth on the third section of the

Great International Circus trains bound for North Bend, Nebraska,

planning his outfit to be purchased in a few days at Omaha.

3

An hour in advance of the arrival of the Pacific Limited, Sam Welborn

paced the platform of the Union Pacific passenger station at Cheyenne,

awaiting the arrival of his little partner from Omaha. He was a

different man in appearance from the one who, the week before, had

come down from the mountains in charge of two obstreperous bear cubs.

On that occasion, he had worn overalls, a sheepskin jacket, heavy,

clumsy shoes, and an eared cap of ancient vintage. On the day of his

appointment, he was dressed as the ordinary business man about to take

the train for Ogden or points west. His fairly well-worn, black,

pin-striped suit, neatly pressed, fitted his six-foot-two frame as if

built by a professional clothier; a rolled-collar shirt, a blue polka

dot tie, freshly shined shoes, and a soft crush hat completed the

outfit. Over his arm he carried an overcoat. Other prospective

travelers wore their topcoats, but Sam Welborn was of the outdoors.

He had parked the Ford with its trailer attachment at the west end of

the platform. If his partner's impedimentia was not too bulky, the

ancient model was ready for another trek to the hills. Back and forth

along the long brick platform he strode in the bright autumn sun. It

was no sloven's gait. An observer would have said that somewhere,

sometime, in his career of maybe thirty years, he had faced a

hardboiled old topper who insisted with piratical invectives that

"heads up, shoulders back, stomachs in" was the proper posture for

humans who were eating government grub and drawing government pay.

Very true, Welborn was not in immediate need of exercise. In the last

week he had worked, and worked hard, during every daylight hour. He

had not slept in the last thirty hours. But these were figments,

incidents, to be disregarded now that success was just back of the

curtain. Now he was to meet the little man who had made this prospect

of success possible. Now his greetings must be cordial and

appreciative. Nothing should be left undone to overcome the

disappointments the midget must endure. In his first meeting with

Davy, Welborn had tried to discourage the plan of "holing up" in a

remote section, far removed from the things to which he was

accustomed. He pictured himself as an old grouch, soured on the world,

and surely uncompanionable. He dwelt on the lonely hours, the big

snows, and other bad features but it was of no avail. Davy was on his

way. In other days, in vastly different surroundings, Sam Welborn had

known the tactful duties of a genial host; now he would revert to that

role.

David Lannarck was the first passenger to alight as number twenty-one

came thundering in from the east. The porter helped with his grips.

Davy searched the platform for his friend.

"Why, why, I didn't know you! You look like another fellow!" he

exclaimed, as Welborn reached for his grips. "You are younger, better

looking, different."

"I am younger, but not different," chuckled Welborn. "I've been taking

a tonic--the tonic of hard work. I've nearly completed my big job, and

I've located your horse for you."

"Hurray!" yelled Davy, "And can I get him right away?"

"There you go, jumping the gun again. Why that little horse is a

hundred miles from here. He's not broken to ride. He might not suit

your fancy, and it might take a lot of diplomacy to get him. He

belongs to a girl."

The baggage--two trunks, a showman's keyster, two suitcases, a big

duffle bag and handbags--was loaded on trailer and backseat. "Well, I

don't see much room for groceries," said Davy, as he climbed in.

"We've got to have pickles and beans, and plenty of vitamins and

calories to balance the ration. Really, before starting, I should have

consulted Admiral Byrd on outfitting a polar expedition. Aren't we to

stock up on food--here--or somewhere?" He questioned, as he noted

that Welborn drove across the tracks and away from the city.

"The eating question is practically solved," said Welborn. "Solved

through the providence and frugality of good neighbors. They are

overstocked and it's up to us to reduce the surplus. I took out rice,

sugar, salt, and a lot of extras on my last trip, and with their

surplus of meat, fish, fowl, flour, fruits--canned and preserved,

vegetables--canned and raw, we should live like pigs at a full trough.

However, if you need tobacco, chewing gum, toothpaste, any special

kind of medicine, we can get that at the Last Chance, further down the

road."

"No, I'll not need any such sidelines for many a week, but I thought

you said we did not have any neighbors? Who runs this fine market and

canning factory out in the wide open spaces?"

Welborn laughed. "Wait till we get out of this traffic and on a

straightaway; there's much to tell and we've got a lot of time. I have

arranged for dinner about twenty miles down this road, and we will

push things pretty hard this afternoon so that we can eat a late

supper right at this Market and then you will understand.

"You see, this old car, loaded like she is, and pulling a trailer, can

do about twenty-five miles per, on this federal road, but it's not all

federal road, and the last fifteen miles will take a lot of good luck

and fully two hours to make the grade. I would like to get home in

daylight."

The general direction of the national roadway, was west. The traffic

to and from Cheyenne at this noon hour was not heavy. Tourists were

still touring, notwithstanding the fact that this section of the

country might be snowed under at any time; truckloads of livestock,

were encountered, and far down the highway, where the traffic thinned

down, the partners met a big band of sheep that required care and

diplomacy in passing. Presently, Welborn turned the car into a

driveway at a neat farm home.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Yes, I am always hungry, although I had breakfast somewhere this side

of Julesburg."

"Well, I arranged for dinner here, and we will also stock up on gas

and oil for the long trek. Of course I carry an extra five gallons in

the can on the running board, but this is about our last place to

stock up on eats."

A woman came to the door. "You are right on time," she said. "I hope

you have brought your appetites, as the lunch is just ready."

Somebody was thoughtful; there was a high chair at the dining table.

After a very satisfying meal, Welborn shoved back his chair. He found

a piece of wrapping paper that he spread in front of Davy and drew a

rough map.

"We are near the line of two states," he said. "The Medicine Bow

Mountains are here. Geologists point out that this range so

interrupted the route of the Continental Divide that it turned it back

to the north in a big curve and made it hard to find. We go through a

pass in the range. On this side, we run into the little streams that

form the Laramie River. On yon side is the North Platte. Both run

north and both find sources in the North Park. Those who know, say

that for beauty and grandeur no section of the world beats the North

Park country. Personally I do not know, as my contacts have been

limited. It is said, too, that this is the northern limits of gold. At

this point, the mountains seemed to have changed their content, or

else those to the north were made at a different era. All these things

are speculative and have their exceptions, as I well know.

"North Park, however, is a great grazing country. Its grass wealth may

be greater than its mineral. The government owns the land, except

tracts here and there suitable for farming. Our destination is the

Silver Falls Project, a fine body of rolling land, suitable for either

grazing or farming. It was laid out in convenient tracts for

homesteads. Each parcel was a half section. If there was rough land

adjoining a tract, that was included for good measure. It was opened

for settlers and many came, but none stayed. There was no central

organization to hold them--no church to rally around--no one

established a central trading post--no outstanding personage to

collect and hold, as is always the case in community building in

America. Then, too, there were no roads; therefore no market outlet.

The road over which we are going, is the only inlet and there's no

outlet. A half mile of blasting and building would have made an

entrance to the Tranquil Meadows district and to trails and highways

that led to market towns in two states, but the blasting and building

was never done. The Silver Falls Project never grew big enough to make

its decline noticeable.

"Of those who came to try it out, only four stuck to a final deed. Two

of these are at this end of the project. Carter runs a filling station

at the forks of the road and Withrow, next to him, hunts, traps, and

plays a fiddle. I acquired the two tracts at the far end of the

project and Gillis, our enterprising neighbor, owns two parcels next

to me and operates the abandoned tracts under grazing allotments. This

is a real ranch; small, as compared to others, but modeled as a farm

in the East, for Gillis is a real farmer. I make the guess that when

you grow homesick and tired of the loneliness at my place you will

headquarter at the Gillis place, in fact I have made that kind of

arrangement with them. They have a telephone, a radio, a phonograph,

and take plenty of newspapers and magazines, and, best of all, there

is a kindly, enterprising woman there to manage, to cook and can the

fruits and vegetables, and do the homey things that makes life fit to

live.

"They have cows, chickens, turkeys, pigs, and raise plenty of feed.

But they are an oasis in a desert. Except for our place, they have no

neighbors within fifteen miles. Mrs. Gillis is a worker and a planner.

She sells pigs, turkeys and calves, in Laramie and Cheyenne, more than

one hundred miles away; she has a working arrangement with the

filling station down at the roadside, whereby they sell quite a lot

of her canned stuff and preserves. She's always got something to sell

and sells it, market or no market.

"I depend on them for almost everything. Even the car and trailer out

there belongs to them. I bought a stock of chickens off of them, and I

rent a cow and calf from them. Really, while you have come out here to

my place, you will subsist for the most part off the Gillis family."

"Well the outlook gets better and better each time you add a chapter,"

said Davy as they walked out to the car. "How many in the Gillis

family?"

"Just two, Jim and his wife. But staying with them is Landy--Landy

Spencer, Mrs. Gillis' brother. He's older, is an oldtime cow hand that

has retired, when Mrs. Gillis will let him. He's been in the West

since boyhood and knows the game, but doesn't play it. He just putters

around, when Mrs. Gillis isn't after him to do something, and that's

the reason he stays up at our place most of the time. You will like

Landy. He is the one that located your horse over at Lough's B-line

Ranch. I had told him of your wanting a little horse, and this week,

while Gillis and I were blasting out the rock and setting the pump,

Landy strayed over to Lough's and located the nag. Landy says as soon

as he sees you, he can tell instantly if the horse will fit."

"I've got a saddle in that keyster, and he can measure by that," said

Davy, "and anyhow I don't want a little, low-headed, round-bellied

hoss that can't go places. If he is a cowboy, he will know the kind."

For five or more miles, the route led over a national highway. Then

Welborn turned to the right, drove a few hundred feet and stopped.

"Look out here to the left" he said. "See that big mound with its head

in the clouds? That's Longs Peak, the highest in the country. On a

clear day, it can be seen from Cheyenne. From here on, you are to see

mountains and more mountains, but Longs Peak is the daddy of them

all."

Now the roadway was not so good, but the ancient car labored on in

full vigor. Fences had disappeared; the roadway no longer held to

section lines but took the course of least resistance, generally

following the stream bed which it crossed and re-crossed many times.

The direction was generally west and up. Twice on the trip, Welborn

took a bucket out of the car, dipped water from the stream, and cooled

the heated engine. On one of these occasions, he washed his face in

the cooling waters, explaining that he did this to overcome

drowsiness.

Davy saw everything. This was his country. Except for meeting a lone

herder in charge of a band of sheep, they had not met a human being in

the last fifty miles. Yet there was plenty of life. They were never

out of sight of cattle--not the big herds as Davy thought it would

be--just a few here and there. There were some horses around the

little pole barns off the roadway. High up on distant hills, bands of

sheep were grazing.

Overhead, but not too high, hawks skimmed the levels or tilted over

knolls and hills in search of a quarry; larks gathered in flights for

a final powwow before beginning the long trip southward. Magpies

flitted through the shrubbery of the creek banks. In crossing a little

wooden bridge near a waterfall, Davy saw an object in the water, then

in the air, and then in the water where the spray fell and where foam

formed. Later, he was to know this little slate-colored bird as the

water ouzel, a bird that was neither wader nor swimmer, yet took his

subsistence from the foam and spray.

"That road leads to Laramie," said Welborn pointing out a trail to the

right. "Laramie is closer to our place, and one less mountain range to

cross."

"Why didn't we come that way?" asked Davy.

"Well, the big circus didn't show in Laramie, and I had to get to

Cheyenne for contact. There I met a fellow who freighted me down with

pump tools and I had to take back some of the wrenches I borrowed.

Then this fellow made an appointment for Cheyenne, and I would not

have missed the appointment for anything."

"Oh yeah," said Davy, "I suppose out here, the matter of a few

mountain ranges is all in a day's work. Anyhow, we are seeing some

country, and the lizzie is going fine."

For several miles it was downhill and around many hairpin turns. Then

many small streams were crossed and followed. Several times the sun

seemed to set, only to reappear again through a cleft in the hills.

Where the terrain was level enough, hundreds of jack rabbits were

seen. They were not the nervous, string-halt jacks of the prairies,

but the smaller black-tailed variety.

And then they came to a store and filling station. "Well of all the

places for a filling station," exclaimed Davy. "Many times I've seen

'em located at places where there was little business, but I never

before saw one located where there was absolutely no business. What's

the big idea?"

"He is probably like another fellow I know," answered Welborn. "He

wanted to get somewhere, where he wouldn't see anyone. But at that, he

does some business, seemingly as much as he wants."

More gas was taken on, and the reserve tank filled.

"Adot is on ahead about eight miles, but we turn here for the final

dash."

The final dash was but a creep. Except for the bridge over Ripple

Creek, the roadway was just a trail. The sun had gone down for good.

The lights, none too good, revealed little of the hazards. It was a

long, steady grind, mostly uphill. At last a light appeared ahead. A

dog barked. A lantern shone. Welborn turned the car through a gate.

"Gillis Station," he called out to the midget who had remained very

quiet.

"Have them drive up next to the house," a woman's voice called from

within. "We will throw a canvas over the trailer. They will stay here

tonight. It's too cold to stay in a house that has had no fire."

"There's your orders, Welborn. Drive right over here next to the

chimney. Howdy, Mr. Lannarck, you and Welborn get out and limber up

for there's prospect for a fine supper." It was Gillis speaking as he

aided Davy out of the cab.

"I am Davy to you folks," said the little man as he stamped around to

limber up from the long confinement. "You are Mrs. Gillis, I know, and

you are Landy, aren't you? Will I fit that hoss that the girl owns?"

"You are about a half-hand short right now," the old man chuckled,

"but after a few hikes up to Pinnacle Point, you should fit that

little hoss jist like a clothespin fits the line."

It was a fine supper. There was also a home-made high chair that just

fit Davy's needs.

"Before I go to bed," said Davy earnestly and firmly, "I am going to

write down that supper menu and send it to poor old Lew and Jess, who

are wearing out shoe leather trying to find a restaurant where the

steaks aren't made out of saddle skirts and the potatoes and the

candle grease have parted company. Lemme see, there was fried chicken

and the best cream gravy I ever tasted, mashed potatoes, creamed peas,

fluffier biscuits than those birds ever saw, two kinds of jelly,

strawberry preserves, some other preserves, and apple pie with whipped

cream on it.

"A long time ago--it was my first year in vaudeville--Mr. Singer gave

his midget performers a dinner at one of the celebrated New York

restaurants, I think they called the place Shanley's, a swell place

with a private dining-room, lots of waiters, food in courses. Well,

that big feed would be a tramp's handout compared with this dinner

tonight." Davy was either talking to himself or was trying to interest

Welborn in the conversation as the two were undressing by the light of

the kerosene lamp in Mrs. Gillis' spare room. Welborn seemed not

interested. He was soon in bed and snoring.

"Feathers, by golly," muttered Davy as he snuggled down deep in the

bed.

4

The Gillis menage was well managed. Mrs. Gillis saw to that. Jim, aged

fifty, slim of build, sinewy, even-tempered, quiet, willing, was the

farmer and handyman. Crops grew, orchards bloomed, vines bore a full

vintage, and bushes yielded because he made them do so. Without

splutter or fuss, he did his work, and liked to do it.

The teamwork of Mrs. Gillis was equally effective. One could not say

however that her work was done as quietly. Landy, the cow hand brother

was wont to say--not in her presence however--that "as a child, Alice

was sorta tongue-tied, and she has to ketch up somehow."

And Landy--well, Landy made his contributions. As a young cowboy,

Landy had had his fling. He came into the game as the cattle-sheep

wars were at their peak and he played it strenuously. But with it all,

Landy Spencer kept his moral slate fairly clean. Then as the sober

days of manhood came, and Landy witnessed the finish of the

improvident and foolish, he began to save and skimp. "Hit's the pore

house fer a cow hand," was his terse aphorism on the subject, and

Landy had never seen a "fitten" poor house.

Landy was working for the Crazy-Q outfit, at the time the government

proposed to open the Silver Falls Project. He looked it over and filed

on two of the homesteads. One for himself and one for James Gillis.

Then he went to Illinois where his younger sister and her husband were

share-cropping.

"Come out whar yu've got room, whar ye own it, whar you do it your

way. I'll pay freight on yer car to Laramie, and keep up the supplies

for three years. Then if you're not satisfied, I'll move ye back."

It was Landy too, that planned as to the cows and calves. He bought

purebred cows from the B-line folks, and sold them the big, weaned

calves. And in view of the fact that the calf sale in 1931 was larger

than Alice's big turkey sale to the dealers in Laramie by fully two

hundred dollars, Landy had a modicum of peace on finances. The Gillis

menage was well managed. It made money in a depression.

Davy was awakened by what he thought was gunfire. He bounded out of

bed and ran to the window. Day was breaking. In the dawnlight he saw

Welborn and Landy tinkering with the old model that had brought them

so valiantly through the mountains. She was backfiring her protests

but presently settled down to her accustomed smoothness. Davy hustled

into his clothes. Mrs. Gillis knocked on the door. "There is a pan and

water right here on the bench," she said. "I told them fellers not to

monkey with the old car, but Mr. Welborn is anxious to git started, he

thought he'd tune her up before breakfast."

Gillis came from the barn with a brimming bucket of milk. "Howja rest,

Davy?" he asked.

"Fine! I hit the feathers and never moved until I heard this

bombardment that I thought was an uprising of the Utes."

"Breakfast is ready," called Mrs. Gillis. "How do you want your eggs,

Davy?"

"I want them the way you fix 'em," the little man replied promptly.

"After that supper last night, I wouldn't have the nerve to tell you

anything about cooking."

Mrs. Gillis beamed her appreciation. "I hope you will tell that to Jim

and Landy. To hear them complain, you would think I was serving their

grub raw or burnt. Didn't the circus people feed ye?"

"A circus always hires good cooks. It buys the best meats in the local

markets, and that's about as far as they can go. The vegetables are

out of cans, except the potatoes and cabbage, and the fruits are

either dried or canned. Preserves and jellies are factory made, so it

gets pretty monotonous. I had a good breakfast on the diner yesterday

morning. We had a fine lunch out this side of Cheyenne, but the supper

last night was far beyond anything I have ever enjoyed. I jotted down

some of the menu and as soon as I unpack I am going to write to a

couple of those old circus razorbacks and tell 'em what they have

missed." Davy was talking and eating; the men were eating.

"Now, Laddie, we are ready for the final dash," said Welborn, as he

rose from the table. "The farther we go, the tougher it gets. And we

are on the last leg."

"Landy and I had better go along," said Gillis. "Ye might get stuck,

and we will be needed to help unload."

"You men come back here for dinner," called Mrs. Gillis from the

doorway. "You will be too busy to stop and cook."

The old machine described a big curve in getting out of the enclosure,

but was again headed west. Gillis rode in the front seat with Welborn.

Landy and Davy found room on the trailer. "I want to see everything,"

said Davy as he climbed to a perilous perch on one of the trunks.

The mountains towered in the west, south, and southwest. The terrain

was fairly level, but a spirit level would have shown a marked tilt to

the east. There was a fringe of timberland on every side. Landy

pointed out places of interest. "That's Ripple Creek off to the left.

Ye crossed hit last night on the bridge, and we meet hit agin right up

by the house. That's Brushy Fork over at the right. They 'most come

together up here. Right up that canyon about two mile is whar Welborn

found the b'ar cubs. Way 'round that timber-covered nose to the right

is the B-line Ranch--hit's about ten miles. Right down that draw, in

the timber and brush, I killed two wolves last year. And if yer on a

hoss, ye can foller a trail down to brushy fork and out on yon side.

That's a short cut to the B-line, else ye'd have to go cl'ar back to

the fillin' station, then over to Adot and back across another bridge

to git thar. It's twenty-five miles thataway. When ye git all settled,

we'll sneak over to the B-line and take a squint at that little hoss."

Landy continued to point out the places of interest. "Right along

about here is Welborn's line. He's got two homesteads--bought 'em off

a crazy bird that had bought out both homesteaders. That's one of the

shacks over there and the other one he uses for a cowshed. En thar's

yer home a-settin' up on that bench of land."

Davy craned his neck as the trailer moved down hill. Perched up on a

shelf, he saw a yellow dot against a gray wall that ran to the sky. As

they neared the place he outlined a tiny cabin. Later it proved to be

a two-roomed affair with a porch and lean to at the rear. This was to

be his domicile--for how long, time would tell.

The car described a big curve that took them to the brink of the

Ripple Creek Canyon. In second gear it labored and twisted off to the

right, and then left again, and came to a stop right at the front

porch of the yellow-brown log cabin.

Davy climbed down from his perch. He walked around the cabin,

surveying it from three sides. "She's an Old Faithful," he announced

at last. "Modeled, matched, and built by the man that built Old

Faithful Inn. Why did he do it and when?"

"It was built the summer before last and it took all summer,"

explained Welborn. "The crazy galoot called himself the Count of Como.

He came barging in here and bought out Clark and Stanley, the

homesteaders, and brought in two men who had been building fancy

cabins in Rocky Mountain Park and tourist camps. He left them here on

the job while he drove the roads like a madman, in a big, black,

powerful coupe to Laramie, to Cheyenne, to Denver, anywhere he could

get whiskey and dope. He would come back, rave around, threaten

everybody with a gun, but paid out money like he had the mint back of

him, and finally got it done. You notice that the logs are "treated,"

stained or shellacked, to retain their first color. The mechanics did

that, and the count was mightily pleased until he found out that it

made the shack stand out so that it could be seen for a long distance,

and then he threw a fit. He went wild, ran 'em off the job, then I

came into the picture.

"I was prospecting down Ripple Creek Canyon and living in that shack

that you can see from the rim over there. I was trying to locate a

claim, mining claim. But from the homestead lines, this cabin was off

the reservation, built off the edge of Stanley's claim and on the

government's land where I wanted to stake off a mineral right.

"I came up out of the canyon on the day he had gotten the men back and

explained the error and showed him his predicament and then bought him

out...."

"Ah, tell hit right," growled Landy. "Tell him like them scairt men

told hit to me." Landy took up the recitation of how the home was

acquired. "He made that greasy counterfeit eat his gun that he whipped

out from under his left arm. He kicked him in the ribs, he did, after

he'd knocked him down a coupla times. Made him go down thar and look

at the old survey stakes, he did, then made him drive his crazy car

over to Adot, and old Squire Landry made out the deed and he signed

hit and Welborn here paid him in a sack of gold dust that they weighed

on the grocery scales. That's how 'twas done. Tell hit right, so's

Davy here will know the story."

Welborn laughed at Landy's recitals. "No, I didn't intimidate him. I

made him see the matter in the right light. The proposition to

sell-out came from him. I didn't want to buy him out, I had nothing to

buy with, but the dust that it took me all summer to acquire. Truth

is, this drink-crazed madman was a hoodlum gunman from Chicago or

Saint Louis, that had lost his nerve. A killer who couldn't take the

finish that was due him. He had run from it, and like an ostrich, he

thought he was hidden up here. He didn't want me as a neighbor and

when he found out that he had infringed on government land he was so

scared that he would have given the place to me or anyone that wanted

it. In fact, he didn't want to take the dust. He was afraid that the

government would run him down for selling something that he didn't

own, and maybe then find out about some of his killings back East. At

any rate, he showed more speed in getting away from Adot than he had

ever shown before, and that's saying a lot, for he surely burnt up the

roads. We will unload your plunder right here on the porch, and we can

place them as you want them later."

Davy got his personal grip out of the car, but that was about as far

as he could go in the matter of unloading the baggage. While the men

were engaged in the task, he looked the house over carefully. One with

artistic temperament would have turned his back to the house and

looked on the tremendous spectacle that offered itself to view in the

south, in the east, and north. A vast brown meadow, rimmed with the

dark greenery of the ancient conifers; and high above, a blue arch

that draped down curtains of white to hide the sombre shades of cliffs

and hills and peaks innumerable. It was a wonderful sight.

But Davy's eyes were on this house. He looked it over carefully. The

general plan was as if a crib of logs had been built up to a square

of, say, nine feet. Then another crib of logs built fifteen feet away.

These were connected by a log structure in the center that allowed a

recess in the porch at the front, and by a log extension enclosure

that made a kitchen at the rear. It had been roofed with gray-green

shingles and the porch ornamented by sturdy log columns, with rustic

rails at the side. The logs had been closely fitted so that there was

no space between that needed the chinking of the cabins of the

pioneer.

The floor was in narrow, rift-sawed planks. The walls and ceilings

were covered with wallboard, properly paneled and carefully and

tastefully decorated. There was a big fireplace in the east room. The

west room was heated by a stove that found vent in the kitchen

chimney. Entrance to any room was from the porch. The general plan of

the structure was the same as that of many cabins being built in

public parks and dude ranches. Davy had not seen these. His

comparisons were with the fine, substantial inn, built at Old

Faithful. There was little furniture in the cabin.

"Well, what's your reaction, Laddie?" asked Welborn kindly as he

marked the serious look on Davy's face.

"Well, I don't know whether to sit out there on the porch and have a

good cry or go in the spare room and put up a small dance. For five

years I have been dreaming about this place, and now it's a reality.

Outside of dreaming about it, and in sober moments, I just knew that

there couldn't be such a place, so I contented myself with plans for a

little shack, maybe a teepee, or a tent where I could spread out and

rest up. But here it is--just like the dream said."

"Wal, jist wait till a good winter blizzard comes through here like

they do," interrupted Landy. "Jist wait, ye'll be sorry that ye ever

had a dream. Why, it's six thousand feet up here, and the wind don't

monkey and dally around, hit gits right down to business. Last winter

hit most took the leg off 'en one of them burros old Maddy brought in

here, 'en mighty nigh whipped the fillin' outen his shirt."

"Let her blow," retorted Davy. "I've been in two circus blow-downs,

and we had to stake the elephants down to keep 'em from blowing over

into Texas."

Landy was a good loser. He grinned, and began wrestling the trunks.

All of Davy's plunder was moved into the fireplace room.

"We will live in here this winter, and when spring comes, we can

expand into the other room or out on the porch," explained Welborn.

"And now, before you begin to unpack, I want you to see what Jim and I

have been doing this last week. Let's take a look at the pump and

engine before a snow comes and covers it all." Welborn led the way

down near the brink of the canyon. "Over on the other side of the

creek, you can see a shack. I headquartered there for several months

and panned out some dust. From there I could see this opening here

that looked like it had a floor, and maybe some prospects. Well, I

climbed those trees down by the creek, but could not quite see what I

wanted. As the madman was working over here, I climbed and slipped,

and cut steps in the rock face of the cliff, on yon side. I wormed and

twisted around until I got up to that coulee, and sure enough, it was

what I thought. The floor of the old stream bed that had been thrown

out of line and out of use, by some secondary action in

mountain-making.

"Ripple Creek has been noted for its placer workings. It has been

panned and panned, many times, and always yields something. But here

was a part of the stream bed that was virgin, that had never seen a

miner or a pan. I walked over it and tested it. It stood the test.

When it was the bed of the stream, gold was being ground out, washed

out and carried down stream from the quartz-gold veins above. There it

was! I couldn't get to it--couldn't work it without an entrance from

this side of the creek. Landy has told you how I acquired the

entrance, and a farm and a house with it." Still talking, Welborn led

his guest back in the ravine back of the house, then through a tunnel

in the razor-edge cliff, the party walked out on the floor of the old

stream bed. "Jim and I made that tunnel. We dragged those logs through

it, to make a foundation for the engine and pump. Now all we have to

do, is blast out a sort of well-hole down at the creek so that the

intake will be on the claim, and we are all set for production. We can

do this today. Tomorrow, we will have water back on this old stream

bed. Jim and I will take a hand drill, dynamite, fuse and caps into

the gorge, and bust out a space about as big as a washtub, while you

and Landy are unpacking your plunder. Build a fire, Landy, to take the

chill off."

Unpacking suited Davy. While Landy brought in some pine knots and

lighted a fire against the charred backlog, Davy wrestled the

dufflebag open and began to take out the contents. It was a

hodge-podge of parts of every old costume he had ever used. The trunks

and suitcases yielded good property. "There," he pointed to a separate

pile, "there is my notion of where I was going, without seeing the

place. That's a sleeping bag and these are a pair of Hudson Bay

blankets. You see, I didn't know if I was to sleep out of doors or

sleep in a barn--surely, I didn't plan that it was a place like this!

Here's my mackinaw, boots, and mittens, and here's my hardware." He

produced a small rifle that had been packed between the blankets and

handed it to Landy for his inspection. "She's a thirty caliber,

carries two hundred yards at point blank and won't kick over a little

fellow like me.

"And this is what I want you to see in particular." Davy fumbled in

the keyster and brought out a small saddle with a fair leather bridle,

to match. It was not a pad saddle such as jockey's ride, nor yet a

civilian outfit without horn and only one web. It was a genuine

western, with high horn and high cantle and two cinches, but much

reduced in every dimension. "Will that fit the pony you saw over at

the B-line?"

Landy looked the saddle over carefully. "Hit's made by a saddle-maker

all right, and will fit that hoss to a tee. They used to have some

fancy saddles back in the early days. I've seen 'em that cost a

thousand--Chauchaua--made and covered with silver do dads, en maybe

they'd have 'em flung on a hoss that wasn't wuth his feed. I mind the

time when ole Lem Hawks made a right smart lot of change, a-sellin'

ole saddles that he swore come out'n the Custer massacre. Lem finally

got to believin' that he was a survivor of that carnage.

"They finally caught up with Lem however. He had sold more saddles

than Custer had men, and the old cow saddles with their big horns and

high cantles didn't look like an army saddle nohow. But Lem kept right

on a-bein' a survivor--him en about a thousand others. Hit's like

Lincoln's bodyguards--thar's been more of them folks died than Grant

had in his whole army. Yer saddle is all right, son, and we shore ort

to talk the B-line folks outa that little hoss."

"I want to take the saddle over when we go," said Davy

enthusiastically. "They could see how it fit, and that might influence

their decision. I could put it on one of the burros and ride it over."

Landy laughed uproarously. "Why son, ye wouldn't git thar by Febwary.

A burro ain't geared to ride en go places. He will foller ye right up

the side of a glacier, but he ain't mentally constructed to take the

lead. Why, if ye was on one of 'em, backward, en paddlin' him with a

clapboard, he'd back right up agin hit."

"Well, what do they keep them for? Who do they belong to, anyhow?"

"Them two a-roamin' around here, belong to ole Maddy, the ole miner

gent. He left 'em here while he went romancin' around up Ripple Creek.

He goes up thar, and has got a way out to the top. He goes in North

Park, cl'ar over to Granby and Grand Lake. He swings 'round by

Steamboat Springs and Hahns Peak, and comes a-driftin' back, mebbe

from the north. He left 'em here three months ago. He'll git 'em when

he gits 'em, en he won't lose much if he don't.

"Ole Maddy has been in the hills--so hit's told--since the days of Jim

Beck with and Bridger. Some say he was in Virginia Vale when Slade

rubbed out Jules, the Frenchman. They say too, that he knew Carson,

but that ain't so! Yit I do know that he pardnered with Will Drannon,

the boy that ole Kit raised, because I heard Maddy tell a lot about

Drannon, and later I read Drannon's book en right in the book, was ole

Maddy. Oh, he's an oldster all right. He jist projects around in the

hills, pans a little gold en rambles around by himse'f. He's not 'gold

mad,' he jist likes to roam. He's clean, don't talk much, en anybody

will keep him until he gits ready to pull out."

"Well, I am sure disappointed about that burro thing," said Davy

regretfully. "I wanted to ride that saddle over there and maybe they

could see that the saddle, the hoss, and the midget ought not be

separated."

"Don't worry. We'll lengthen the girths, en I'll put ye on ole Frosty.

When they see ye, way up thar', they'll know by every law of

mathematics en justice, that the boy and the saddle belong on the

colt."

A roar reverberated out of the canyon. "Well, that's that," said

Landy, "en now the next big job is to git Welborn out of the coulee

fer dinner. If you leave him alone, he'd stay right thar messin'

around till dark. I git provoked at his ways, but after I heard them

decorators tell how he beat the gunman to the draw and busted him on

the jaw en kicked him till he squawked like an ole hen, then I grew

more tolerant. Welborn's all right, but he works too hard."

Presently Welborn and Jim came up from the coulee. The auto was

started and headed for the Gillis place. The original Gillis cabin had

been augmented by the addition of two rooms on the south, a porch on

the west, and another and better cabin on the north. It was sufficient

for the family needs. The farm was fenced for the most part, and the

neighboring range was alloted by the grazing master to Gillis, Landy,

and their co-homesteaders at the far limits of the tract. Except for a

small forty-acre tract, the Gillis land was dry farmed. The forty was

irrigated from a spring developed on the premises. It was in alfalfa.

Other meadows raised timothy mixed with alsike. Even in unfavorable

years, the ranch yielded more than a hundred and fifty tons of hay.

Besides hay, a lot of oats and barley was produced.

"But thar's Jim's patent," Landy was showing Davy over the premises.

"Jim keeps everything offen that big medder, en the grass comes on,

en cures itse'f. Then hit snows, and the grass lays down like a

carpet. Then hit blows the snow off en around, en stock can graze thar

until near Christmas. Hit's a great savin' on hay. En a great saving

on the hay feeder," Landy added with a grin.

Besides three score cows with their calves, a dozen horses and colts,

turkeys, chickens, ducks, and geese galore, the Gillis ranch had three

dogs, two collies, and a short-tailed sheep dog. The dogs followed

Davy around like they had found a friend.

"They think I am a kid," Davy said. "Dogs sure like children."

After another sumptuous meal, Welborn went out to tinker with the

Ford. Mrs. Gillis called Davy to the kitchen. "I want you to speak to

Welborn," she said. "He works too hard. From daylight to dark, he does

two men's work at that old mine. He'll kill himself before he gets the

money out of it. You can talk to him--he likes you. Why, he sat up all

night, the night before he went to Cheyenne after you, pressing his

pants, making your chair, tying his tie, tinkering on the Ford. He

cautioned all of us not to talk about your being smaller than common,

being a midget. He said you were coming out here to get away from "the

mob," the people who stared and commented. He wanted everything here

to be different. He likes you, would do anything for you, but he's got

something pushing him, driving him, faster and harder than one man can

stand. He'll break if he don't stop and take things easier. If you get

a chance, talk to him, tame him down, make him rest, change his mind

to something different. He's a fine man, big and rugged and a

gentleman. He never hints at what's eating his life out, and we don't

know. But it ought to stop."

"I think you are right, Mrs. Gillis. Sam does work too hard and too

long. I know nothing about his past, and I'll never ask him until he

gets ready to tell it all. This I know, he's well educated, has

trained in big business and is used to good society. I think he is

rather hot-headed and maybe stubborn, if he thinks he's right. It will

be a delicate thing to do, to try to switch him off from what he's

doing and the way he's doing it, but I'll try, because I think it

ought to be done."

Landy did not go in the return trip to "Pinnacle P'int" as he termed

the mine and its environments. He had some "cipherin' around" to do.

"With that pump a-goin' and the water a-flowin', hit don't resemble a

place of rest to me," he said.

Mrs. Gillis brought a loaf of bread out to the car. "There's enough

for your supper and breakfast, and you folks come back here for dinner

tomorrow."

"En say, Jim, you bring the kid's little saddle back with yer," called

Landy. "I want to lengthen the cinches to fit old Frosty. Me en the

kid are aimin' to do a lot of romancin' eround--mebbe tomorry."

Arriving at the cabin, Welborn took a can of gasoline through the

opening out to the pump. He tinkered with the engine and presently a

steady "chug-chug-chug" reverberated down the valley. Mechanical

mining was on at the Silver Falls Project.

Welborn laid the hose at a favorable place on a gravel-bar and scooped

up a pan of dirt and sand that he held under the stream while he

whirled it around in the pan. The contents took up the motion and

spilled over the pan-brim until there was little left. The miner

examined the remainder and then gave it more water and more swirling

around in the pan. This process he repeated several times. Presently

he held the pan where Davy and Jim could see a fifth of a thimble full

of tiny flakes and two small dots not much larger than pinheads.

"That's the object of the meeting, gentlemen," Welborn said grimly.

"That's gold.... Tomorrow," he added, "we will get the old rocker

going, but just now, I want to 'sample around' for good locations."

All this was nothing to Davy. He watched the men awhile and went back

to the cabin to arrange his personal belongings. Pinnacle Point was a

place of sudden sunsets and prolonged twilights. At near five o'clock,

Davy built a fire in the little cook-stove and put several slices of

bacon on to fry. He "set the table" as best he could and broke several

eggs in the bacon grease. He set out a jar of jam, sliced the bread.

Then he went to the tunnel and called: "Supper."

"Say, Laddie, I don't want you to do this," said Welborn as he

surveyed the supper. "You are my guest, you know, and I'll do what

cooking there's to be done. We'll eat our dinners at Gillis', we'll

sleep here, and I will get breakfast and supper. The fine dinners will

offset my poor cooking, and besides you ought to stay outdoors and

look around as much as you can, before we get snowed in for the whole

winter."

"Well, I do plan to go with Landy over to see about that colt," said

Davy, "and I thought maybe you would want to go along."

Welborn laughed. "Not for me! If you and Landy can't skin those B-line

people out of one little horse, you are no traders. I've got to get

that rocker going tomorrow. Look what we did today!" Welborn showed a

little canvas bag that he took out of his pocket. "There is fully an

ounce of dust in there, and we didn't try, just sampled around. With

the rocker going, I can take out ten ounces a day by myself. It's

fairly well distributed all over the tract, but better if you can hit

the potholes right in the old stream bed."

"And when you get it all out, then what?"

Welborn looked rather perplexed. He studied a moment. "Then what?" he

asked slowly, "Why we'll stock that ranch, lay out a flying field, and

visit a lot of places. Truly, I had never planned so far ahead as to

get to the place where I wouldn't be doing anything excepting clipping

coupons."

"Yes, the mine is a fine thing," Davy said earnestly. "Why, there is

enough gold there to make a great fortune. But what's the use in

taking it all out at once? It will keep. You can work awhile, rest

awhile, play awhile, and still be just as rich as if you had worked

yourself to death. You are young, strong, and healthy, just right to

enjoy life. Why work so hard now?"

"Yes, I am healthy, feel pretty strong, but not so young. Right now, I

would like to take a few thousand dollars out of that gulch before

snow flies, for we are going to have a lot of enforced loafing. We are

in good shape to loaf however, all bills are paid and I still have

thirty-five dollars of your money!"

"That's fine. I have been wondering how I would pay for the colt, in

the event we bought him. The B-line folks might not want to take my

check, and it might take more cash than I have on me."

"Mrs. Gillis will take care of that, she has money, plenty of it. She

will tell Landy what to do, and Landy's word is like a bond. They do a

lot of trading with the B-line. Buy cows, sell calves, and trade paper

back and forth. Mrs. Gillis is better than a bank. Since the banking

situation went bad, she has been accumulating government bonds. She

hardly ever comes back from town without at least a hundred-dollar

bond. She's a wonder, that woman. She's not an isolated hill billy

that goes to town on Saturdays and anchors herself in the doorway of

the five-and-ten-cent store to visit and gawk around. She's full of

business. Sells her stuff, buys what she needs, and hits the trail for

home. I expect Mrs. Gillis has seven or eight thousand dollars in

bonds and cash stowed around in their cabin."

"Now that's my notion of living," cried Davy as he edged his chair

back from the cracking sticks that Welborn had added to the

smouldering embers in the fireplace. "Own a fine little ranch, a

decent run of livestock and poultry, raise plenty of feed, and have

something to sell right along. They don't have to meet a daily

schedule, don't have to spread canvas in the rain or look at a mob

tittering yokels all the time. That's the life for me and the Gillis

outfit is my pattern."

"They are fine people," said Welborn. "We will keep in close contact

with them. We need them now. The time may come when they will need

us."

5

"Jim stayed to milk the cows," Landy explained as he rode up to

Pinnacle Point the next morning leading Frosty, a rangy bay with a

diminutive new saddle on his back. "Alice don't like my milkin'

methods. I jist turn the calves in with the cows and let nature take

her course, so she lets Jim do the milkin'. Put on yer jacket, son,

hit's crimpy around the edges, and let's git goin'."

Seated on Ole Gravy, a sturdy gray horse, Landy Spencer was like a

picture page out of the book of the old west. His stubby, gray

mustache, standing out under an aquiline nose and squinting eyes,

failed to conceal a mouth much given to smiles and laughter. He had

cautioned the little man that it was cool, yet his blue shirt was open

at the neck. He wore a slouch hat, dented and battered to

unconventional shape, a dingy knitted waistcoat, unbuttoned of course,

gray jeans, tucked into high boots with long, pointed heels, and spurs

of ancient pattern. Hung to the horn of his old, but generous saddle

was a lariat.

The chuck-chuck-chuck of the gas engine told that Welborn was already

on the job at the mine. Davy ran into the house and returned wearing

his mackinaw and boots. "My, he's a giraffe," he said, as he looked

over Frosty and his equipment.

Landy dismounted and lifted Davy to his saddle. "Did ye ever ride a

hoss, son?"

"Sure, I've ridden some of the big fat ring-horses, but I either had

to lie down or stand up, they were too big around for my legs. Once I

was to ride a shetland in the Grand Entry, but they had a monkey on

another pony and I walked out on 'em." Davy picked up the reins and

Frosty began tiptoeing around and arching his back.

"Jist turn him loose, son," called Landy. "The old simpleton was

expectin' some weight when ye got on, and he's disapp'inted."

Landy led the way down the hill and Frosty followed like a pack horse.

The sun had pushed above the clouds. Frost was flying in the air. It

jeweled the grass of the table land and sparkled amid the green of the

conifers along Ripple Creek. Farther down the indistinct path they met

Jim in the car.

"Are you fellers goin' to git back in time for dinner," he called to

the horsemen.