Jane Ann and Tom Cameron had both offered to accompany Ruth; but for a
very good--if secret--reason Ruth did not wish any of her young friends to
attend her at the meeting which she hoped would occur between her and
the strange young man who (if report were true) had been hanging about
the Tintacker properties for so long.
She had written Uncle Jabez after her examination with the lawyer of the
mining record books at Bullhide; but she had told her uncle only that
the claims had been transferred to the name of "John Cox." That was the
name, she knew, that the vacuum cleaner agent had given Uncle Jabez when
he had interested the miller in the mine. But there was another matter
in connection with the name of "Cox" which Ruth feared would at once
become public property if any of her young friends were present at the
interview to which she now so eagerly looked forward.
Freckles, now as fresh as a pony could be, carried Ruth rapidly up the
valley, and as the two ponies galloped side by side the girl from the
Red Mill grew quite confidential with the Indian. She did not like Jib
Pottoway as she did the foreman of the Bar Cross Naught ranch; but the
Indian was intelligent and companionable, and he quite evidently put
himself out to be entertaining.
As he rode, dressed in his typical cowboy costume, Jib looked the
full-blooded savage he was; but his conversation smacked of the East and
of his experiences at school. What he said showed that Uncle Sam does
very well by his red wards at Carlisle.
Jib could tell her, too, much that was interesting regarding the country
through which they rode. It was wild enough, and there was no human
habitation in sight. Occasionally a jackrabbit crossed their trail, or a
flock of birds flew whirring from the path before them. Of other life
there was none until they had crossed the first ridge and struck into a
beaten path which Jib declared was the old pack-trail to Tintacker.
The life they then saw did not encourage Ruth to believe that this was
either a safe or an inhabited country. Freckles suddenly shied as they
approached a bowlder which was thrust out of the hillside beside the
trail. Ruth was almost unseated, for she had been riding carelessly. And
when she raised her eyes and saw the object that had startled the pony,
she was instantly frightened herself.
Crouching upon the summit of the rock was a lithe, tawny creature with a
big, round, catlike head and flaming green eyes. The huge cat lashed its
tail with evident rage and bared a very savage outfit of teeth.
"Oh! what's that?" gasped Ruth, as Freckles settled back upon his
haunches and showed very plainly that he had no intention of passing the
bowlder.
"Puma," returned the Indian, laconically.
His mount, too, was circling around the rock with mincing steps, quite
as unfavorably disposed toward the beast as was Freckles.
"Can it leap this far, Jib?" cried Ruth.
"It'll leap a whole lot farther in just a minute," returned the Indian,
taking the rope off his saddle bow. "Now, look out, Miss!"
Freckles began to run backward. The puma emitted a sudden, almost human
shriek, and the muscles upon its foreshoulders swelled. It was about to
leap.
Jib's rope circled in the air. Even as the puma left the rock, its four
paws all "spraddled out" in midair, the noose dropped over the savage
cat. The lariat caught the puma around its neck and one foreleg, and
before it struck the ground Jib had whirled his horse and was spurring
off across the valley, his captive flying in huge (but involuntary)
leaps behind him. He rode back in ten minutes with a beaten-out mass of
fur and blood trailing at the end of his rope, and that was the end of
Mr. Puma!
"There isn't any critter a puncher hates worse than a puma," Jib said,
gruffly. "We've killed a host of 'em this season."
"And do you always rope them?" queried Ruth.
"They ain't worth powder and shot. Now, a bear is a gentleman 'side of a
lion--and even a little old kiote ain't so bad. The lion's so blamed
crafty and sly. Ha! it always does me good to rope one of them."
They rode steadily on the trail to the mines after that. It was scarcely
more than fifteen miles to the claims which had been the site, some
years before, of a thriving mining camp, but was now a deserted town of
tumble-down shanties, corrugated iron shacks, and the rustied skeletons
of machinery at the mouths of certain shafts. Money had been spent
freely by individuals and corporations in seeking to develop the various
"leads" believed by the first prospectors to be hidden under the surface
of the earth at Tintacker. But if the silver was there it was so well
hidden that most of the miners had finally "gone broke" attempting to
uncover the riches of silver ore of which the first specimens discovered
had given promise.
"The Tintacker Lode" it had been originally called, in the enthusiasm of
its discoverers. But unless this strange prospector, who had hung about
the abandoned claims for so many months, had struck into a new vein, the
silver horde had quite "petered out." Of this fact Ruth was pretty
positive from all the lawyer and Old Bill Hicks had told her. Uncle
Jabez had gone into the scheme of re-opening the Tintacker on the
strength of the vacuum-cleaner agent's personality and some specimens of
silver ore that might have been dug a thousand miles from the site of
the Tintacker claims.
"Don't look like there was anybody to home," grunted Jib Pottoway, as
they rode up the last rise to the abandoned camp.
"Why! it's a wreck," gasped Ruth.
"You bet! There's hundreds of these little fly-by-night mining camps in
this here Western country. And many a man's hopes are buried under the
litter of those caved-in roofs. Hullo!"
"What's the matter?" asked Ruth, startled as she saw Jib draw his gun
suddenly.
"What's that kiote doing diggin' under that door?" muttered the Indian.
The skulking beast quickly disappeared and Jib did not fire. He rode his
pony directly to the shack--one of the best of the group--and hammered on
the door (which was closed) with the butt of his pistol.
"Hullo, in there!" he growled.
Ruth was not a little startled. "Why was the coyote trying to get in?"
she asked.
"You wait out here, Miss," said Jib. "Don't come too close. Kiotes don't
usually try to dig into a camp when the owner's at home."
"But you spoke as though you thought he might be there!" whispered the
girl.
"I--don't--know," grunted Jib, climbing out of his saddle.
He tried the latch. The door swung open slowly. Whatever it was he
expected to see in the shack, he was disappointed. When he had peered in
for half a minute, he stuck the pistol back into its holster and strode
over the threshhold.
"Oh! what is it?" breathed Ruth again.
He waved her back, but went into the hut. There was some movement there;
then a thin, babbling voice said something that startled Ruth more than
had the puma's yell.
"Gee!" gasped Jib, appearing in the doorway, his face actually pale
under its deep tan. "It's the 'bug'."
"The man I want to see?" cried Ruth.
"But you can't see him. Keep away," advised Jib, stepping softly out and
closing the door of the shack.
"What is the matter, Jib?" cried Ruth. "He--he isn't _dead_?"
"Not yet," replied the Indian.
"What is it, then?"
"Mountain fever--or worse. It's catching--just as bad as typhoid. You
mustn't go in there, Miss."
"But--but--he'll die!" cried the girl, all her sympathy aroused. "Nobody
to help him----"
"He's far gone. It's a desperate case, I tell you," growled Jib. "Ugh! I
don't know what we'd better do. No wonder that kiote was trying to dig
under the door. _He knew_--the hungry beast!"