THE MAN IN THE CAVE
It was late afternoon when 'Merican Joe finished skinning the three
foxes and stretching the pelts. As the sun approached the horizon Connie
seated himself upon the sled at a point that gave him a clear view of
the rock-ledge on the hillside. 'Merican Joe went into the tent and
seated himself on his blankets, where he cowered with his thumbs in his
ears.
The lower levels were in the shadows, now, and the sunlight was creeping
slowly up the hill. Suddenly, from the rock-ledge appeared a black fox.
Connie wondered if he, too, wore an ermine skin collar. The fox sniffed
the air and trotted off along the hillside, where he disappeared behind
a patch of scrub. Again the boy's eyes sought the ledge, another fox was
trotting away and still another stood beside the rock. Then it came--the
wild quavering yell for which the boy waited. The third fox trotted
away as the yell came to its wailing termination, and Connie leaped from
the sled. "It's just as I thought!" he cried, excitedly. "_The fox never
gave that yell!_" The boy had expected to find just that, nevertheless,
the actual discovery of it thrilled him with excitement.
The head of 'Merican Joe peered cautiously from the tent. "Who giv' um
den?" he asked in fear and trembling.
"The man that's at the bottom of that fox-hole," answered the boy,
impressively, "and if I'm not mistaken, his name is James Dean."
The Indian stared at the boy as though he thought he had taken leave of
his senses. "W'at you mean--de bottom of de fox-hole?" he asked "Dat
hole so leetle small dat de fox she almos' can't git out!"
"That's just it!" cried the boy. "That's just why the man can't get
out."
"How he git in dere?" asked 'Merican Joe, in a tone of such disgust that
Connie laughed.
"I'll tell you that tomorrow," he answered, "after James Dean tells me."
"If de yell com' from de hole, den de _tamahnawus_ mak' um," imparted
the Indian, fearfully. "An' if he can't get out dat better we let um
stay in dere. Ain' no man kin git in dat hole. I ain' know nuttin' 'bout
no James Dean."
A half-hour before sunrise the following morning Connie started up the
slope, closely followed by 'Merican Joe, who mumbled gruesome
forebodings as he crowded so close that he had to keep a sharp lookout
against treading upon the tails of Connie's rackets. When they had
covered half the distance a black fox broke from a nearby patch of scrub
and dashed for the hole in the rock-ledge, and as they approached the
place another fox emerged from the thicket, paused abruptly, and circled
widely to the shelter of another thicket.
Arriving at the ledge, Connie took up his position squarely in front of
the hole, while 'Merican Joe, grimly grasping the helve of his belt ax,
sank down beside him, and with trembling fingers untied the thongs of
one of his snowshoes.
"What are you doing that for?" asked Connie, in a low voice.
"Me--I'm so scare w'en dat yell com', I'm 'fraid I runaway. If I ain'
got jus' wan snowshoe, I can't run."
"You're all right," smiled the boy, as he reached out and laid a
reassuring hand upon the Indian's arm, and hardly had the words left his
lips than from the mouth of the hole came the wild cry that mounted
higher and higher, and then died away in a quavering tremolo. Instantly,
Connie thrust his face close to the hole. "Hello!" he cried at the top
of his lungs, and again: "Hello, in there!"
A moment of tense silence followed, and then from the hole came the
sound of a voice. "Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello! Don't go 'way--for
God's sake! Hello, hello, hello----"
"We're not going away," answered the boy, "we've come to get you
out--James Dean!"
"James Dean! James Dean!" repeated the voice from the ground. "Get James
Dean out!"
"We'll get you out, all right," reassured the boy. "But tell us how you
got in, and why you can't get out the same way?"
"There's no way out!" wailed a voice of despair, "I'm buried alive, an'
there's no way out!"
"How did you get in?" insisted the boy. "Come, think, because it'll help
us to get you out."
"Get in--a long time ago--years and years ago--James Dean is very old.
The whole hill is hollow and James Dean is buried alive."
Connie gave up trying to obtain information from the unfortunate man
whose inconsistent remarks were of no help. "I'll see if these rocks are
loose," he called, as he scraped the snow away from the edges of the
hole and tapped at the rock with the back of his belt ax.
"It ain't loose!" came the voice. "It's solid rock--a hundred ton of it
caved in my tunnel. The whole hill is quartz inside and I shot a face
and the hill caved in."
A hurried examination confirmed the man's statement. Connie found, under
the snow, evidences of the mouth of a tunnel, and then he saw that the
whole face of the ledge had fallen forward, blocking the tunnel at the
mouth. The small triangular opening used by the foxes, had originally
been a notch in the old face of the ledge. The boy stared at the mass of
rock in dismay. Fully twelve feet of solid rock separated the man from
the outside world! Once more he placed his mouth to the hole. "Hello,
James Dean!"
"Hello!"
"Isn't there any other opening to the cave?" he asked.
"Opening to the cave? Another opening? No--no--only my window, an'
that's too high."
"Window," cried Connie. "Where is your window?"
"'Way up high--a hundred feet high. I've carried forty ton of rock--but
I never can reach it--because I've run out of rock--and my powder and
drills was buried in the cave-in."
"I'm going to find that window!" cried the boy. "You go back and get as
close to the window as you can, and yell and I'll find it, and when I
do, we'll pull you out in a jiffy."
"It's too high," wailed the man, "and my rock run out!"
"Go over there and yell!" repeated the boy. "I'll let a line down and
we'll pull you out."
Turning to 'Merican Joe, whose nerve had completely returned when he
became convinced that the author of the strange yell was a man of flesh
and blood, the boy ordered him post-haste to the tent to fetch the three
coils of strong _babiche_ line that he had added to the outfit. When the
Indian had gone, Connie struck straight up the hill, examining the
surface of the snow eagerly for sight of a hole. But it was not until
two hours later, after he and the Indian had circled and spiralled the
hill in every direction, that he was attracted to a patch of scrawny
scrub by the faint sound of a long-drawn yell.
Into the scrub dashed the boy, and there, yawning black and forbidding,
beneath a low rock-ledge, was a hole at least four feet in height, and
eight or nine feet wide. And from far down in the depths came the sound
of the voice, loud and distinct now that he stood directly in front of
the hole. The boy called for 'Merican Joe, and while he waited for the
Indian to come, he noted that the edges of the hole, and all the bushes
that over-hung its mouth were crusted thickly with white frost.
Carefully he laid flat on his belly and edged himself along until he
could thrust his face into the abyss. The air felt very warm--a dank,
damp warmth, such as exudes from the depths of a swamp in summer. He
peered downward but his eyes could not penetrate the Stygian blackness
out of which rose the monotonous wail of the voice.
"Strike a light down there!" cried the boy. "Or build a fire!"
"Light! Fire! Ha, ha, ha." Thin, hollow laughter that was horrible to
hear, floated upward. "I ain't had a fire in years, and years--an' no
light."
"Wait a minute!" called the boy, and began to collect dry twigs which he
made into a bundle. He lighted the bundle and when it was burning
fiercely he shouted, "Look out below!" And leaning far inward, he
dropped the blazing twigs. Down, down like a fiery comet they rushed
through the darkness, and then suddenly the comet seemed to explode and
a million tiny flames shot in all directions as the bundle burst from
contact with the rock floor. "Pile the sticks together and make a fire!"
called the boy, "and I'll toss you down some more!" He could see the
tiny red faggots moving toward a central spot, and presently a small
blaze flared up, and as more twigs were added to the pile the flame
brightened. Connie collected more wood, and calling a warning, tossed it
down. Soon a bright fire was burning far below, and in the flickering
light of the flames the boy saw a grotesque shape flitting here and
there adding twigs to the fire. He could not see the man clearly but he
could see that his head and face were covered with long white hair, and
that he was entirely naked except for a flapping piece of cloth that
hung from his middle.
'Merican Joe arrived with the _babiche_ lines, and as the boy proceeded
to uncoil and knot them together, he sent the Indian to the tent for
some blankets. When he returned the line was ready, with a fixed loop in
the end.
"All right!" called the boy, "here comes the line. Sit in the loop, and
hold on to the rope for all you're worth, and we'll have you out in a
few minutes!" He could hear the man talking to himself as he hovered
about the fire so closely that the flames seemed to be licking at his
skin.
The man looked upward, and Connie paid out the line. When it reached the
bottom, the boy noted that there was only about ten feet of slack
remaining, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He could feel the man tugging
at the rope, and after a moment of silence the voice sounded from below:
"Haul away!"
Connie and 'Merican Joe braced their feet on the rocks and pulled. They
could feel the rope sway like a pendulum as the man left the floor, and
then, hand over hand they drew him to the surface. While the Indian had
gone for the blankets, Connie had cut a stout pole to be used to support
the load while they got the man out of the hole. Even with the pole to
sustain the weight it was no small task to draw the man over the edge,
but at last it was accomplished, and James Dean stood once more in the
light of day after his years of imprisonment in the bowels of the earth.
With a cry of pain the man clapped his hands to his eyes, and Connie
immediately bound his handkerchief over them, as 'Merican Joe wrapped
the wasted form in thickness after thickness of blankets. When the
blankets were secured with the _babiche_ line the Indian lifted the man
to his shoulders, and struck out for the tent, as Connie hurried on
ahead to build up the fire and prepare some food.
The bandage was left on the man's eyes, for the daylight had proved too
strong, but after the tent had warmed, the two dressed him in their
extra clothing. The man ate ravenously of broiled caribou steak and
drank great quantities of tea, after which, the day being still young,
camp was struck, and the outfit headed for the cabin.
It was midnight when they drew up at the door, and soon a roaring fire
heated the interior. Connie turned the light very low, and removed the
bandage from the man's eyes. For a long time he sat silent, staring
about him, his eyes travelling slowly from one object to another, and
returning every few moments to linger upon the faces of his rescuers. At
times his lips moved slightly, as if to name some familiar object, but
no sound came, and his eyes followed every movement with interest, as
'Merican Joe prepared supper.
When the meal was ready the man stepped to the pole-shelf that served as
a washstand, and as he caught sight of his face in the little mirror
that hung above it, he started back with a cry of horror. Then he
stepped to the mirror again, and for a long time he stared into it as
though fascinated by what he beheld. In a daze, he turned to Connie.
"What--what year is it?" he asked, in a voice that trembled with
uncertainty. And when the boy told him, he stood and batted his
squinting eyes uncomprehendingly. "Six years," he mumbled, "six years
buried alive. Six years living with weasels, and foxes, and fish without
eyes. I was thirty, then--and in six years I'm eighty--eighty years old
if I'm a day. Look at me! Ain't I eighty?"
In truth, the man looked eighty, thought Connie as he glanced into the
face with its faded squinting eyes, the brow wrinkled and white as
paper, and the long white hair and beard that hung about his shoulders.
Aloud he said, "No, you'll be all right again in a little while. Living
in the dark that way has hurt your eyes, and turned your skin white, and
the worry about getting out has made your hair turn grey but you can cut
your hair, and shave off your whiskers, and the sun will tan you up
again. Let's eat now, and after supper if you feel like it you can tell
us how it happened."
The man ate ravenously--so ravenously in fact, that Connie who had
learned that a starving man should be fed slowly at first, uttered a
protest. "You better go a little easy on the grub," he cautioned. "Not
that we haven't got plenty, but for your own good. Anyone that hasn't
had enough to eat for quite a while has got to take it slow."
The man looked at the boy in surprise. "It ain't the grub--it's the
_cooking_. I've had plenty of grub, but I ain't had any fire."
After supper the man begged to be allowed to help wash the dishes, and
when the task was finished, he drew his chair directly in front of the
stove, and opening the door, sat staring into the flames. "Seems like I
just got to look at the fire," he explained, "I ain't seen one in so
long."
"And you ate all your grub raw?" asked the boy.
James Dean settled himself in his chair, and shook his head. "No, not
raw. I might's well begin at the start. There's times when my head seems
to kind of go wrong, but it's all right now."
"Wait a few days, if you'd rather," suggested the boy, but the man shook
his head:
"No, I feel fine--I'd about give up ever seein' men again. Let's see
where'll I begin. I come north eight year ago. Prospected the
Coppermine, but there ain't nothin' there. Then I built me a cabin south
of the big lake. From there I prospected an' trapped, an' traded with
McTavish at Fort Norman. One time I struck some colour on the shore of
the lake, right at the foot of the hill where you found me. Looked like
it had come out of rotted quartz, an' I figured the mother lode would
maybe be in the hill so I fetched my drills, an' powder, an' run in a
drift. I hadn't got very far in when I shot the whole face out and
busted into a big cave. The whole inside was lined with rotten quartz,
but it wasn't poor man's gold. It was a stamp mill claim.
"I prodded around in the cave all day, an' that evenin' some Injuns come
an' camped near my tent. They was goin' to trap fox, an' I didn't want
'em around, so I went over to their camp an' told 'em there was a
_tamahnawus_ around. Two of 'em was scairt stiff, but one wasn't. I told
'em they was a fox that could talk like a man. But one buck, he figured
I was lyin', so to make the play good, I told 'em I had the medicine to
make the _tamahnawus_ do what I told him. I said I would make him burn
the snow, so I slips back to my tent and laid a fuse out on the lake,
an' put about a pound of powder at the end of it, an' while she was
burnin' I went back. The Injuns could see the fuse sputterin' out on the
lake, but this one buck said it was a piece of rope I'd set afire. I
told him if it was rope it would go out, but if it was _tamahnawus_ I'd
tell him to make a big fire. So I yelled at the _tamahnawus_ a couple of
times, and when the spark got to the powder she flashed up big, an' like
to scairt them Injuns to death. In the morning they beat it--an' that
was the end of them. If you're smart you can out-guess them Injuns."
The man paused, and Connie, although he said nothing, smiled grimly for
well he knew that the man had paid dearly for his trick.
"Nex' day I decided to shoot down a face of the rotten quartz to see how
thick she was, an' I drilled my holes an' tamped in the shots, an' fired
'em. I had gone back in the cave, instead of steppin' outside, an' when
the shots went off the whole ledge tipped over, an' plugged up my
tunnel. I'd shoved my drills an' powder into the tunnel, an they was
buried.
"Well, there I was. At first I yelled, an' hollered, an' I clawed at the
rock with my hands. Then I come to. The cave was dark as pitch, the only
light I could see come through under the rocks where the foxes use--only
they wasn't any foxes then. There I was without nothin' to eat an'
drink, an' no way out. I had matches, but there wasn't nothin' to burn.
Then I started out to explore the cave. It was an awful job in the dark.
Now an' then I'd light a match an' hold it till it burnt my fingers. It
was a big cave, an' around a corner of rock, five or six hundred foot
back from the hole, I found the window you drug me out through. That
let in a little light, but it was high up an' no way to get to it. I
heard runnin' water, an' found a crick run right through the middle of
that room, it was the biggest room of all. In one place there was a
rapids not over six inches deep where it run over a ledge of rocks. I
crossed it, an' found another long room. It was hot in there an' damp
an' it stunk of sulphur. There was a boilin' spring in there, an' a
little crick run from it to the big cold crick. I heard a splashin' in
the rapids an' I was so scairt I couldn't run. There wouldn't have been
no place to run to if I could. So I laid there, an' listened. The
splashin' kept up an' I quit bein' so scairt, an' went to the rapids.
The splashin' was still goin' on an' it took me quite a while there in
the dark to figure out it was fish. Well, when I did figure it, I give a
whoop. I wasn't goin' to starve, anyhow--not with fish, an' a boilin'
spring to cook 'em. I took off my shoes an' waded in an' stood still in
the rapids. Pretty quick I could feel 'em bumpin' my feet. Then I stuck
my hands in an' when they bumped into 'em I'd throw 'em out. I got so I
never missed after a couple of years. They run in schools, an' it got so
I knew when they was up the river, an' when they was down. I'd scoop
one or two out, an' carry 'em to the spring, an' I made a sort of pen
out of rocks in the boilin' water, an' I'd throw 'em in, an' a half-hour
or so later, they'd be done. But they stunk of sulphur, an' tasted
rotten, an' at first I couldn't go 'em--but I got used to it after a
while.
"The first year, I used to yell out the door, about every couple of
hours, then three times a day, an' at last I only yelled when the light
in the hole told me the sun was going down, an' again when it come up.
In summer a rabbit would now an' then come in the hole an' I got so I
could kill 'em with rocks when they set for a minute in the light at the
end of the hole. They was plenty o' weasels--ermine they call 'em up
here, but they ain't fit to eat. Towards spring a couple of black fox
come nosin' into the hole, an' I slipped in a rock so they couldn't get
out. I done it first, jest to have company. They was so wild, I couldn't
see nothin' but their eyes for a long time. But I scooped fish out for
'em an' fed 'em every day in the same place an' they got tamer. Then
they had a litter of young ones! Say, they was the cutest little fellers
you ever saw. I fed 'em an' after a while they was so tame I could
handle 'em. I never could handle the old ones, but they got so tame
they'd take fish out of my hand.
"All this time I used to go to the hole every day, an' two or three
times a day, an' lay with my face in it, so my eyes would get the light.
I was afraid I'd go blind bein' all the time in the dark. An' between
times I'd carry loose rock an' pile it under that window. I spent years
of work on pilin' them rocks, an' then I used up all the rocks an' had
to quit.
"When the little foxes got about a quarter grow'd I took 'em one at a
time, an' shoved 'em out the hole, so their eyes wouldn't go bad. After
a while I could let 'em all out together, an' they would always come
back. I was careful to keep 'em well fed. But I didn't dare let the old
ones go, I was afraid they'd never come back an' would drag off the
little ones, too. It wasn't so long before them six little fellows could
beat me scoopin' out fish. Well, one day the big ones got out, an' the
little ones followed. They'd clawed the rock away where I hadn't jammed
it in tight. I never felt so bad in my life. I sat there in the dark and
bawled like a baby. It was like losin' yer family all to once. They was
all I had. I never expected to see 'em again. They stayed out all night,
but in the mornin' back they all come--big ones an' all! After that I
left the hole open, an' they come an' went as they pleased. Well, they
had more little ones, an' the little ones had little ones, until they
was forty or fifty black fox lived with me in the cave--an' I had 'em
all named. They used to fetch in ptarmigan an' rabbits an' I'd take 'em
away an' eat 'em. Then one or two begun to turn up missin' an' I figured
they'd be'n trapped. That give me an idea. If I could tie a message onto
'em, maybe sometime someone would trap one and find out where I was. But
I didn't have no pencil nor nothin' to write on. So I begun tearin'
strips from my coat an' pants an' tied 'em around their necks, but the
goods was gettin' rottin, an' bushes clawed it off, or maybe the foxes
did. I used up my coat, an' most of my pants, an' then I used ermine
skins. I figured that if any one trapped a black fox wearin' an ermine
skin collar it would call for an investigation. If it was a white
trapper he would tumble right away that something was wrong, an' if it
was an Injun he would brag about it when he traded the fur, an' then
the factor would start the investigation. But nothin' come of it till
you come along, although they was several of them foxes trapped--as long
as three years back. But I kept on yellin' night an' mornin'. Sometime,
I know'd someone would hear. An' that's all there is to it, except that
my clothes an' shoes was all wore out--but I didn't mind so much because
it was warm as summer all the time, an' no mosquitoes in the cave."
"And now you can rest up for a few days, and well take you to Fort
Norman," smiled Connie, when the man relapsed into silence, "and you can
go out in the summer with the brigade."
"Go out?" asked the man, vaguely. "Go out where?"
"Why!" exclaimed the boy, "go out--wherever you want to go."
The man lapsed into a long silence as he sat with his grey beard resting
upon his breast and gazed into the fire. "No," he said, at length, "I'll
go to Fort Norman, an' get some drills an' powder, an' shoot me a new
tunnel. I'll take a stove so I can have a fire, an' cook. I like the
cave. It's all the home I got, an' someone's got to look after them
foxes."
"But the gold?" asked the boy. "How about bringing in a stamp mill and
turn your hill into a regular outfit?"
James Dean shook his head. "No, it would spoil the cave an' besides
where would me and the foxes go? That hill is the only home we've
got--an' I'm gettin' old. I'm eighty if I'm a day. When I'm dead you can
have the hill--but you'll look after them foxes, won't you, boy?"
A week later Connie and 'Merican Joe and James Dean pulled up before the
Hudson's Bay Post at Fort Norman, and, as the boy entered the door,
McTavish greeted him in surprise. "You're just the one I want!" he
cried. "I was just about to send an Indian runner to your cabin with
this letter. It come from the Yukon by special messenger."
Connie tore the document open, and as he read, his eyes hardened. It was
from Waseche Bill, and it had not been intrusted to "Roaring Mike
O'Reilly" to transcribe. It ran thus:
MR. C. MORGAN,
Cannady.
Son, yo better come back yere. Theys an outfit thats tryin to horn
in on us on Ten Bow. They stack up big back in the states--name's
Guggenhammer, or somethin' like it, an they say we kin take our
choist to either fight or sell out. If we fight they say they'll
clean us out. I ain't goin' to do one thing or nother till I hear
from you. Come a runnin' an' les here you talk.
Your pard,
W. BILL.
"What's the matter, son, bad news?" asked McTavish, as he noted the
scowling face of the boy.
"Read it," he snapped, and tossed the letter to the big Scotchman. Then
stepping to the counter he rapidly wrote a report to Dan McKeever, in re
the disappearance of James Dean, after which he turned to 'Merican
Joe--"I've got to go back to Ten Bow," he said. "All the traps and the
fur and everything we've got here except my sled and dog-team are yours.
Stay as long as you want to, and when you are tired of trapping, come on
over into the Yukon country, and I'll give you a job--unless the
Guggenhammers bust me--but if they do they'll know they've been
somewhere when they get through!"
And without waiting to hear the Indian's reply, the boy turned to
McTavish and ordered his trail grub, which 'Merican Joe packed on to
the boy's sled as fast as the factor's clerk could get it out.
"So-long," called Connie, as he stood beside the sled a half-hour later.
"Here goes a record trip to the Yukon! And, say, McTavish, give James
Dean anything he wants, and charge it to me!"
"All right, lad," called the factor, "but what are ye goin' to do? Dan
McKeever'll be wantin' to know, when he comes along?"
"Do?" asked the boy.
"Yes, are ye goin' to sell out, or fight 'em?"
"Fight 'em!" cried the boy. "Fight 'em to the last ditch! If they've
told Waseche we've _got_ to sell, I wouldn't sell for a hundred million
dollars--and neither would he! We'll fight 'em--and what's more we'll
beat 'em--you wait an' see!" And with a yell the boy cracked his whip,
and the dogs, with the great Leloo in the lead, sprang out on to the
long, long trail to the Yukon.
THE END.
_A Selection from the
Catalogue of_
G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS
[Illustration]
Complete Catalogues sent
on application
Connie Morgan
in the Lumber Camps
By
James B. Hendryx
Author of "Connie Morgan in Alaska," "Connie Morgan
with the Mounted," etc.
All his many friends will be glad to greet Connie Morgan again.
This time we find him in the timber regions of northern Minnesota, where
he solves a mystery that robbed him and his partner of thousands of
dollars' worth of logs. He is the same straight-forward lad "who finds
out what has to be done, and does it the best he knows how."
Mr. Hendryx has lived much in the lumber woods and has written an
excellent, exciting story of adventure.
G.P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
Connie Morgan
in Alaska
By
James B. Hendryx
Author of "The Promise," "The Law of the Woods," etc.
_12°. Over twenty illustrations_
Mr. Hendryx, as he has ably demonstrated in his many well-known tales,
knows his Northland thoroughly, but he has achieved a reputation as a
writer possibly "too strong" for the younger literary digestion. It is a
delight, therefore, to find that he can present properly, in a capital
story of a boy, full of action and adventure, and one in whom boys
delight, the same thorough knowledge of people and customs of the North.
G.P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
Connie Morgan with the
Mounted
By
James B. Hendryx
Author of "Connie Morgan in Alaska"
_Illustrated._
It tells how "Sam Morgan's Boy," well known to readers of Mr. Hendryx's
"Connie Morgan in Alaska," daringly rescued a man who was rushing to
destruction on an ice floe and how, in recognition of his
quick-wittedness and nerve, he was made a Special Constable in the
Northwest Mounted Police, with the exceptional adventures that fell to
his lot in that perilous service. It is a story of the northern
wilderness, clean and bracing as the vigorous, untainted winds that
sweep over that region; the story of a boy who wins out against the
craft of Indians and the guile of the bad white man of the North; the
story of a boy who succeeds where men fail.
G.P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
The Promise
A Tale of the Great Northwest and of a
Man Who Kept His Word
By James B. Hendryx
A tale of a strong man's regeneration--of the transformation of
"Broadway Bill" Carmody, millionaire's son, rounder, and sport, whose
drunken sprees have finally overtaxed the patience of his father and
_the_ girl, into a Man, clear-eyed and clean-lived, a true descendant of
the fighting McKims.
The Texan
A Story of the Cattle Country
By James B. Hendryx
Author of "The Promise," etc.
A novel of the cattle country and of the mountains, by James B. Hendryx,
will at once commend itself to the host of readers who have
enthusiastically followed this brilliant writer's work. Again he has
written a red-blooded, romantic story of the great open spaces, of the
men who "do" things and of the women who are brave--a tale at once
turbulent and tender, impassioned but restrained.
G.P. Putnam's Sons
New York London
The White Blanket
By
Belmore Browne
Author of "The Quest of the Golden Valley," etc.
_12°. Illustrated_
A sequel to _The Quest of the Golden Valley_, this time taking the chums
through the vicissitudes of an Alaskan winter. They trap the many
fur-bearing animals, hunt the big game, camp with the Indians, do
dog-driving, snow-shoeing, etc. With the coming of spring they descend
one of the wilderness rivers on a raft and at the eleventh hour, after
being wrecked in a dangerous canyon, they discover a fabulous quartz
lode, and succeed in reaching the sea coast.
G.P. Putnam's Sons
New York London