BATTLE ROYAL.
Mr. Worth had built for himself a plank house with shingled roof--the
first real house the boys had entered since they left Bismarck.
Their father was away when they arrived, to be gone for some weeks, so
the boys had a chance to have some of the fun they had longed for. They
expected to have great sport with the miners' sons, but were keenly
disappointed to find that their tastes were utterly different. The
latter were as a rule Eastern boys, and were versed in civilized
amusements: baseball, marbles, tops, and all the games of skill and
strength dear to the town dwellers. Of all these our boys knew nothing;
their amusements were akin to their work--to ride well and shoot
straight was a matter of business as well as pleasure for them. And so
the Worth boys and those of the camp stood aloof from one another, and
John and Ben were soon almost as unhappy as they had been on the sheep
range.
They still hoped to have an opportunity to show their skill as wrestlers
and fighters in the emphatic way that was the custom in that day and
place, but for a long time the camp boys gave them no provocation. As
time went on, however, the mining boys grew overbearing and insulting
and never lost an opportunity to taunt and aggravate the young
Westerners.
"I'm going to lick that Jake Adams within an inch of his life," said
John, wrathfully, one day to his brother. "He's the worst one of the
lot."
"All right," said Ben. "I'm with you."
Pretty soon an opportunity came, and John challenged Jake to fight. He
accepted at once. A ring was formed on the outskirts of the camp by the
boys and some of the men who guaranteed fair play. The contest that
followed was short, sharp, and decisive. John kept his head and made
every blow tell, while Jake in his anger forgot all he knew and defended
himself so poorly that his opponent soon satisfied him he was the better
man.
After this such contests, generally not quite so earnest, were frequent.
From most of them John came out victorious, and for a time the others
ceased to taunt the Worth boys. But the feeling was far from being as
friendly as it ought to have been between the two factions. Even the
settlement of the arguments in so thorough a manner failed to clear the
air entirely.
[Illustration: MR. WORTH HAD BUILT FOR HIMSELF A NEW HOUSE. (_Page
157._)]
[Illustration: THE SHEEP RANCH HOUSE. (_Page 137._)]
The miners admired pluck and skill, and John had many friends among
them. His father, too, did not disapprove, for he also admired one who
could give and take hard knocks. His approval was never outspoken,
however; on the contrary he made John's bruises the subject of his
chaffing. To John--who, in spite of his apparent indifference, was very
sensitive and craved sympathy--this was almost unbearable.
As John predicted, young Watson failed to get the mails in on time. John
at once offered to undertake the job, and after some questioning the
authorities decided he was capable of accomplishing it. Here was
something he could do that would test his intelligence, his strength,
and his courage. It was work and amusement at the same time, and he
accepted it gladly.
Ragged Edge had sprung up in a gulch fourteen miles from the coal camp.
It was a new camp of the mushroom variety, called suddenly into being by
the discovery of some gold-bearing gravel in the creek there. Deep snows
on the range nearly cut off communication with the outer world for three
months in the year. By following the high, wind-swept ridge, the
mountain could be crossed by a venturesome horseman till winter came on
and the snows grew too deep, when snowshoes must be resorted to. Even
late in the summer snowshoes were necessary to travel over the soft
masses of the snow which always crowned the summit.
When John presented himself as a candidate for mail rider, Burns, the
boss at Ragged Edge, looked at him in good-natured amusement. "Well,
kid, if you think you can do it, go ahead and try. But it means work and
p'raps danger." John told of his snowshoeing experiences in Dakota
modestly but straightforwardly, and satisfied him by his resolute mien
that he had the pluck to do it if any one could.
The boy spent several days in going over the ground, noting the best
line to follow and making sure of his landmarks before the snows should
cover up everything. He found at the top of the pass an old, abandoned
cabin and marked its location in his mind in case of future necessity.
This bit of precaution served him well before the winter was over.
"You had better get a good strong horse," said Mr. Worth, as John was
mounting Baldy--for the trips had already begun. "Baldy's too old.
You'll need a good young horse."
John said nothing for a minute, but patted his steed as if to express
his confidence in him.
"Oh, no, sir. Baldy knows me and I know Baldy, and I think I can get
along better with him than I could with any other horse," he said,
rather anxiously, for he was afraid that his companion would be denied
him. "Besides," he continued, "Baldy can smell a trail through two feet
of snow, and isn't he in good condition? You can't see a rib."
"All right," returned his father. "He's yours, and the job's yours. Go
ahead and work it out the way you think best."
So boy and horse encountered the perils of the mountain pass together,
friends always, but now sole companions.
While there was no sign of snow in the valleys, it was falling steadily
in the mountains. John did not carry out his first plan of tethering
Baldy at the snow line on the mine side of the mountains and covering
the rest of the distance on snowshoes. He found that by following the
bare ridges he could go the whole distance on horseback. His route was
changed almost every day, for the wind formed drifts in different places
and blocked the old way ten feet deep over night. In certain places cuts
in the ridge would become filled with snow, and through this horse and
rider had to flounder till a hard trail had been packed. It was in such
spots that Baldy's cleverness manifested itself; he rarely missed the
narrow, packed path, though it might be buried two feet or more. An
incautious step to one side was sure to cause both horse and rider to
disappear in the soft mass.
"Well, I must say you have done pretty well so far," said Burns one day,
as John dismounted and handed him the packet of mail.
"Yes; haven't missed a trip," he answered rather proudly. "Don't know if
I'd have made such a good record if I hadn't the best snow horse going
though. Been snowshoeing it two weeks ago if it wasn't for Baldy." He
stopped to stroke the animal's nose affectionately. "I vowed this should
be his last trip, it's getting harder and harder; but he's such good
company I hate to give him up."
Next morning, as Burns handed out the return mail, he warned the boy
that bad weather was coming, and suggested that he leave the horse
behind, for he would be more of a hindrance than a help. "Those black
clouds mean that we're in for a big storm," he said, "and I tell you
that you and your horse had better stay here. I can't boss you, kid, but
I advise you not to fool with that storm--it's coming sure and you don't
know what it means up here." In spite of this John decided to go on
Baldy, for he wished to leave him safe at his father's camp.
The hard travelling had begun to tell on the sturdy little horse; his
body was not so round as formerly, nor his step so springy, but he
carried his young rider well for all that and was as knowing and careful
as ever.
John tucked the package of precious letters in his saddle-bag, and after
calling out a good-by to Burns he set out. He had barely reached high
ground when snow began to fall heavily and with it came a blustering,
roaring wind that buffeted the travellers roundly. The horse slackened
his speed, and, by signs that John knew well, advised retreat. The boy
urged him forward, however, saying aloud--for he always felt as if Baldy
could understand everything he told him--"No, old man, if we go back now
you'll have to winter in the Ragged Edge gulch and you'll die sure. We
can make it all right." The good beast seemed to acquiesce in his
master's judgment, for he went along without further hesitation. The
trail now was covered almost knee deep, and the blinding mist and
whirling flakes blotted out nearly all landmarks. They pushed forward,
at one moment right in the teeth of the blast, at the next turning a
sharp corner and running before it, heads down, eyes almost closed, the
rider depending on the keen senses of his steed to find the way.
At length Baldy stopped, and John felt, with a thrill of real alarm,
that he had lost the trail. To go forward seemed impossible, to go back
almost as bad. To and fro they went, in vain efforts to find the way.
Baldy still floundered along, his hoofs covered with gunny sacks to
prevent their sharp edges from cutting through the crust; but his sides
began to heave and his legs to shake under him, for the exertion of
breaking through the drifts from one wind-swept ridge to another was
most exhausting. John could stand it no longer; he slipped off his back
and caught his head in both arms: "Why did I bring you out here?" he
said, in bitter self-reproach. It was evident that if he did not find
shelter soon his old friend would freeze to death.
There was one chance for himself: he was light and might be able to make
his way over the snow to Ragged Edge Camp, perhaps; but what would then
become of his faithful friend? Could he leave him to such a fate after
he had so spent himself for his master's sake? Baldy stood knee deep in
the cruel, treacherous, white snow, his head down, quick, spasmodic
puffs coming from his nostrils, his body steaming, and his flanks all in
a tremble. There was only one chance for the lives of both. John
remembered the abandoned hut at the top of the pass--if they could
possibly reach that, they might be able to weather the storm together.
He determined to try. Fastening Baldy's bridle rein to his fore leg, so
that he could not follow, and giving him an affectionate pat on the
nose, he started off, his teeth set determinedly. A few yards away the
driving snow shut Baldy off from his sight entirely, but a gentle whinny
reached him and brought a lump into his throat.
"That's all right, old boy," he called aloud; "I'm not going to leave
you. I'll be back." He turned in the direction he thought the cabin
should be and fought his way on. The wind seemed like a howling fiend;
it tore at his clothing, blew the particles of snow into his eyes, and
raised such a veil of mist and frost that he could not see ten yards
ahead of him. On the high, bare ridges the blast nearly took him off his
feet and in the hollows the snow banks engulfed him. Still he struggled
on, straining his eyes forward into the gray chaos that confronted him,
determined to find the shelter. A vision of Baldy standing dejectedly
alone, his rough brown coat turned white by the sleet, his faithful old
eyes half closed, drove the boy on irresistibly, for, next to his
brother, he loved his horse better than anything else in the world.
He ploughed through drift after drift, following one ridge, for only by
keeping one such landmark in sight was it possible to go in any given
direction. Would that haven of rest ever come into view? Even his stout
heart began to despair; he was weary, his body bathed in sweat, yet his
face, feet, and hands numb with cold; the elements seemed to conspire
against him. He was only a boy, and it seemed hard that he should give
up his life. He stood still and looked drearily down the hillside.
Nothing, nothing but the deadly snow. He began to wonder if it was worth
while to fight against such odds any longer.
And then in this abjectness he suddenly gave a cry of delight. For the
wind rent the snow apart for an instant and he caught a glimpse through
the driving flakes of a dead tree and near it a peculiarly shaped, great
gray rock. They seemed positively human, like old friends, for the
shelter he sought stood just to the left of them.
He began at once to look for a place where Baldy might be led down in
safety. This was impossible where he stood--it was far too steep and
rocky. A detour made with infinite pains and exertion brought him to the
cabin by a path that he thought the sure-footed beast might follow.
How John found his way to the half-frozen beast and then slowly got him
back to the cabin he never knew. Only his indomitable pluck and his
training pulled him through. But at last the terrible journey was safely
accomplished, and boy and steed stood before the low door.
John took off the saddle, and the intelligent animal, bending his knees
a little, squeezed through. The boy followed, throwing the saddle
blanket over the horse's shivering flanks and wondering if they were
safe, even now. At best it was a poor shelter; the wind blew the sharp,
powdery snow through the chinks in the logs and kept the temperature
almost as low within as without, but at least there was a roof and a
wind break.
After a short rest, John scrambled up the slope to the dead tree and
broke off some branches. The wood was still dry, except on the very
outside, and made good kindling. Soon a fire was blazing, and boy and
beast absorbed the heat gratefully. Only those who have suffered great
and deadly cold can realize the delight of sitting before a blaze once
more. The very sight of the flames puts life into the veins and makes a
mere nightmare of what was just now a grim and awful reality.
Thoroughly warmed, and with new courage and strength, John went outside
again and began to stop up the chinks with snow and to scrape banks of
it up against the walls. The heat from within melted the inner surface,
which afterwards froze and prevented the wind from blowing it away.
All day John was kept busy gathering wood and patching the walls. By
nightfall a good supply of fuel had been collected and the little cabin
was by comparison comfortable. There was little sleep for the boy that
night, however. The fury of the storm did not abate; the wind howled
round their little refuge, shaking it so it seemed as if it would be
impossible for it to withstand the blast.
All night long he listened to the roaring of the wind, taking "cat naps"
during the short lulls that came at intervals. The fire required
constant replenishment, and Baldy, unaccustomed to confinement in such a
small space, was so restless that continual watchfulness was necessary
to keep from under his feet, though the good horse would never have
harmed his young master except by accident. Both boy and beast began
also to suffer greatly from hunger.
At dawn the gale subsided somewhat, and John realized that he must get
food at once if his life and that of his horse were to be saved.
Breaking through the snow bank which had piled up against the rude door,
he made his way to a creek half a mile down the mountain and cut with
his knife an armful of poplar saplings and carried them back to the hut.
Baldy tore off the bark from these and munched it contentedly; another
armful was added to the store, and then John bade his equine friend
good-by and started off to find food and shelter for himself.
The six miles that separated the lonely cabin from the mining camp were
the longest and most trying that John had ever travelled, he thought.
Great drifts barred his way, the wind, still strong, blew in his face
and seemed bent on his destruction, his empty stomach weakened him, and
lack of sleep undermined his resolution.
From dawn till noon day he battled with the snow, and when at last he
reached his father's house he was hardly able to answer the questions
which his overjoyed family put to him.
A man was sent back to look after Baldy. He found that good horse
chewing poplar bark as calmly as if he was in his own stable, though
the cabin was so small and the horse so large in comparison that it
appeared to be resting on his back, like the howdah on an elephant. For
several days Baldy was kept in the cabin and fed on hay, which had to be
carried to him on foot; then, after considerable trouble, for a trail
had to be stamped down much of the way, he was led back in triumph to
the camp, where John, rather weak in the knees, greeted him joyfully.
For a week Ragged Edge Camp did not receive any mail. Late one afternoon
John appeared on snowshoes, bearing the precious packet. He had to
repeat his story many times, and Burns had the satisfaction of
qualifying his admiration of the boy's pluck with an emphatic "I told
you so."
John continued to carry the mail between Ragged Edge Camp and the
railroad every three or four days: at first on foot, then, as the snow
melted, on his faithful Baldy once more.
Though his work took him away from camp much of the time, John was
continually running foul of the boys who belonged to the other faction,
and Ben was the object of their unceasing abuse. A crowd of these
fellows would stop their games and yell at them those taunts which are
so exasperating to a boy:
"There go those Western jays."
[Illustration: HE ... BUCKS, PITCHES, KICKS. (_Page 265._)]
"Look at the kids that don't know the difference between a baseball and
a lump of mud."
It was true that our boys were not up on the national game or any other
game played simply for amusement; their sports were merely another form
of some kind of work.
Then the camp boys began to taunt John on his fighting abilities, their
object being to get him to stand up against some one who would be sure
to beat him. This was one of John's weak points; he was immensely proud
of his prowess as a fighter; so when one of the boys said in his
presence: "Worth said to-day that he could lick Casey," he did not
correct the falsehood there and then, but put on an air of superiority
that had the effect desired. Casey, though not a big fellow, was out of
his 'teens, and had the reputation of being a "scrapper from 'way back,"
as the boys said. He also heard the young mischief-maker's statement.
"Jab him, Casey; he's only a bluffer," said several of his companions.
He could not ignore the challenge which was plainly indicated, and,
according to boy customs, not to be avoided. Few boys know how much
bravery it takes to dare an unjust imputation of cowardice. John and
Casey were soon talking hotly--not that they had anything against each
other, but they were being egged on and neither could withstand the
pressure. The result was a fight, the consequences of which had great
influence, on one of the principals at least.
Casey was really a grown man, and John had never fought in earnest with
one old enough to wear a mustache, but his blood was up now and he would
not back down.
The two retired behind a large stable and a crowd of men and boys formed
a ring.
"Keep him at arm's length," whispered Ben, as he took off his brother's
coat and _cinched_ up his belt firmly round his waist. "Don't let him
hug you and you'll lick him, sure." Ben spoke confidently, but he was in
reality consumed with anxiety. John said nothing, but the look of
reckless determination on his face spoke volumes.
The two antagonists now stood face to face, but neither had yet struck a
blow. "How do you want to fight?" Casey asked.
"You fight your way and I'll fight my way," John answered; and at the
word struck out. The crowd yelled "Foul," but neither took any notice.
The blow was not a hard one, but it served its purpose, for it stopped
the talk and began open hostilities.
Casey came at John, his arms jerking back and forth, but hitting
nothing. John drew his lead and then, as his guard was lowered, threw in
his own left with staggering effect. This angered Casey greatly, and he
rushed his opponent in a vain effort to get in a deciding blow at once;
but his rushes were avoided nimbly, and as his defence was careless many
blows were rained on his head and body. Evidently the boy knew more
about boxing than he did, Casey thought, and as the method of fighting
was left undecided he determined to change his tactics. In a
rough-and-tumble fight he knew his age and strength would tell. To close
in and grapple with John was his purpose now. So far the battle was in
the boy's favor, and a number of the wavering ones came over to his
side. "He's getting low now, Worth. Swing on him," said one of them; and
John, acting on the advice, quickly landed a stiff one on the jaw. Casey
fell, but John stood to one side and waited till he got up. He was angry
clear through. Again and again he rushed, but was beaten off each time.
He aimed a savage blow, which John almost succeeded in dodging. It
landed lightly, but gave Casey the opportunity he sought and they
clinched, the miner hugging with all his might.
"Oh, John!" muttered Ben.
"Good work," yelled the crowd, who had suddenly deserted to Casey's
side.
It was the greatest squeeze that John had ever had. The blood rushed to
his head, his breathing became more and more difficult, but still he
struggled, twisted, and strained, and at last both fell and the man's
terrible grip was loosened. He did not let go, however, and in a couple
of seconds both were on their feet and struggling with might and main to
gain the mastery. Again they went down, this time John underneath and on
his back. The crowd paused an instant before pulling Casey off, but
during that pause he made good use of his time, raining blow after blow
on John's upturned face. John was licked.
Most of the spectators followed the victor, but some remained behind,
not to sympathize and condole, but to jeer at John's defeat and laugh at
his discomfiture. It was gall and bitterness to the boy, and he was glad
to get away out of earshot. Ben helped him put on his clothes and led
him down to the creek to bathe his bruised face. "What's the matter with
your hand?" Ben said suddenly, as he noticed the blood trickling over
the knuckles of his brother's right hand.
"He chewed it," John answered.
"What! bit you!" Ben exclaimed.
"My arm was around his neck and he grabbed my thumb in his mouth. He
wouldn't have got me so easy but for that."
For a time neither boy said a word. How a man could do such "dirty
work" as Ben said, was more than he could understand.[A]
[Footnote A: John Worth bears the marks of Casey's teeth on his thumb to
this day.]
On the way back to the house several fellows stopped to call at John as
he went by, for the news had spread. He realized that it would take a
long time to live down this disgrace. His heart was sore; it seemed as
if this was the culmination of all his hardships; he felt as if his life
had been all work and no play, that his efforts to do his duty had not
been appreciated, that though other boys might enjoy themselves much of
the time (and he had seen them in this very camp) he must work, work,
work; he felt, in short, very much abused and at swords' points with
everybody--his brother excepted. One more blow of bad luck, he thought,
would "cap the climax" and would result in he knew not what desperation.
Before the boys had reached the house the news of his defeat had been
made known there, and Mr. Worth, thinking that John had become more or
less a bully, determined that the lesson he had received should be a
lasting one.
"Hello, John!" he said jovially, as the two boys came slowly in, "you
met your match to-day, I hear. Whipped you well, didn't he?"
John hung his head and tried to hide the tears that would rush out over
his swollen cheeks.
"Hold up here, let me see your face," said the father roughly. "Well, he
did give it to you: eyes blacked, face scratched, mouth swollen--you're
a sight. You'll be more careful next time, I guess," he added.
John turned on his heel and left the room.
"Ben," he said, on meeting his brother outside, "I'm going away."
"Going away?" Ben repeated in wonder. "Where are you going?"
"I don't know; I don't care. I'm not going to show my face in camp
again; even father at home laughs and jeers at me. I'm going to leave
to-night."