THE REPORT OF GUNS.
And now comes a change of scene and incident.
Hugh Whitney returned to his Maine home a few weeks after the stirring
adventures of his children and Monteith Sterry with the wolves. He
was so pleased with the western country that he made his decision to
remove thither. He met with no difficulty in selling at a fair price
his little property in the Pine-Tree State, and with a portion of the
proceeds he bought a ranch near the headwaters of Powder River, to
which place he removed, with his family, in the spring of 1890,
directly after the incidents related in the preceding chapters.
One of the pleasures of this radical change of residence and
occupation was that it was pleasing to his son Fred and his twin
sister Jennie, now about nineteen years of age.
Whether the wife shared in the desire to make her home in that new
country, or whether she expressed the wish to do so because she saw it
would gratify her husband, cannot be said with certainty. There was no
doubt, however, about the eagerness with which the brother and sister
took part in the removal.
Young, ardent, and of sturdy frame, with all the natural yearning of
imaginative youth for adventure, the prospect was an inviting one to
them. Their father's glowing accounts of the magnificent scenery, its
vast resources and limitless possibilities, caused a yearning on their
part probably deeper than his own.
It is rare that such expectations are fully realized in this life. It
cannot be said that those of the brother and sister found more than
a partial fulfilment, but, though the fateful day came when they
regretted the change beyond the power of language to express, yet it
was many months before it dawned upon them.
Hugh Whitney's herd of cattle numbered several thousand, and, on the
day when we take up the eventful history of the family, they were
grazing on the open ranges along the spurs of the Big Horn Mountains.
The two cowmen engaged by Whitney to assist him in the duty of looking
after his property were Budd Hankinson and Grizzly Weber. They were
veterans in the business, brave and true and tried. Under their
tuition, and that of his father, Fred Whitney became a skilful
horseman and rancher. He learned to lasso and bring down an obdurate
steer, to give valuable help in the round-ups, to assist in branding
the registered trademark of his father on the haunches of his animals.
This brand consisted of a cross, with two stars above, one below, the
initial letter of his given name on the left, and that of his surname
on the right. When this was burned into the flesh of the yearlings,
it identified his property, no matter where wandering, and the honest
rancher would no more disturb it than he would enter another's home
and rob him of his clothing.
The first year was an enjoyable one to Jennie. Her father presented
her with an excellent animal, of which she became very fond. A good
horsewoman when in Maine, in Wyoming she acquired a skill which
compelled the admiration of the cowmen themselves.
"She's struck her callin'," remarked Budd Hankinson one day, while
watching her speeding like a courser across the open country.
"What is that?" asked the father, who was proud of his children, and
especially of the pretty daughter.
"Why, riding hosses like a streak of lightnin'," was the somewhat
indefinite response.
"What particular profession can she fill by dashing over the country
in that style?" continued the parent with a smile.
"Why, showing other persons how it is done. I've no doubt, colonel,
that she could make good wages in breaking broncos and teaching young
women like her how to ride in the right style; I advise you to think
about it."
"I will do so," replied the parent, with so much gravity that the
cowman never suspected his sincerity, but felt the satisfaction of
believing he had given his employer a valuable "pointer."
Another pleasure which followed the removal of the Whitneys to Wyoming
was that their friend Monteith Sterry followed them within a few
months. He had shown some signs of running down in health while
attending the high school in Boston, despite the fact that he was one
of the best athletes in the institution; but he readily persuaded his
wealthy father that a few months' experience in the bracing northwest
would do him more good than anything and everything else in the world.
That he might have some pretext other than the one which could not
wholly deceive the Whitneys, he engaged to serve the Live Stock
Association, which was beginning to have trouble with the rustlers.
Matters were not only going wrong, but were rapidly getting worse in
Wyoming, and they were glad to secure the services of such a daring
and honest youth, who seemed rather to welcome the fact that he could
perform his duties faithfully only at personal risk to himself.
It need not be explained how it came about that young Sterry found it
necessary to give a great deal of his attention to that section of
Wyoming in which the Whitneys lived. There appeared to be more need of
it there than in any of the other neighborhoods where the outlook was
really threatening.
The natural consequence was that he became a frequent visitor at the
home of his former friend, though he found other acquaintances engaged
in the cattle business who were glad to have him take shelter under
their roofs. Sometimes he engaged in hunting with them, and several
times Fred Whitney and Jennie joined him. There was a spice of peril
in these excursions which rendered them fascinating to all three.
The particular day to which we refer was a mild afternoon in May,
1892. Jennie was helping her mother with her household duties in their
home, where they had lived since coming from their native State. The
building was one of the long, low wooden structures common in that
section, to which the fashions of the older civilization have not yet
penetrated. It possessed all the comforts they required, though it
took some time for the brother and sister to accustom themselves to
the odd style of architecture.
Jennie, as usual, was in high spirits. She had been out for a ride
during the forenoon, and was now trying to make up for it by taking
the burden of most of the work upon her comely shoulders.
In the middle of one of her snatches of song she abruptly paused with
the question:
"Did you hear that, mother?"
"No; to what do you refer?"
"The sound of rifle-firing; something is wrong on the range."
The two paused and listened, looking in each other's pale countenances
as they did so.
"It _is_ rifle-firing!" said Mrs. Whitney in a scared voice; "what can
it mean?"
"Trouble with the rustlers," replied Jennie, hurrying through the
open door to the outside that she might hear the better. Her mother
followed, and the two stood side by side, listening and peering
across the wide stretch of undulating plain in the direction of the
mountains, whose wooded crests were outlined against the clear spring
sky.
There could be no mistaking the alarming sounds. They were made by
rifles, fired sometimes in quick succession, often mingling with each
other, and then showing comparatively long intervals between the
discharges of the weapons.
"Father said the rustlers were becoming bolder," remarked Jennie, "and
there was sure to be trouble with them before long."
"It has come," was the comment of the parent, "and who shall tell the
result?"
"It cannot last long, mother."
"A few minutes is a good while at such a time. A score of shots have
already been fired, and some of them must have done execution."
"Father, Fred and our two men are unerring shots."
"And so are they," responded the mother, referring to the rustlers,
who have made so much trouble for the cattlemen of Wyoming.