LOOKING SOUTHWARD.
Mrs. Whitney and her daughter Jennie stood at the door of their ranch
listening, with rapidly beating hearts, to the sounds of rifle-firing
from the direction of the cattle-range where the beloved husband and
son were looking after their property.
Three shots came in quick succession; then, after the interval of a
full minute, two more followed, and then all was still.
Mother and daughter maintained their listening attitude a while
longer, but nothing more reached their ears.
"It is over," said the parent in an undertone.
Aye, the conflict was over. One party was beaten off, but which? And
how many brave men, the finest horsemen and rifle-shots in the world,
lay on the green sward, staring, with eyes that saw not, at the blue
sky, or were being borne away by their comrades on the backs of their
tough ponies?
A brief space and the story would be told.
Jennie Whitney shaded her eyes with her hand and gazed to the
southward for the first sight of returning friends, whose coming could
not be long delayed.
The mother was straining her vision in the same direction, watching
for that which she longed and yet dreaded to see. But years had
compelled her to use glasses, and her eyes were not the equal of
those bright orbs of Jennie. She would be the first to detect the
approaching horsemen.
A good field-glass was in the house, but neither thought of it; their
attention was too deeply absorbed.
"It is time they appeared," remarked Mrs. Whitney, her heart sinking
under the dreadful fear of the possible reason why they remained
invisible.
Suppose there was none to appear!
But those keen eyes of the maiden have detected something, and she
starts and peers more intently than before.
Far to the southward, in the direction of the mountain spurs, and on
the very boundary of her vision, a black speck seems to be quivering
and flickering, so indistinct, so impalpable, that none but the
experienced eye can guess its nature.
But the eye which is studying it is an experienced one. Many a time it
has gazed across the rolling prairie, and identified the loved father
and brother before another could discover a person at all.
"Some one is coming," she says to her mother.
"Some one!" is the alarmed response; "are there no more?"
"There may be, but this one is in advance."
"But why should he be in advance of the rest?" is the query, born of
the fear in the heart of the parent.
"It is not mine to answer for the present; he may be better mounted
and is coming for--for--"
"For what?"
"Help."
"Help! What help can we give them?"
"We have a gun in the house, and there is plenty of ammunition."
"That means they have suffered--have been defeated. Look closely,
Jennie; do you see no others?"
She has been searching for them from the first. The approaching
horseman is now fully defined against the dark-green of the mountains,
and the country for half a mile is in clear view.
Over this broad expanse Jennie Whitney's eyes rove, and her heart
seems to stand still as she answers:
"He is alone; I see no others."
"Then he brings evil tidings! Our people have been defeated; more than
one has fallen."
The approaching horseman was riding furiously. His fleet animal was
on a dead run, his neck outstretched, mane and tail streaming as he
thundered through the hurricane created by his own tremendous speed.
The man who sat in the saddle was a perfect equestrian, as are all the
cowmen and rustlers of the West. He leaned forward, as if he would
help his horse to reach his goal at the earliest instant. His
broad-brimmed hat fitted so well that it kept its place on his head
without any fastening; but his own long, dark locks fluttered over his
brawny shoulders, while the trusty Winchester was held in a firm grasp
across the saddle in front, where it could be used on the second
needed.
Jennie Whitney was studying him closely, for he must be father,
brother, or one of the two hired men. She was praying that he was a
relative, but it was not so.
The mother could now distinguish the horseman plainly, though not as
much so as her daughter.
"I think it is father," she said, speaking her hope rather than her
conviction.
"No; it is not he," replied the daughter.
"Then it is Fred."
"No; you are mistaken; it is Budd."
"Alas and alas! why should it be he, and neither my husband nor son?"
wailed the parent.
Jennie was right. The man was the veteran cowboy, Budd Hankinson,
who had whirled the lasso on the arid plains of Arizona, the Llano
Estacado of Texas and among the mountain ranges of Montana; who had
fought Apaches in the southwest, Comanches in the south and Sioux
in the north, and had undergone hardships, sufferings, wounds and
privations before which many a younger man than he had succumbed.
No more skilful and no braver ranchman lived.
Budd had a way of snatching off his hat and swinging it about his head
at sight of the ladies. It was his jocular salutation to them, and
meant that all was well.
But he did not do so now. He must have seen the anxious mother and
daughter almost as soon as they discerned him. Jennie watched for the
greeting which did not come.
"Something is amiss," was her conclusion.
The hoofs of the flying horse beat the hard ground with a regular
rhythm, and he thundered forward like one who knew he was bringing
decisive tidings which would make the hearts of the listeners stand
still.
The black eyes of the cowman were seen gleaming under his hat-rim as
he looked steadily at the couple, against whom his horse would dash
himself the next minute, like a thunderbolt, unless checked.
No fear, however, of anything like that. He rounded to in front of
the women, and halted with a suddenness that would have flung a less
skilful rider over his head, but which hardly caused Budd Hankinson a
jar.
He read the questioning eyes, and before the words could shape
themselves on the pallid lips he called out:
"The mischief is to pay!"
"What is it, Budd?" asked Jennie, she and her mother stepping close to
his box-stirrup.
"We have had a fight with the rustlers--one of the worst I ever
seed--there was eight of 'em."
"Was anybody--hurt?" faltered the mother.
"Wal, I reckon; three of them rustlers won't rustle again very soon,
onless that bus'ness is carried on below, where they've gone; two
others have got holes through their bodies about the size of my hat."
"But--but were any of our people injured?" continued the parent, while
Jennie tried to still the throbbing of her heart until the answer
came.
"Wal, yes," replied Budd, removing his hat and passing his
handkerchief across his forehead, as though the matter was of slight
account; "I'm sorry to say some of us got it in the neck."
"Who--who--how was it? Don't trifle!"
"Wal, you see Zip Peters rode over from Capt. Whiting's to tell us
about the rustlers, and he hadn't much more'n arriv, when along come
the others behind him with one of our branded steers. I made them give
him up, and then the fight was on. Zip got a piece of lead through
the body and the arm, and went out of the saddle without time to say
good-by. My hip was grazed twice, but it didn't amount to nothin'; I'm
as good as ever. Grizzly lost a piece of his ear, but he bored the
rustler through that done it, so that account was squared."
"Then father and Fred were not hurt?" gasped Jennie, clasping her
hands and gazing inquiringly into the face of the messenger.
"Wal," he replied, with the same exasperating coolness he had shown
after his first exclamation, "I wish I could say that, but it ain't
quite so good."
"What--what of my husband?" demanded Mrs. Whitney, stepping so close
that she laid her hand on the knee of the sturdy horseman; "tell me
quick; and what of Fred, my son?"
"Fred fought like a house afire; he killed one of the rustlers, but
his horse was shot and Fred got it through the arm, which ended his
power to do much fighting, but he laid down behind his hoss and kept
it up like the trump he is."
"Then he isn't badly injured?"
"Bless your heart! of course not; he will be all right in a few days;
his arm wants a little nursing, that's all. In the midst of the rumpus
who should ride up but Mont Sterry, as he had heard the firing, and
the way he sailed in was beautiful to behold. It reminded me of the
times down in Arizona when Geronimo made it so lively. He hadn't much
chance to show what he could do, for the rustlers found they had
bitten off more than they could chaw, and they skyugled after he had
dropped one."
The wife and mother drew a sigh of relief, but the daughter was far
from satisfied. A dreadful fear in her heart had not yet been quelled.
Her quick perceptions noticed that Budd had said nothing more about
her father than to mention the fact that he had been wounded. The
mother, in her distress and anxiety, caught at a hope as an assurance
which the daughter could not feel.
At the same time Jennie saw that, despite the apparent nonchalance
of the messenger and his assumed gayety, he was stirred by some deep
emotion.
"He is keeping back something, because he fears to tell it," was her
correct conclusion.