THE RANCHMAN SAYS SOMETHING.
“Now, professor,” said the ranchman, as he rose from his box and filled
his pipe for his after-supper smoke, “you look as though a wink of sleep
would do you good. Whenever you get ready to turn in, bring your
blankets from the wagon and take possession of that empty bunk. It
belongs to my herdsman, who has gone to the hills with the stock.”
Oscar was glad to comply at once with the invitation. He had found that
riding in a wagon behind a lazy mule, which had to be urged all the time
in order to keep him in motion, was almost as hard work as riding on
horseback, and he was tired and sleepy.
Rude as the bed was, after he had got it made up, it looked inviting,
and he lost no time in tumbling into it. But he did not fall asleep at
once, as he had expected he would, for his mind was too busy with the
events of the day.
The ranchman and Big Thompson drew their boxes in front of the stove,
smoked their pipes, and, without taking the trouble to ascertain whether
or not the boy was asleep, discussed him and his affairs with the utmost
freedom.
The guide was talkative enough now, and Oscar wondered if he would use
his tongue as freely when they were alone in the hills.
“Who is this young fellow, anyhow?” was the ranchman’s first question.
“Oh, he’s one of them thar crazy loons who aint got nothin’ better to do
than tramp about the country, an’ ketch all sorts of critters, an’ stuff
’em full of hay or something,” said Big Thompson.
And the tone in which the reply was made led Oscar to believe that the
guide had anything but an exalted opinion of a boy who could pass his
time in that way.
“Then he really is a taxidermist, is he?”
“Which?” exclaimed Big Thompson.
“I mean that he is what he pretends to be?”
“I reckon. They called him a college-sharp down to the post; an’ the
kurn, he took him in the minute he came thar, an’ treated him like he
was a little juke, or one of them thar nobby fellers from across the
water. If it hadn’t been fur the kurn, ye wouldn’t ’a’ ketched me here
with him.”
Oscar might have heard much more of this sort of talk if he had chosen
to listen; but, as he was not in the habit of playing eavesdropper, he
turned his face to the wall, drew the blankets over his head, and
composed himself to sleep.
Early the next morning he was awakened by the banging of the stove-lids,
and started up, to find his host busy with his preparations for
breakfast.
He wished the boy a hearty good-morning, but he did not have anything of
importance to say to him until the meal was over, and Oscar, arising
from his seat, pulled out his pocket-book.
“How much do I owe you, Mr. Barker?” said he.
“Look here, professor,” replied the ranchman, with a smile, “after you
have been in this country a little longer, you will know better than to
ask a question like that.”
“Very well,” said Oscar, who knew what that meant. “I am greatly obliged
to you for your hospitality. Now, I can’t take my outfit with me; and I
ask you again if I can hire you to take it back to the fort for me?”
“And I tell you again that you can’t,” was the blunt, almost rude,
reply.
“Well, will you take it for nothing—just to accommodate me?”
“No, I won’t.”
“Very well,” said Oscar again. “Then I shall have to abandon the most of
it right here. Thompson, come out to the wagon and select such things as
you think we ought to take with us.”
“Are you going to walk to the foot-hills?” asked the ranchman, with an
amused twinkle in his eye that made Oscar angry. “The valley to which
Thompson intended to take you is all of a hundred miles from here.”
“I don’t care if it is a thousand. I am going there, if I live,” was the
quick and decided reply. “If my guide will stick to me—and I know he
will, for the colonel said so—I’ll make a success of this expedition, in
spite of everything.”
“You’re mighty right—I’ll stick to ye!” exclaimed Big Thompson; and, as
he spoke, he advanced and extended a hand so large that Oscar’s sturdy
palm—which was promptly placed within it—was almost hidden from view. “I
never seen sich grit in a tenderfoot afore. Perfessor, ye kin swar by
Big Thompson every time, an’ don’t ye never forgit it!”
“Pilgrim,” said the ranchman, “you said something last night about
credentials. Perhaps you wouldn’t take offence if I should ask you to
produce them. We always like to know a little about strangers who pass
through this country, claiming to be something grand.”
“I don’t claim to be anything grand. I simply say that I have been sent
out here to collect specimens of natural history for the Yarmouth
University; and, if you don’t believe it, look at that!” exclaimed Oscar
indignantly, at the same time handing out a letter signed by the
president of the college and the secretary of the committee, under whose
instructions he was working. “Probably you will say next that _I_ stole
your old mule!”
“Well, I _have_ yet something to say,” answered the ranchman, as he
opened the letter; “and, when I say it, it will be to the point. You
hear me?”
These words were spoken in a very decided tone, and Oscar could not make
up his mind whether the ranchman was angry or not. Sometimes he was sure
he was, and then again he was equally sure he wasn’t.
He was certainly acting very strangely, and so was Big Thompson, who,
after his outburst of enthusiasm, relapsed into silence again, and now
seemed to be utterly indifferent to all that was passing before him.
He stood in front of the stove, with his head inclining a little
forward, so that it might not come in contact with the rafters; and
Oscar could not tell by the expression on his face whether it would be
safe to depend on him for help in case of trouble between himself and
the ranchman, or not.
“Look here, professor,” said the latter, after he had read and returned
Oscar’s credentials, “that’s my mule and wagon.”
“Well, I don’t dispute it, do I? Take them and welcome.”
“But look here, professor,” repeated the ranchman; “I’m a student
myself—I haven’t brains enough to be a scholar—and I couldn’t think of
throwing a straw in the way of those young fellows out there in
Yarmouth, who want a museum to assist them in studying natural history;
so, Thompson, you just go out and hitch up that mule; and, professor,
you jump into the wagon and go on, and good-luck attend you.”
Oscar was electrified. He could hardly believe that he was not dreaming.
The only thing real about the whole proceeding was the tremendous grip
the ranchman gave him as he said this. There was no dream about that.
“Do you mean to tell me that I can have the mule?” exclaimed Oscar, as
soon as he could speak.
“Yes,” replied the ranchman, still holding Oscar’s hand in his own. “I
see very plainly that you can’t go on without him, and so I will lend
him to you. When you come back in the spring, you can give him up. If
you don’t find me here—and you may not, for life in these parts is so
uncertain that a fellow can’t tell to-day where he will be to-morrow—he
is yours, to sell or to keep, just as you please.”
Oscar now began to realize that the ranchman, in spite of a certain
flippancy of manner, was in earnest; and the revulsion of feeling was so
great that, for a moment, the dug-out seemed to swim around him.
“Mr. Barker,” he stammered, trying to squeeze the huge palm, to the
strength of which his own would have offered about as much resistance as
a piece of pasteboard, “I don’t know how to thank you for your
kindness.”
“Then I wouldn’t try,” the ranchman said lightly. “Besides, it is not
kindness; it is only justice. You had no means of knowing that the mule
was stolen, and it wouldn’t be right for me to take him away from you.
If I should claim him now, and thereby put the success of your
expedition in jeopardy, I could never look a white man in the face
again.”
Ike Barker spoke seriously now; and, for the first time since his
arrival at the dug-out, Oscar began to see what manner of man it was
with whom he was dealing. His backwoods bluntness of manner was entirely
foreign to him. He had learned to assume it in order to conceal feelings
and sentiments, the exhibition of which would have been regarded by
those with whom he was daily thrown in contact as unmanly in the
extreme.