A CLIMAX.
At daylight the next morning breakfast had been eaten, and the two
wolfers were on their way to their new hunting grounds, Lish leading his
pony, which was loaded with their outfit and the skins they had secured,
and Tom bringing up the rear.
If the latter had been as skilled in woodcraft as his brother was he
would not have been long in finding out that Lish had told him a
falsehood regarding his movements of the previous day.
There were no signs of a trail in the gorge which they followed from one
valley to the other, and that proved conclusively that the wolfer had
not been along there during the last twenty-four hours.
But Tom took no note of the fact. He was utterly indifferent to
everything around him, and it is hard to tell how he would have lived if
he had not been cheered and sustained by the hope—which sometimes
amounted to positive conviction—that there were brighter days in store
for him, and that his affairs would soon take a turn for the better.
He was in a very repentant frame of mind, and promised himself over and
over again that, if he ever got back among civilized people, he would
lead an honest and respectable life, in spite of all the temptations
that could be thrown around him.
His first hard work should be to return every cent of Mr. Smith’s money,
and when that was done he would once more be able to look honest men in
the face.
The valley, which they reached at noon that day, was by no means as fine
a hunting ground as Tom had expected to find it. It was not so well
watered or so effectually protected from the storms as the one in which
they had first taken up their abode, and consequently the deer, and the
wolves that preyed upon them, were not found in any great numbers.
Their want of success of course had its effect upon the temper of his
partner, and for three long weeks he never spoke a civil word to Tom,
who lived in constant apprehension of open violence.
Lish grumbled every time the firewood gave out before morning, and swore
whenever he looked at the very small supply of bacon and cracker they
had left.
Finding that he grew worse every day, Tom, who feared an outbreak above
all the other evils that threatened him, gradually gave up wolfing and
devoted himself to his camp duties; but not even the sight of the nice
fat grouse that were set before him every night, and which Tom had
snared in the neighboring woods, could put Lish in good humor.
From this time forward Tom provided all the fresh meat that was served
up in that camp, for Lish would not expend his ammunition on anything
smaller than a deer, and that was an animal he did not often see.
When Tom stopped putting out bait for the wolves he gave the wolfer
another cause for displeasure, and the man took his own way to show how
mad he was over it.
One afternoon, when Tom came in from making the round of his snares, he
was surprised to see that the skins they had captured, which were piled
in one corner of the lean-to after being cured, had disappeared.
Believing that the camp had been robbed during his absence, and that he
would be sure to suffer for it when his partner returned at night, Tom
threw down the grouse he had captured and made the circuit of the
lean-to, looking for the robber’s trail.
He found it after a short search, and the moment he saw it he knew that
it had been made by Lish himself. He followed it up for a few hundred
yards, taking care to step exactly in the wolfer’s tracks, and presently
came within sight of a tree, which had been partly uprooted by the wind.
Among the branches, about twenty feet from the ground, was a small
platform, built of poles, and on this platform was something covered
with a blanket.
To scramble up the inclined trunk, raise the blanket, and see what was
under it was scarcely two minutes’ work. The blanket was one of his own,
and the objects it concealed and protected from the weather were the
skins he and Lish had captured.
At the sight of them Tom uttered a low whistle; and, after looking all
around to make sure that his partner was nowhere in sight, he backed
down the trunk and set out for camp at a rapid walk, being careful, as
before, to step squarely into the wolfer’s tracks.
Arriving at the lean-to, he replenished the fire; and, picking up one of
the grouse, began plucking it, working as fast as he could in order to
make up for lost time.
He knew that Lish would be sure to take him to task for something the
moment he returned, and if he did not find a cup of hot coffee waiting
for him, supplemented by as good a supper as Tom’s limited means would
allow him to prepare, something disagreeable might happen.
“What object could Lish have had in view when he stole those skins out
of the camp and hid them in that tree?” Tom asked himself over and over
again. “I can’t think of any unless he intends to clear out and leave me
to shift for myself. If he should do that, what in the world would
become of me?”
While Tom was turning this alarming thought over in his mind he heard
somebody coming toward the camp at a rapid pace, stamping furiously
through the crust as if to give emphasis to some words he was muttering
to himself, but which Tom could not catch.
The next moment the wolfer came round the side of the lean-to. In one
hand he carried his rifle and in the other a stout switch, which he was
brandishing wildly over his head. His face was fairly black with fury.
“Look a-yere!” he yelled, as he leaned his rifle up in one corner and
approached the place where Tom was sitting. “What ye bin a-snoopin’
round out thar in the timber fur to-day? Don’t be long in speakin’ up,
kase this hickory is gettin’ heavy, an’ it will have to drop somewhar
purty soon!”
Tom was surprised, and greatly alarmed besides. He was alarmed by the
expression of almost ungovernable fury he saw in the wolfer’s face, and
surprised to learn that his movements had been so readily detected,
after all the pains he had taken to cover his trail.
But there was nothing surprising in that, for if he had carefully
examined his trail he would have seen that there were the prints of two
boot heels in each one of the tracks that had been made by the wolfer’s
moccasined feet.
“What ye bin a-pokin’ yer nose into my business fur?” shouted Lish,
making the switch whistle as he whirled it around his head. “What made
you go out an’ hunt up them skins?”
“What made you hide them?” asked Tom, as soon as he could speak. “It
looks as though you were trying to rob me of my share. Some of those
skins belong to me.”
“I hid ’em kase I aint a-goin’ to have ye slip inter the camp when I
aint here, an’ go off to find yer brother.”
“If my brother was anywhere within reach of me it would take a better
man than you to keep me here,” was the thought that passed through Tom’s
mind.
But he knew better than to give utterance to it.
“Thar don’t none of them pelts b’long to ye, an’ I don’t want ye to
fergit it, nuther!” exclaimed Lish. “Ye haven’t pizened a dozen varmints
since we come to this yere place.”
“That’s because I can’t do all the work about camp and put out baits
too,” replied Tom. “If you will cut the wood I’ll do the cooking and
catch as many skins as you do into the bargain.”
“Yer so powerful lazy yer don’t ’arn yer salt,” said the wolfer, paying
no attention to this proposition. “Now I’ll jest tell ye what’s a fact.
If ye don’t mind yer own business an’ let mine be I’ll lay that hickory
over yer head till ye see more’n a hundred stars. Ye hear me? I’ll put
it here in this corner, so’s to have it handy. Ye’ve been a-spilin’ for
a trouncin’, an’ I’m jest the feller to give it to ye.”
Tom drew a long breath of relief, but made no reply.
He had been expecting something like this for a long time, and he was
glad to know that his punishment was to be postponed for a few hours at
least.
He did not go near the skins again (if he had he would not have found
them in the tree, for they had been removed to other and safer
quarters), but gave all his time to his camp duties and to keeping Lish
supplied with fresh meat, which the latter was sure to call for every
night and morning.
Tom’s object was to put off the day of his “trouncin’” as long as he
possibly could.
One afternoon, about two weeks after the occurrence of the events we
have just described, Tom had the misfortune to cut his foot while he was
chopping wood.
The wound would have been considered a serious one under any
circumstances, but situated as he was it became positively dangerous.
Lacking the forethought as well as the means to provide for such
accidents as this, he had brought no bandages or liniment with him, and
all he could do was to pull off his boot, apply some ice-cold
water—which was about the worst thing he could have put on it—wrap the
injured member up in one of his extra shirts, and crawl to his bed under
the lean-to.
Lish swore loudly when he came in. He fairly surpassed all his previous
efforts in this line; and one, to have heard the abuse he heaped upon
the head of his unfortunate partner, would have supposed that Tom had
been guilty of some great crime.
The wolfer now had to cook for himself and cut his own wood. A short
experience must have disgusted him with this sort of work; for, on the
third morning after the accident, Tom awoke from a troubled slumber to
find his last blanket and his partner missing. If it had not been for
the fact that the pony was standing near the dying embers of the fire,
he would have believed that Lish had deserted him in his trouble.
The wolfer was gone two whole days and a part of another, and when at
last he came within sight of the camp he was followed by a very small
pony, which fairly staggered under the weight of a huge pack he bore
upon his back.
Where he had been, and what he had been doing, of course Tom did not
know; but he could see by the expression on his face that Lish was
highly elated over something. He really looked good-natured.
“Hello, pard!” he exclaimed as he came to a halt in front of the
lean-to. “How ye makin’ it by this time? If we aint struck it rich now
we never will! That thar pony is jest loaded down with jest the finest
lot of——”
Lish stopped and looked about him, evidently not at all pleased with the
gloomy appearance of things. A few green boughs sputtered on the fire,
giving out a dense smoke, but no flame; Tom was flat on his back, just
as he had left him, and there was no dinner waiting for him.
“Why didn’t ye get me nothin’ to eat?” demanded Lish.
“Why didn’t you send a messenger on ahead to tell me that you were
coming?” replied Tom, driven almost desperate by the pain of his wound,
which was growing worse, in spite of the best care he could give it.
“Wal, ye see me here now, don’t ye?” retorted Lish. “Git up from thar
an’ make me a cup of coffee.”
“I can’t; the coffee is all gone.”
“Then give me a partridge an’ some bread!” commanded the wolfer,
beginning to grow angry.
“I can’t do that either. I haven’t been able to visit my snares since
you went away, and there is not a crumb of cracker left.”
“Thar aint?” shouted Lish, while an ominous light shone in his eyes.
“An’ ye aint done nothin’ but lay thar an’ stuff yerself till our coffee
an’ grub’s all gone! Git up from thar, I tell ye, an’ go out an’ ketch
me a partridge!”
“I can’t,” replied Tom, who, seeing that an outbreak was not very far
distant, began to be terribly alarmed. “I can’t walk a step. You have no
idea how I suffer all the time.”
“’Taint nothin’ on ’arth but laziness that is the matter of ye!” said
Lish as he laid down his rifle and picked up the switch. “If ye won’t
move, I’ll have to move ye. Git up from thar! Git up, ye lazy wagabone,
an’ git me sunthin’ to eat! Do ye reckon yer goin’ to git up?”
These words were accompanied by a shower of blows, which fell upon Tom’s
head and shoulders with such force that the sound of them could be,
indeed _was_, heard a considerable distance away.
If his life had depended upon it, poor Tom could not have maintained an
upright position for half a minute. He had tried it often enough to
know. Whenever he attempted it the blood rushed into his foot, causing
him the most intense anguish.
He could only lie there and make feeble, but unavailing, efforts to
shield his face, which seemed to be the mark at which his tormentor
aimed his blows. His shrieks of agony fell upon deaf ears, the wolfer
having determined to beat him until he got upon his feet.
They were both so completely engrossed—Lish in raining his blows upon
his helpless victim, and Tom in trying to ward them off—and the hubbub
they occasioned was so great, that they did not hear the sonorous bray
which awoke the echoes of the hills, nor the noise made by rapidly
advancing hoofs.
Just as Tom was about to give up in despair, and allow the wolfer to
beat him to death—if he had made up his mind to do so—a large
mouse-colored mule, without saddle or bridle, but carrying a rider on
his back, suddenly appeared upon the scene.
The mule was coming at a furious pace directly toward the lean-to, and
for a moment it looked as though he was going to run right through it;
but he stopped when he reached the side of the pony, and his rider swung
himself to the ground.
No sooner was he fairly landed on his feet than he dashed forward with
an angry exclamation, and planted his fist so squarely and forcibly
against the wolfer’s neck that he doubled him up like a piece of wet
cloth, and brought the fracas to a close in an instant.