BIG THOMPSON’S HUNTING DOG.
“Well, I declare, Oscar! How nicely you are situated, and how well you
live!”
Tom Preston gave a sigh of satisfaction as he settled back on his elbow
and put down his cup, after taking a refreshing drink of the strong, hot
coffee.
He lay upon a comfortable bed, beside a roaring fire; and his foot,
which bore an ugly looking wound, had just been dressed with some
soothing liniment.
Beside him, on the floor, was the best dinner he had eaten for many a
day, consisting of juicy venison steaks, corn-bread, canned fruit, and
pickles.
He and Oscar had been at home about twenty-four hours, and the cabin was
wearing its old-time look again. The specimens and skins were all there,
so were the saddles and bridles, and Oscar’s breech loader rested in its
accustomed place over the door.
Everything the wolfer had stolen had been recovered except the small
portion of bacon he had eaten in his camp in the upper end of the
valley; and there was, also, one thing there he did not steal—at least
from Oscar—that was his rifle.
At first the young hunter did not know whether to take the weapon home
with him or not, for he had no desire that the wolfer should starve for
want of means to procure food. But Tom insisted on it, and Oscar at last
yielded to his wishes.
“He’s as treacherous as the wolf he hunts,” declared Tom, “and if you
leave him that rifle, he will surely waylay you and use it against you.
Take it by all means. It will help pay for the skins and blanket he has
stolen from me. You needn’t be afraid that he will starve. Nearly all
the fresh meat we have had this winter I caught in my snares, and he can
get some in the same way. We will leave him his pony, so that he can get
his spelter to the settlement in the spring, and that is all we will do
for him.”
The return journey had been accomplished without any mishap. The mule
led the way, carrying the pack. Tom came next, riding Big Thompson’s
pony, and Oscar brought up the rear on foot.
They spent the first night in the wolfer’s abandoned camp, arriving at
the cabin about noon on the following day.
They could not travel faster on account of Tom’s injuries. The wound in
his foot was very painful, and he was black and blue all over from the
beating the wolfer had given him; but his tongue was all right, and he
kept it going incessantly.
He gave his brother a truthful account of his wanderings, which we do
not repeat here because it has nothing to do with our narrative; and the
stories he told of his partner’s tyranny, and the description he gave of
the sufferings he experienced while he was alone in camp, made Oscar
wish most heartily that he had used something besides a switch on the
wolfer.
He told how he had tried to injure his brother because he envied him in
his prosperity, but Oscar would not allow him to dwell upon that.
He knew all about it, he said; it was all past and gone, and they would
not make themselves unhappy by referring to it, or even thinking of it
again.
He said everything he could to strengthen Tom’s resolutions of
amendment, and had the satisfaction of knowing, in after years, that the
severe lessons the latter had received during his sojourn among the
hills had not been thrown away upon him.
For a week or two the brothers kept a constant watch for the wolfer;
and, if he had come near that camp again, he would have met with the
warmest kind of a reception. But he had already put a good many miles
between himself and that valley, and Tom and Oscar never saw him again.
Everything went smoothly with them after that. Tom’s foot healed
rapidly, and in a few days he was able to get about and do his share of
work in the cabin, which he kept as neat as a new pin.
The stolen traps were again doing duty at the brook; and Oscar, without
saying a word to his brother about it, every day laid by a portion of
the skins he took from them, to be sold for Tom’s benefit.
It would be hard work for the latter to begin his new life with empty
hands, and it would perhaps encourage him to know that he had a few
dollars to fall back upon in case of emergency.
As soon as he was able to ride to the brook without inconvenience, Tom
put out a few deadfalls for himself, and it was not long before the
skins he captured exceeded in value those the wolfer had stolen from
him.
The weeks wore on, and finally Oscar began to look anxiously for Big
Thompson. Every other day he and Tom rode down to the gorge to see if
they could discover any signs of his approach, but they always came back
disappointed.
The guide, however, was daily making long strides toward them, fully as
impatient to see Oscar as the boy was to see him, and he arrived when he
was least expected. One night, just after the supper table had been
cleared away, he walked into the cabin, wrapped up in his soldier’s
overcoat, and carrying his rifle and snow-shoes over his shoulder.
Oscar sprang to meet him; and the greeting that passed between them gave
Tom some idea of the strength of the affection they cherished for each
other.
“Who’s that thar?” demanded the guide, when his eyes fell upon the new
occupant of the cabin.
“That’s my brother,” replied Oscar. “Tom, this is my guide, of whom you
have often heard me speak.”
Tom arose and extended his hand, but the guide pretended that he did not
see it. He put his rifle and snow-shoes in one corner of the cabin, and
then turned and looked down at Tom.
“So yer the fine young feller as wanted to bust my pardner up, be ye?”
said he sternly, while Tom grew a shade whiter as he noticed the
expression that settled on the speaker’s face.
“Now, Thompson, that’s enough of that,” interrupted Oscar. “It was all
settled long ago. Don’t say another word about it, for we want to forget
it.”
“I’m amazin’ proud to hear it,” growled the guide. “But if ye can’t
forgit it, an’ it aint settled nuther, an’ ye wan’t it should be
settled——”
He finished the sentence by striking his clenched hand into his open
palm.
“But I tell you it is settled!” exclaimed Oscar. “Sit down and don’t
spoil a family reunion by showing your temper. Let us see how agreeable
you can be. If you don’t, the next time I see you pursued by a grizzly,
I’ll——”
“Say no more, perfessor,” said Big Thompson, the scowl instantly fading
from his face. “Put it thar!”
“Excuse me,” answered Oscar, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
“Where are my letters and papers?”
The guide did not act as though he heard the question. He pulled his
pipe from his pocket, and, after filling and lighting it with a brand
from the fire, he drew a stool close to Oscar’s side and sat down.
“Now,” said he, “I’m all ready. Go on.”
“Go on with what?”
“I want to know jest everything that’s happened in this yere valley
since I’ve b’en gone. An’ I say ag’in, go on.”
Oscar, who knew that it was of no use to oppose the guide when he had
determined upon any particular course of action, began the story of his
adventures, intending to hurry through with it as soon as he could, and
make another demand on Big Thompson for the letters and papers he
carried in his pocket; but, as he dwelt upon the exciting scenes through
which he had so recently passed, he became interested, and, before he
knew it, he was giving a spirited and graphic account of them.
Big Thompson kept his eyes fastened upon the boy’s face, listening so
intently that he allowed his pipe to go out; and he almost jumped from
his seat when Tom exclaimed, as Oscar was about winding up his story:
“You ought to have seen him, Thompson. He knocked Lish flatter than a
pancake twice, and thrashed him until he wore a five-foot switch down to
two. I lay there and saw it all.”
“Perfessor,” said the guide, whose astonishment and admiration knew no
bounds, “did ye lick Lish in a fair rough an’ tumble?”
“I made him stop pounding my brother,” replied Oscar, “and I recovered
everything he stole from us, into the bargain.”
“Perfessor,” repeated the guide, “put ’em thar! Put ’em both thar!”
But Oscar very wisely made all haste to put them somewhere else. He put
them into his pockets, and the guide, not knowing any other way in which
to express his hearty approval of his employer’s conduct, brought one of
his huge hands down upon his knee with such force that the boy shook all
over.
This action was taken as a declaration of hostilities by a formidable
body guard the guide had brought with him. A shrill bark, followed by a
series of growls that were meant to be very fierce, came from somewhere
about Big Thompson’s person, and the next instant a very diminutive
head, surmounted by a pair of fox-like ears and covered with hair so
long that it almost concealed the knowing little eyes that glared upon
him, suddenly appeared from between the buttons of the guide’s overcoat,
and a row of sharp white teeth gleamed in the firelight.
Oscar started back with an exclamation of astonishment, while Tom and
the guide gave vent to hearty peals of laughter.
“Perfessor,” said the latter, thrusting his hand inside his overcoat and
drawing out the animal to which the head belonged, the smallest,
homeliest specimen of a Scotch terrier that Oscar had ever seen, “that
thar big elk is jest as good as skinned an’ stuffed already. I call him
Pink, on account of the color of his ha’r—which is black. What do you
think of him fur a huntin’ dog?”
“A hunting dog!” repeated Oscar, still more astonished. “Do you mean to
tell me that you are going to catch that magnificent elk with such a
miserable little——Humph! You can’t get a fair view of him without the
aid of a microscope, and a fair-sized rat would scare him to death. Now
hand out my mail.”
Big Thompson complied this time, and he had a good bundle of it, too,
when it was all put together—papers from Eaton and Yarmouth, letters
from his mother, Sam Hynes, and Leon Parker, others from Professor
Potter and the committee, and the rest were from the officers of the
fort, who praised him extravagantly for the courage he had exhibited in
his encounter with the grizzly, the particulars of which they had heard
from Big Thompson.
The papers were passed over to Tom, and Oscar also gave him all his
letters to read, with the exception of two, addressed in a neat,
feminine hand, which were put safely away in his pocket, only to be
taken out again at intervals and read and reread until they were almost
worn out.
The boys became silent after the letters appeared, for the news they
contained made them homesick.
Big Thompson, finding that nothing more was to be got out of his
employer that night, cooked and ate a hearty supper and went to bed, his
little hunting dog curling himself up with him under the blankets.