RUBE CARTER'S VISITOR
"Hullo!"
Rube Carter was studying the architect's plan of Kiddie's woodland
cabin. The portable sections of the building were all precisely
numbered; but they were nevertheless perplexing, and he wanted, above
all things, to avoid mistakes.
Usually when in doubt he could apply for an explanation to Kiddie
himself, but on this particular day Kiddie was absent on duty with the
Pony Express, and Rube had to puzzle out the difficulty unhelped. He
had one of the elevation plans spread out in front of him on the
working bench, and was trying to ascertain the exact position of a
window casement, when a moving shadow crossed the sheet of paper.
He had not heard any one approaching. The only sounds he had been
conscious of were the mumbling of his pet bear cub lying beside him
chained to a log, busily licking the inside of an empty honey jar, and
the regular strokes of the woodman's axe as Abe Harum worked at the
felling of a pine tree some distance away. The shadow came from behind
him and stopped on the sunlit expanse of paper.
Rube turned sharply round and looked up at the intruder.
[Illustration: Rube turned sharply round and looked up at the intruder.]
"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "Where did you blow in from, I'd like ter know?
An' what 're you doin' here, anyway? You aware as you're trespassin'?"
He stood confronting a tall, handsome young Indian, who was dressed in
fringed buckskins with a red shirt, and a close-fitting cap of beaver
fur. There was a finely-plaited leather belt about his waist, from
which was suspended a holster containing a heavy revolver. His
moccasins, of white deerskin, were gaily decorated with an intricate
design in beads and coloured silks and little bits of looking-glass.
They were so dainty, it seemed almost that their wearer wanted to draw
special attention to his feet. Rube, however, stared inquisitively
into the stranger's ruddy brown face, noticing how closely together his
piercing black eyes were set and how sharp and thin was his nose. He
was an unusually handsome person.
"Injuns ain't supposed ter come out from their reservations," the boy
continued. "Anyhow, you've got no business trespassin' on this yer
property. You'd best quit. You're not lost, I suppose? You knows
your way home?"
"Ugh!" the Indian grunted, taking a step nearer and glancing curiously
at the plan.
"Dessay you've got no savee fer what I'm tellin' you," Rube went on,
signing a dismissal, "but I can't help that. You gotter quit, see? Go
away. Make yerself scarce. Vamoose."
"Oh, I quite understand," said the Indian, speaking, to Rube's
surprise, in very good English. "Your words are clear as the sunlight.
It is only their meaning that I do not seize. You speak of trespass.
I am not a trespasser. For long, long years--many generations--my
people have had their hunting grounds, have put up their lodges, and
lived and died in these same forest glades. They have trapped the
beaver in this same creek, taken fish from this same lake, and followed
the buffalo on yonder prairie. Who shall stop me if I lay my line of
traps where my people so long ago laid theirs?"
Rube shrugged his shoulders.
"I ain't figurin' ter discuss ancient hist'ry with you, mister," he
said. "I'm not denyin' that Redskins hunted on these yer lands
centuries 'fore the white man happened along. But that ain't got
nothin' t' do wi' you an' me to-day. You're trespassin' on private
property, an' you gotter quit, see? An' if you've bin layin' traps
around you kin just lift 'em an' take 'em along with you. This yer
forest, that thar lake, an' all the land as far's you kin see belongs
ter Lord St. Olave. And he don't allow no trespassers mouchin' around."
"Lord St. Olave?" The Indian pronounced the name with peculiar
distinctness. "Otherwise Kiddie," he added, resting a foot on the log,
but carefully avoiding the bear cub. "I have heard of him."
"Yes, an' seen him, too," rejoined Rube.
"Seen him? When?" questioned the Indian.
"Why," answered Rube, "you saw him pretty plain, I guess, the time he
dropped his lariat over your arms in One Tree Gulch. I suppose you
thinks I don't know you, eh? You're Broken Feather; that's who you
are. Broken Feather, the boss chief of the Injun village over thar.
An' now, what you want? What you doin' around here? Spyin' out the
lie o' the land fer future raids?"
"Surely I am at liberty to take interest in a neighbour's building
operations," returned the chief. He leant closer over the working
bench and gazed down at the architect's plan with renewed curiosity.
"This, I suppose, is the front entrance," he said.
He touched the paper at a particular part of the design, but quickly
drew his arm back. Rube heard him draw a deep breath, as if he were in
pain.
"Say, what's up?" the boy asked. "You took bad in th' inside?"
Instead of answering, Broken Feather turned sharply round. Abe Harum
was approaching, followed at some distance by Rube Carter's mother, who
carried a basket of food for the workers.
The Indian waited coolly, taking out a tobacco bag and a packet of
cigarette papers. Rube thought it curious that he did not make a
cigarette, but hesitatingly returned the material to his pocket, as if
on deliberation he had decided not to smoke.
"I see you got a visitor, Rube," said Abe, as he strode up. "How do,
Broken Feather! You still coveting that Arab mare?--wantin' to buy
her, since you couldn't steal her? Well, she ain't for sale."
"I was hoping to see Lord St. Olave," announced the chief. "I come to
pay a friendly call upon him. Why not?"
"Friendly?" Abe stared at him in amazement. "Say, you've got some
nerve t' come right here an' talk like that, mister. Lord St. Olave
ain't anyways likely t' accept friendly calls from the likes o' you.
Thar's too much bad blood 'tween you an' him fer that. Anyhow, he's
not at home, an' won't be for a long while. So thar's no use your
hangin' around."
"Won't be for a long while," Broken Feather repeated. Then with a look
of cunning he added: "It will be a longer while than you think."
As he went away, treading very silently, he looked round and spoke in
his own tongue, which neither Abe nor Rube could understand. He
disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. When he was out of sight,
Mee-Mee went up to Abe Harum.
"You no savvy what he say," she said. "I savvy heap. He say Kiddie
never, never come back. He say he catch Kiddie on trail, kill him,
take him scalp."
"I don't notion he came here ter say that, though," said Rube.
"What d'you reckon he come for?" asked Abe.
"Dunno," said Rube. "But I got a idea. Mother," he turned to Mee-Mee,
"jus' you hustle back t' the homestead an' let the big dog loose, will
yer?"
"What in thunder d'you want the dog for?" questioned Abe.
"I didn't think of it till he'd gone," returned Rube. "But jus' after
you come along, he took out his tobacco pouch ter make a cigarette, but
didn't make one. Before that, he stretched out his hand ter touch this
yer plan, an' drew his arm back as if the paper'd burnt him. Now why?
Ain't it plain? His arm was sore; he couldn't roll a cigarette. When
he stretched out his hand it hurt him. It was his left hand, Abe.
Kiddie made out that the man as fired that poisoned arrow was bitten in
the left arm when the hound attacked him. See?"
"Yes, but what about the hob-nailed boots?" asked Abe. "I noticed that
Broken Feather's wearin' moccasins. And uncommonly gay ones they are."
"Nobody c'd help noticin' 'em," argued Rube. "That's what he wanted,
in case we'd heard about the boot-tracks. Ain't he just cute, puttin'
us off the scent thataway?"
"That don't explain why he should come prowlin' around here," pursued
Abe. "What did he want here, anyway? What's your idea?"
"This," said Rube. "Broken Feather calculated he wouldn't find Kiddie
here to-day. He knew that Kiddie was ridin' with the Express. That
was his chance--ter come here while Kiddie was away and ter prowl
around in search of that hound--meanin' ter shoot her at sight with
that heavy six-shooter that he carried. That was his errand, sure as
mud."
"If that's so," resumed Abe Harum, "why do you want the hound let
loose? She'll get on his track. She'll go up ter him where he's most
likely lyin' in hiding. Then he'll put a bullet inter her. You'd best
ha' kept her chained up, sure."
Rube shook his head.
"Broken Feather's too cunnin' ter do her any harm now that he knows
he's been seen. He didn't want t' be seen. He didn't expect t' be.
He happened upon me quite sudden, when he was sneakin' round ter git
past where you was busy fellin' that tree. I'd seen his shadder 'fore
he knew I was thar at the bench. No, Abe, he won't hurt the dog. I've
a notion he's gone right away."
"Leavin' no proof that he's the man that tried ter kill Kiddie," added
Abe.
"Wait till the hound comes along," said Rube; "then we shall have
proof. Just wait."
When at length the deerhound came limping eagerly towards them from
among the trees, her nose was lowered to the ground and her tail
slashing to and fro. Rube called her, but she went on sniffing the
grass, until she got on to Broken Feather's track. Then she bounded
forward in pursuit of him. Rube Carter followed her down to the creek,
where she stopped.
"Checked!" muttered Rube. "He's too clever for us. Not a bit o' use
trying ter pick up his scent in runnin' water, Sheila. Never mind,
you've given proof that he's the man that dealt you the cut on the
shoulder."
Rube was eager to tell Kiddie of his discovery, and he sat up that
night with Abe Harum, waiting for Kiddie to ride along the trail and
change ponies at Birkenshaw's station.
Towards two o'clock in the morning, when the eastern bound Express was
due, Abe got ready the relay pony, and led it down to the trail. Rube
accompanied him. The night was very dark, a thin rain was falling, and
they took shelter under the trees. Abe presently struck a match, to
see his watch.
"It's time," he said. "D'ye hear him comin'?"
"No," Rube answered. "Mebbe your ticker's a bit fast."
"It's exactly right," Abe assured him. "An' Kiddie's four minutes
behind time. 'Tain't like Kiddie t' be late. Dessay his relay wasn't
ready at Three Crossings. Keep yer ears open. Wind's comin' this way.
We ought t' ha' heard him long ago."
Abe was at first merely interested in the fact of Kiddie being slightly
behind schedule time. Then he became impatient, then anxious, and
finally seriously alarmed.
"Suthin's happened," he declared. "Never knew Kiddie t' be late like
this. Suthin's sure happened."