I
The post-office at Eagle River was so small that McCoy and his herders
always spoke of the official within as "the Badger," saying that he must
surely back into his den for lack of room to turn round. His presentment
at the arched loophole in his stockade was formidable. His head was
large, his brow high and seamed, his beard long and tangled, and the
look of his hazel-gray eyes remote with cold abstraction.
"He's not a man to monkey with," said McCoy when the boys complained
that the old seed had put up a sign, "NO SPITTING IN THIS OFFICE." "I'd
advise you to act accordingly. I reckon he's boss of that thing while
he's in there. He's a Populist, but he's regularly appointed by the
President, and I don't see that we're in any position to presume to spit
if he objects. No, there ain't a thing to do but get up a petition and
have him removed--and I won't agree to sign it when you do."
Eagle River was only a cattle-yard station, a shipping-point for the
mighty spread of rolling hills which make up the Bear Valley range to
the north and the Grampa to the south. Aside from the post-office, it
possessed two saloons, a store, a boarding-house or two, and a low,
brown station-house. That was all, except during the autumn, when there
was nearly always an outfit of cowboys camped about the corrals, loading
cattle or waiting for cars.
On the day when this story opens, McCoy had packed away his last steer,
and, being about to take the train for Kansas City, called his foreman
aside.
"See here, Roy, seems to me the boys are extra boozed already. It's up
to you to pull right out for the ranch."
"That's what I'm going to try to do," answered Roy. "We'll camp at the
head of Jack Rabbit to-night."
"Good idea. Get 'em out of town before dark--every mother's son of 'em.
I'll be back on Saturday."
Roy Pierce was a dependable young fellow, and honestly meant to carry
out the orders of his boss; but there was so little by way of diversion
in Eagle, the boys had to get drunk in order to punctuate a paragraph in
their life. There was not a disengaged woman in the burg, and bad whisky
was merely a sad substitute for romance. Therefore the settlers who
chanced to meet this bunch of herders in the outskirts of Eagle River
that night walked wide of them, for they gave out the sounds of battle.
They could all ride like Cossacks, notwithstanding their dizzy heads,
and though they waved about in their saddles like men of rubber, their
faithful feet clung to their stirrups like those of a bat to its perch.
In camp they scuffled, argued, ran foot-races, and howled derisive
epithets at the cook, who was getting supper with drunken gravity, using
pepper and salt with lavish hand.
Into the midst of this hullabaloo Roy, the cow-boss, rode, white with
rage and quite sober.
"I'll kill that old son of a gun one of these days," said he to Henry
Ring.
"Kill who?"
"That postmaster. If he wasn't a United States officer, I'd do it now."
"What's the matter? Wouldn't he shuffle the mail fer you?"
"Never lifted a finger. '_Nothing_,' he barked out at me. Didn't even
look up till I let loose on him."
"What did he do then?"
"Poked an old Civil War pistol out of the window and told me to hike."
"Which you did?"
"Which I did, after passing him a few compliments. 'Lay down your
badge,' I says, 'come out o' your den, and I'll pepper you so full of
holes that your hide won't hold blue-joint hay.' And I'll do it, too,
the old hound!"
"But you got out," persisted Ring, maliciously.
"I got out, but I tell you right now he's got something coming to him.
No mail-sifter of a little two-for-a-cent town like Eagle is goin' to
put it all over me that way and not repent of it. I've figured out a
scheme to get even with him, and you have got to help."
This staggered Henry, who began to side-step and limp. "Count me out on
that," said he. "The old skunk treated me just about the same way. I
don't blame you; a feller sure has a right to have his postmaster make a
bluff at shuffling the deck. But, after all--"
However, in the end the boss won his most trusted fellows to his plan,
for he was a youth of power, and besides they had all been roiled by the
grizzled, crusty old official, and were quite ready to take a hand in
his punishment.
Roy developed his plot. "We'll pull out of camp about midnight, and ride
round to the east, sneak in, and surround the old man's shack, shouting
and yelling and raising Cain. He'll come out of his hole to order us
off, and I'll rope him before he knows where he's at; then we'll toy
with him for a few minutes--long enough to learn him a lesson in
politeness--and let him go."
No one in the gang seemed to see anything specially humorous in this
method of inculcating urbanity of manner, and at last five of them
agreed to stand their share of the riot, although Henry Ring muttered
something about the man's being old and not looking very strong.
"He's strong enough to wave a two-foot gun," retorted Roy, and so
silenced all objection.
One night as soon as the camp was quiet Pierce rose and, touching his
marauders into activity, saddled and rode away as stealthily as the
leader of a band of Indian scouts. He made straightway over the divide
to the east, then turned, and, crossing the river, entered the town from
the south, in order to deceive any chance observer.
Just below the station, in a little gully, he halted his war-party and
issued final orders. "Now I'll ride ahead and locate myself right near
the back door; then when I strike a light you fellows come in and swirl
round the shack like a gust o' hell. The old devil will come out the
back door to see what's doin', and I'll jerk him end-wise before he can
touch trigger. I won't hurt him any more than he needs. Now don't stir
till I'm in position."
Silently, swiftly, his pony shuffled along the sandy road and over the
railway-crossing. The town was soundless and unlighted, save for a dim
glow in the telegraph office, and the air was keen and crisp with
frost. As he approached the Badger's shack Pierce detected a gleam of
light beneath the curtain of the side windows. "If he's awake, so much
the better," he thought, but his nerves thrilled as he softly entered
the shadow.
Suddenly the pony trod upon something which made a prodigious crash. The
door opened, a tall young girl appeared in a wide flare of yellow light
which ran out upon the grass like a golden carpet. With eager, anxious
voice she called out:
"Is that you, Doctor?"
The raider stiffened in his saddle with surprise. His first impulse was
to set spurs to his horse and vanish. His next was to tear off his
disguise and wait, for the voice was sweeter than any he had ever heard,
and the girl's form a vision of beauty.
Alarmed at his silence, she again called out: "Who are you? What do you
want?"
"A neighbor, miss," he answered, dismounting and stepping into the
light. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
At this moment hell seemed to have let loose the wildest of its
warriors. With shrill whoopings, with flare of popping guns, Roy's
faithful herders came swirling round the cabin, intent to do their duty,
frenzied with delight of it.
Horrified, furious at this breach of discipline, Pierce ran to meet
them, waving his hat and raising the wild yell, "Whoo-ee!" with which he
was wont to head off and turn a bunch of steers. "Stop it! Get out!" he
shouted as he succeeded in reaching the ears of one or two of the
raiders. "It's all off--there's a girl here. Somebody sick! Skeedoo!"
The shooting and the tumult died away. The horsemen vanished as swiftly,
as abruptly, as they came, leaving their leader in panting, breathless
possession of the field. He was sober enough now, and repentant, too.
Slowly he returned to the door of the shack with vague intent to
apologize. Something very sudden and very terrible must have fallen upon
the postmaster.
After some hesitation he knocked timidly on the door.
"Have they gone?" the girl asked.
"Yes; I've scared 'em away. They didn't mean no harm, I reckon. I want
to know can't I be of some kind of use?"
The door opened cautiously and the girl again appeared. She was very
pale and held a pistol in her hand, but her voice was calm. "You're very
good," she said, "and I'm much obliged. Who are you?"
"I am Roy Pierce, foreman for McCoy, a cattleman north of here."
"Was it really a band of Indians?"
"Naw. Only a bunch of cow-punchers on a bat."
"You mean cowboys?"
"That's what. It's their little way of havin' fun. I reckon they didn't
know you was here. I didn't. Who's sick?"
"My uncle."
"You mean the postmaster?"
"Yes."
"When was he took?"
"Last night. They telegraphed me about six o'clock. I didn't get here
till this morning--I mean yesterday morning."
"What's the ail of him?"
"A stroke, I'm afraid. He can't talk, and he's stiff as a stake. Oh, I
wish the doctor would come!"