ZEKE’S LETTER.
All the incidents described in the preceding chapters happened before
the beginning of our story; but it was necessary that we should devote
some time to them in order that the reader might be able to follow us
understandingly. We have only one thing more to tell about, and then the
thread of our story will run smoothly. Let us go back to George
Ackerman, whom we left sitting on the porch in front of the rancho,
mending his bridle and talking earnestly to himself.
“Uncle John and Ned act as though they don’t want me here,” repeated
George, “and I have the best notion in the world to pack up my few
things and clear out. The house doesn’t seem like home to me now. I am a
great deal happier when I am in camp with Zeke than I am anywhere else.
I have put up with a good deal, but I shan’t surrender my herd of cattle
just to please that lazy Ned. If he wants to make a beginning in
stock-raising, let him go to work, as I did. I had nobody to smooth the
way for me.”
George was expecting a visit from his cousin, who had promised that he
would come to him on this particular morning for an answer to a
proposition he had made him a short time before. That proposition was,
that George should accept him as a full partner in his business.
During the winter that had just passed, Ned had learned, to his entire
satisfaction, that it is hard work to do nothing. He could not tell how
he had managed to live through the long, dreary weeks, and he had made
up his mind that he would never pass another winter in that way. He
considered himself a full-fledged farmer now, for he had fifty acres of
wheat planted; but wheat was a crop that required no care except for
sowing and harvesting, and all the rest of the year he had to himself to
spend as he pleased. After thinking the matter over he decided to go
into partnership with his cousin. That would be the easiest thing he
could do. As he knew nothing about taking care of cattle, of course
George would not expect him to act as herder. He could stay in camp,
when he felt like it, come home when he pleased, and George and Zeke
would do all the work, and Ned would share in the profits. It was a very
nice plan, no doubt, but George did not seem to be very enthusiastic
over it; so Ned did not press him for an answer when he made the
proposition, but informed him that he would ask for it before George
left for his camp on the plains. The latter was getting ready to start
now, and looking for Ned at the same time. He came just as George
finished his soliloquy.
“Well,” said he, “have you considered my proposition?”
“I have, and it can’t be done,” was George’s reply. “Two persons are all
that are needed to take care of so small a herd as mine.”
“Couldn’t you discharge Zeke and take me in his place?”
“And do all the work myself?” exclaimed George “No sir; I couldn’t.”
“You would rather keep him than please your cousin, I suppose,” snapped
Ned, who was always angry when he could not have his own way.
“I am willing to do anything reasonable,” replied George, “but I can’t
do two men’s work for the sake of pleasing you. Why don’t you make a
start for yourself, as I did?”
“It would take too long; and besides I don’t know anything about
cattle.”
“Yes, it will take years; but you will be learning the business all the
while, and by the time you have a herd of your own you will know how to
take care of it. I tell you there’s something back of this,” said
George, to himself, as Ned jumped up and walked into the house, shaking
his head and muttering to himself. “His offer to go into partnership
with me is only a blind. He has another object in view, and I wish I
knew what it is.”
“There’s only one thing about this business, and you can bet high on
that, my fine lad,” thought Ned, as he disappeared in the house. “You
shan’t treat me with contempt if everybody else does. I’ll show you who
is boss here.”
George was certain that he had not heard the last of the matter, and in
this he was not mistaken. When Ned had been gone about five minutes
Uncle John came out, and before he had said a dozen words George knew
just what he had to expect.
“I have concluded to reduce expenses about eighty dollars a month by
discharging two herdsmen,” said Uncle John.
“All right, sir,” replied George cheerfully, “eighty dollars are worth
saving; but do you think that those who are left will be able to do the
work?”
“O, yes. Of course I intend that the places of those I discharge shall
be supplied by others.”
“Then I don’t see how you are going to save anything. Besides, what’s
the use of sending away good men and hiring others whom you don’t know
anything about?”
“I don’t intend to hire any others. I want you and Zeke to take their
places.”
“Oh! I thought that was what you were trying to get at,” said George, to
himself. “Ned means to rule or ruin, but he shall do neither. Zeke and I
can’t take their places,” he said, aloud. “We have all we can do now.”
“I will tell you how I intend to arrange matters,” said Uncle John, and
George thought he looked and acted as though he did not much like the
business he had set out to perform. “I am going to bring your herd in
and distribute it among the others. You two can take care of more than
three hundred cattle.”
“But I don’t want my herd broken up. I earned it without help; it
belongs to me individually, and I am going to keep it. Zeke belongs to
me, too; and while he is in my employ he shan’t herd cattle for anybody
else.”
“Why, George!” exclaimed Uncle John, who seemed to be very much
astonished at the emphasis the boy threw into his words. “I never knew
you to be so disobedient before.”
“You will find me so every time you try to trample on me,” declared
George, boldly. “I don’t know why you should want to take my herd away
from me, but I do know there’s not a man on the place who would help you
do it. Ah! I forgot you,” thought George, as his eye fell upon the
Mexican cook, who just then crossed the yard, walking slowly and
carrying his head on one side as if he were trying to overhear what
passed between Uncle John and his nephew. “I believe that you are mean
enough to do anything, Master Philip!”
“I intend that you shall obey me,” replied Uncle John, “and if you will
not do it willingly, you must do it unwillingly. I shall discharge Zeke
at once.”
“I don’t see how you can do that,” thought George, as Uncle John turned
on his heel and walked into the house, “for you don’t pay him his wages.
I don’t see how you are going to take my cattle away from me either, for
the first thing will be to find them, and what would Zeke and I be doing
while you were trying to drive them away? I should call it robbery, and
I wouldn’t submit to it.”
The emphatic manner in which the boy nodded his head as he said this,
and the look of determination that settled on his face would have
surprised Uncle John if he could have seen them. The boy was resolved to
hold fast to his property and to stubbornly resist any attempt that
might be made to deprive him of it. It would be an act of gross
injustice to take his earnings away from him, and George found it hard
to believe that his uncle could think seriously of such a thing.
“If he tries it, it will only be in keeping with other mean things he
has done since he has been here,” said George. “He and Ned are coming
down on me harder and harder every month, and I should like to know what
they mean by it.”
George seemed to put a little more energy into his work as he turned
these matters over in his mind, and when at last the bridle was finished
he threw it upon the porch, put the awl and what was left of the
waxed-end ‘carefully away in a box that lay beside him on the ground,
and taking the box in his hand started toward a little shed which stood
a short distance in the rear of the house.
As he drew near to the shed, two animals he had left there a little
while before greeted him, each after his own fashion. One was Bonaparte
(called Bony, for short) George’s pack mule, and the other was Ranger,
his favorite riding nag. These animals, which were among the best of
their kind, had been the boy’s almost constant companions, ever since he
returned from school and settled down to the business of herding cattle.
Bony was small and clean-limbed, sleek as a mole and treacherous as
mules generally are. He took unbounded delight in knocking over
everything and everybody that came within reach of his hind feet, and
when he felt in the humor for doing it, he could kick himself out from
under the pack-saddle with the greatest ease. Ranger, on the other hand,
did not know how to kick or bite, but he understood the business of
cattle-herding, and would answer his master’s whistle as promptly as a
well-trained dog. Nothing which his strength or agility could overcome
would keep him from George’s side when he heard that whistle. He would
jump a fence or swim a river to obey it. When in camp George never
confined the animal with a lasso unless it was near the full of the moon
and raids were expected from the Mexicans or Indians, for Ranger never
thought of straying away. He was as black as midnight, very fleet and
enduring, and George had almost as much affection for him as he would
have had for a brother, for he was the last gift he had ever received
from his father. The animals seemed to be ready for a journey, for Bony
carried a loaded pack-saddle on his back, and Ranger was saddled but not
bridled.
Upon reaching the shed George whistled the mule and led him toward the
house, and Ranger, without waiting for the command, followed at his
heels. He stopped at the porch, and after fastening the mule’s halter to
the horn of the saddle that Ranger wore, he disappeared in the house.
When he came out again he carried in his hands a bundle, a rifle and a
small leather haversack. The bundle contained his overcoat, gloves,
rubber-poncho and blankets; and in the haversack he carried the
ammunition for his rifle—a new model Winchester, holding in its magazine
sixteen cartridges, all of which could be discharged in as many seconds.
He slung the rifle and haversack over his shoulders, tied the bundle
behind his saddle and was just slipping the mended bridle over his
horse’s head when Ned came out.
“Well, you are off for your last trip, are you?” he exclaimed.
“Yes, I am off for camp again, but not for the last time, I hope,”
returned George, although he felt like making a very different answer.
“One must do something to earn his bread and butter, you know, and life
in camp suits me better than staying in the house doing nothing.”
“What have you got in that pack-saddle?” asked Ned.
“Provisions.”
“You needn’t have troubled yourself to lay in such a supply, for you
won’t need them all.”
“Won’t I? Why not?”
Ned made no reply in words. He only smiled and shook his head as if he
meant to convey the impression that he could tell something wonderful if
he felt like it, and George, who was by this time in the saddle, touched
his horse with his spurs and galloped away. He did not say anything
more, for he was angry and afraid that he might utter some words that he
would be sorry for. He thought he knew what his cousin meant by his nods
and his smiles, and told himself that Ned was destined to be as badly
disappointed as Uncle John was if he imagined that he and Zeke would
surrender their herd of cattle to him any sooner than they would to a
band of raiding Mexicans. It made George almost beside himself to dwell
upon this subject, so he dismissed it altogether from his mind, and
tried to think about pleasanter things.
That day’s ride was a hard one, and George, who was accustomed to such
things, grew tired long before it was ended. The course he followed led
him through the wildest portion of the country where farms and ranches
were few and far between. Now and then he saw a horseman or two who
would gallop to meet him, as they met every trader, and ask for the
news; but George had little to tell that was of interest, and these
interviewers did not long delay him. He made a short halt for dinner and
in the afternoon travelled with increased speed, reaching the grove,
toward which he had all the day been directing his course, and where he
intended to spend the night, just as the sun was sinking out of sight
behind the distant swells.
It was in this grove that George had expected to find Zeke, who, when
his employer went after supplies, always brought his cattle as close to
the settlements as he could find pasture for them, and so save time.
George found the camp the herdsman had occupied while the cattle were
feeding in the vicinity, but it was deserted, and had been for three or
four days; consequently Zeke and his herd must be a long way from there,
and George had nothing to do but make himself comfortable for the night
and start in pursuit the next morning.
As soon as the boy had relieved Ranger of his saddle and Bony of the
heavy load he had so patiently carried all the day, he turned the
animals loose to graze, and started a fire in front of the dilapidated
brush shanty Zeke had recently occupied. Upon the fire were placed a
camp-kettle and frying-pan, one filled with water taken from the brook
that ran close by, and the other with slices of bacon. Supper was fairly
under way in a few minutes, and while he was waiting for the fire to
cook it, George busied himself in repairing the cabin.
It was while he was thus engaged that he accidentally discovered
something for which he had been looking ever since he reached the grove,
and that was a letter from Zeke. It was written on a piece of bark and
fastened to a tree in plain sight, but somehow George had managed to
overlook it. The letter was made up of rough characters which had been
rudely traced on the bark by the point of the herdsman’s hunting-knife.
The first was an Indian’s arrow—that was drawn so plainly that anybody
could have told what it was—and it pointed toward something that looked
like a whale with an unusually large head which was surmounted by a pair
of horns. It was certainly intended to represent a fish with horns and
the only one of the species in that country that George knew anything
about was a catfish.
The next two characters might have been taken for almost anything,
except the objects that George knew they were intended to represent,
namely, a couple of water-falls. The next looked like a front view of a
man’s face, but one side of it was flat, while the other was round. This
was meant for the moon in its first quarter. Under the moon were four
short, straight lines, headed by a cross like the sign of
multiplication; and these were intended to represent the days of the
week, the cross standing for Sunday.
Zeke, who had lived in the mountains and on the prairie all his life,
did not know one letter from another, but he had left behind him a
communication that George read as easily as you can read this printed
page. If he had given it a free translation, it would have read
something like this:
“I have gone toward Catfish Falls. It is near the time of the full
moon. I left camp on Thursday.”
After writing this much, Zeke did just as many a school-boy does—he
added a postscript, containing the only item of information that was
really worth knowing. It made George open his eyes, too. It consisted of
drawings of a pair of moccasins, a fire with a thick smoke arising from
it, and several horses’ feet. It meant that there were Indians in the
neighborhood; that they were hostile Apaches (George knew that by the
shape of the moccasins), and that Zeke had seen the smoke of their fires
and the tracks made by their horses.
George, who was accustomed to sudden surprises and always expecting
them, did not seem to be at all disturbed by this very unpleasant piece
of news. Although he had never had any experience with raiders, he was
brave and self-reliant, knew just what to do in any emergency that might
arise while he was on the plains, and felt abundantly able to take care
of himself. He ran his eye over the letter and postscript once more, to
make sure that he had read them aright, and then walked back to his fire
and sat down. He did not spend any more time in repairing the cabin, for
he knew now that he should not occupy it that night. When his supper was
cooked, he ate it with great deliberation; after which he put out his
fire and returned to the pack-saddle all the articles he had taken out
of it. There was a goodly supply of bacon and coffee left, and this
George intended should serve him for his next morning’s breakfast.
“I may be out of reach of wood and water by the time I grow hungry,”
thought he, as he buckled the pack-saddle and made it ready for Bony’s
back. “I can’t stop here to-night, for the timber is by no means a safe
place to camp when there are Indians about. I wish Zeke had told me
which way they were going when he saw them, for I don’t want to run
right in among them before I know it!”
As soon as Bony’s burden was adjusted and Ranger had been saddled and
bridled, George mounted and rode rapidly away from the grove, holding a
straight course for Catfish Falls, but making no effort to find Zeke’s
trail. In fact, he did not want to find it, and if he had stumbled upon
it accidentally, he would have ridden away from it with all haste. The
vicinity of that trail was as dangerous a place as the grove he had just
left. A band of raiders might strike it at any time, and follow it up
for the purpose of capturing the herd, and George, if he chanced to be
in the way, would run the risk of being captured, too.
The boy rode rapidly as long as he could distinguish objects about him,
and when the darkness had shut him out from the view of any skulking
Indian or Mexican, who might chance to be watching him from a distance,
he slackened his pace and turned off at right angles with the course he
had been pursuing. He rode about a mile in this direction, and then went
into camp, staking out his horse and mule, and lying down to sleep, with
his poncho for a bed, his saddle for a pillow and his hair lasso for a
protection from the visitors of which his cousin Ned stood so much in
fear, the rattlers. He slept soundly, too, relying upon Ranger and Bony
to arouse him, in case any one approached his camp, and awoke at the
first peep, of day, refreshed and invigorated. A couple of hard
biscuits, added to the coffee and bacon he had saved from his last
night’s supper, furnished him with as good a breakfast as he cared for,
and when it had been disposed of, George was ready to begin his day’s
journey.
The boy spent one more night alone on the prairie, and on the afternoon
of the second day found Zeke’s camp. As he emerged from a belt of
post-oaks, through which he had been riding for the last hour, he saw a
small herd of cattle feeding on the prairie, and was welcomed by a
shrill neigh, which came from the direction of a fire that was burning
in the edge of the timber a short distance away. Bony answered the
greeting with a long-drawn bray, and Ranger, breaking into a gallop,
carried his rider into the camp, where he was met by a tall,
broad-shouldered man, who arose from his blanket as he approached. This
was Zeke. What his other name was George did not know; in fact, he did
not believe that Zeke knew it himself.
If a stranger had judged Zeke by his appearance, he would have put him
down as anything but an agreeable or safe companion. He was rough and
uncouth in person and manners, and as bronzed and weather-beaten as any
old salt. His hair, which fell down upon his shoulders, and the
luxuriant whiskers and mustache that almost concealed his face, were as
white as snow, and bore evidence to the fact that he carried the weight
of many years on his shoulders; but his form was as erect as an
Indian’s, and his step as firm and quick as it had been in the days of
his youth. He looked like one possessed of immense physical power, as
indeed he was; and those who had seen him in moments of danger, knew
that he had the courage to back up his strength. He was as faithful as a
man could be, and ready to do and dare anything in defence of his young
employer. George had selected him from among the numerous herdsmen
employed on his father’s ranche, and they had been almost inseparable
companions ever since.
“I am glad to see you, Zeke,” said the boy, as he swung himself out of
the saddle, and placed his hand in the broad palm that was extended
toward him, “for, to tell the truth, I have felt afraid ever since I
found your letter down there in the grove. I can’t help believing that
something is going to happen. Have you seen anything more of the
Indians?”
“No,” replied Zeke. “They went t’wards the settlements.”
“That’s bad for the settlers, but good for us. We’re safe,” said George,
drawing a long breath.
“Not by no means, we hain’t safe. Them Apaches must come back, mustn’t
they?”
George hadn’t thought of that. Of course, the Indians must come back, if
they intended to return to their own country, and George did not like to
think of what would happen, if he and Zeke and their herd of cattle
should chance to cross their path. They _did_ cross the path of a band
of raiders—some who were looking for them and knew just where to find
them,—and before he was many days older, George was the hero of one or
two startling adventures, and also gained some items of information,
from various sources, that almost overwhelmed him with wonder and
amazement!