The rising sun turned the tops of the mountains to gold, and like
slow-flowing water, sunshine crept gradually down the slopes. In a grove
of pines, a chickaree came out of the warm nest where he had spent the
night. Three inches from his nest, the chickaree paused on an outjutting
stub.
A hawk winged through the pines regularly, and though it had always
missed by a comfortable margin, it had struck three times at the
chickaree. The pines were part of a marten's beat, and the marten had
chased the chickaree several times. In addition, on their way to one
place or another, various other predators wandered through the pines and
few of them were averse to eating chickaree.
The chickaree held perfectly still, bright eyes glowing and small ears
straining. Neither the hawk nor the marten were present, and the
chickaree was puzzled because he could see nothing else. That should not
be. Three big bucks were spending the season on this slope and every
night they bedded in the pines. This morning there was no sign of them.
Though he could neither see nor hear anything, the chickaree knew that
something was present, if only because the deer were not. After five
minutes, having assured himself that there was no immediate threat, the
chickaree set out to find whatever he had sensed.
He scampered up the pine, leaped effortlessly into another, and took a
different stand. Again he examined the grove. A smell of wood smoke
tickled his nostrils and the chickaree knew that a man had come to the
pines. That much discovered, he went into action.
He leaped to another pine, raced swiftly up it, and made a leap so long
that the twigs upon which he landed bent precariously. A master of
aerial travel, the chickaree paid no heed.
Three minutes later he found the man sleeping under a big pine. There
was a huge dog beside him and a bed of glowing coals so arranged that
the heat they cast enveloped both man and dog. The chickaree paused,
anger in his eyes. He had squatters' rights in these pines and he lacked
the remotest intention of sharing them with any man. Biting off a pine
cone, the chickaree dropped it squarely on the man's face.
Jeff Tarrant came awake.
There was no lingering struggle to achieve complete wakefulness and no
dropping back for another five minutes' slumber because Jeff had long
since learned that that must never be. He had to awaken instantly, and
at the least disturbance, because there was always a possibility that he
might have to get up fighting, and he had a distinct impression that
something had dropped on his face.
Swift glances in all directions told him that there was nothing except
Pal near, and Jeff relaxed. Now he could attend to the ceremony of
awakening. Jeff rubbed his eyes, yawned, stretched and rose. Rising with
him, Pal saw the madly-fleeing chickaree; following the dog's gaze,
Jeff saw it, too. Appalled by his own boldness, the chickaree was
putting distance between Jeff and himself as rapidly as possible. Jeff
grinned.
"So! He doesn't want us around either! Pal, seems to me that lately
nobody has wanted anything to do with Tarrant Enterprises, Ltd.! Shame
on them!"
Pal wagged his tail and made an enthusiastic attempt to lick his
master's face. Jeff pushed him away; Pal's tongue was approximately the
size of a dish towel and the consistency of sand paper. Not to be
defeated, Pal got in a number of good licks on his friend's hand and
Jeff chided, "Cut it out! I can wash myself!"
As he walked to a little runlet that trickled through the pines and
washed his face and hands, Jeff thought of last night.
In the valley up which he had traveled, that runlet became a good-sized
stream, with several deep pools. Having fallen into two of them last
night, Jeff had discovered the pools the hard way. But he had achieved
his purpose. It was not only possible but highly probable that Joe
Parker and Pop had ideas which they hadn't bothered to disclose when
letting Jeff out of jail. If they were able to catch him again, he would
be charged with jail breaking. That meant six months, and six months was
plenty of time to steal the pack's contents. However, even if they
followed him into the mountains, they couldn't catch him.
A satisfying vision of the Delview police looking for him, and of Pop
and the constable hopefully waiting, formed in Jeff's mind. He grinned
happily. Even though he was stranded in a wilderness with no customers
in sight, and no telling when he would find any, Tarrant Enterprises,
Ltd., was in business again. Jeff took his watch out, saw that it had
stopped, set it for nine o'clock, and wound it.
He might be an hour, two hours, or three hours, off. It made no
difference. Tarrant Enterprises, Ltd., guided its fortunes by the
circumstances of the moment and not by the dial of a watch or clock. Any
hour of the twenty-four, or any minute of any hour, might present a
precious and never to be repeated opportunity. Therefore, it was better
to be alert for what the moment might present than to depend too heavily
on any timepiece.
Last night he had been in too much of a hurry to think of eating, and
when he had finally put what he considered an adequate distance between
Cressman and himself, he had been too tired. Now he took the remainder
of bread and cheese from his pack and divided both in half.
"Chow time!" he said grandly. "Here, Pal, a wonderful breakfast!"
Pal gulped his portion. Jeff ate more slowly, and when he had finished
the last crumb he was completely serene. It mattered not at all that he
was completely out of food or that it was an unknown distance to the
next place where he would be able to buy more. By all means, the future
should be carefully weighed, but the future was a great and shining
promise and lack of food a small inconvenience.
"Let's go!" he said happily.
A little breeze sang to him, the sun warmed him, and he was completely
cheerful as he resumed his journey. This was a new and fresh experience,
and as such it was to be treasured. Pal ran a hundred feet ahead, slowed
to a walk, and further slowed to a stalk so deliberate that he moved at
a snail's pace. He looked questioningly back at Jeff.
Jeff wrinkled his brows. In town, or even near other people, Pal had not
moved more than a yard away. Here he would leave Jeff and that was
entirely understandable. Naturally he would feel freer in the
wilderness, but what did he want? Jeff halted.
"What's up, Pal?"
The dog stared hard at a copse of brush and for a moment Jeff remained
still. Then he advanced slowly.
"Hope I'm not doing it wrong," he murmured. "I know you're trying to
tell me something, but I'm too dumb to understand your language."
Pal stayed perfectly rigid until Jeff was within five feet, then went in
to flush two grouse from the brush. They winged thunderously up and
drummed away, and a great light dawned on Jeff.
If Pal had not had a former master, he would not have been wearing a
collar, and obviously that master had lived partly by hunting. Scenting
the grouse, Pal had been asking Jeff, as plainly as a dog can ask
anything, whether or not he cared to shoot them. Jeff petted Pal and
heaped praise upon him.
"Good dog!" he exclaimed. "That's the boy!"
Pal sighed ecstatically because he had pleased his master. He had
already helped Jeff out of two difficult situations, and for that alone
he deserved loyalty. Now it became evident that he would not be wholly
dead weight. Jeff, who had learned something about dogs, reviewed what
he knew.
There were various dogs for various purposes. Thus the bull was for
fighting, the dachshund went into burrows and dragged out whatever
sought a refuge there, the setter hunted game birds, the hound trailed,
etc. Occasionally there was an intelligent mongrel that combined the
functions of two or more such specialists. It was difficult to imagine
Pal crawling into burrows, but he had already proven his ability to hunt
birds. Would he do anything else?
It occurred to Jeff that he knew little about his new partner and until
now he had had little chance to do any probing. Now there was every
chance.
"Heel!" he ordered.
Pal fell in beside him, walking at his left and just far enough away so
there was no danger of collision. Jeff was delighted; he had already
discovered that Pal responded perfectly to other commands and must have
had much training. Five minutes later there came an interruption.
Buzzing angrily through the trees, a bee made straight for Jeff. It
danced up and down in front of his face, seeking a place to light. Jeff
swiped at it with his right hand.
When he did, Pal bounded forward. Swift as a deer, and as graceful, he
raced among the trees. With seeming lack of effort, he leaped high, the
better to see what lay about him. Finding nothing, he looked back
perplexedly.
"Come on," Jeff coaxed. "Come on, Pal!"
Pal returned and Jeff petted him fondly. Now he knew something else
about the dog. A hand waved forward was Pal's signal to look for game.
Jeff stored the knowledge away, pending the time it might be useful.
Pal ranged ahead and on both sides. Jeff strode on. The mountain had
been steep, but its summit was a broad plateau covered with pine forest,
and somewhere in the distant peaks that Jeff could see must lie the town
of Smithville. Sooner or later he would get there, and if he needed two
or three days, that was all right. He was enjoying the hike, and the
farther away Smithville was, the farther he'd be from Cressman.
He stopped to rest at a pond that fed a stream and saw trout in the
clear waters. Removing his pack, he opened the right compartment, and
took from it a fishing line and a box of hooks. He tied a hook to the
line, cut a pole from a copse of willows growing beside the pond, kicked
a rock over and gathered up the fat worms beneath it, baited, and cast.
A dozen trout rushed the bait. One got it, and Jeff landed him. He
continued to cast until he had nine trout. Jeff dressed them, washed
them, took a grill and salt and pepper from the pack, and cooked his
fish. Pal cleaned up all the heads, all the bones, and four trout. Jeff
ate the rest, smacking his lips over them and entirely happy.
"This," he sighed, "is the way to live!"
They descended into a valley and were crossing a field when a rabbit
flushed in front of them. White tail flashing, it streaked through the
grass. Jeff waved his right arm and Pal raced forward. So effortlessly
that he almost seemed to float, he overtook the fleeing rabbit and
snatched it up. The rabbit dangling from his jaws, he trotted back and
laid his game in Jeff's hand.
Jeff laughed in sheer delight. Almost always he canvassed the back
country, because that was the only place where, usually, he could be
pretty sure of doing good business. But he had been so interested in his
customers that he had had little time for the wilderness. Now there was
an opportunity to see and observe, and he liked everything around him.
He still wanted to wander, but if he ever did settle down, it would be
in such a place.
The two camped that night in another grove of pines, not knowing where
they were and not caring, and Jeff broiled the rabbit. It was stringy
and tough, but hunger proved a powerful sauce and when Jeff chewed and
swallowed the last few shreds of meat he felt as though he had partaken
of princely fare.
"I wouldn't mind if this went on for a long while!" he told the
contented Pal. "I like it almost as much as you do!"
He arranged a fire to reflect against a fallen tree trunk, slept soundly
all night, and awakened with dawn. There was nothing for breakfast, but
there had been nothing for a lot of breakfasts and it made little
difference. Sooner or later they would eat, and this morning it was
sooner.
No more than four hundred yards from their camp they reached a brawling
little stream that raced frantically downslope. Again Jeff strung his
tackle and caught trout. He laid them in the grill and was about to
build a fire when Pal growled.
It was a sound so soft that nothing more than a few feet away would have
heard it. Jeff looked quickly at the dog and glanced around the forest.
He saw nothing. Pal was on all fours, straining into the wind, and he
growled again. Again Jeff found nothing. Leaving the pack and fish, Jeff
stole to a big pine about thirty feet away and crouched behind it. He
whispered,
"Down!"
Pal lay down and Jeff continued to watch. Two minutes later he saw a man
coming through the forest.
Very tall and very thin, the man was dressed in a sun-faded shirt from
which half of the right sleeve was missing. Protruding from it, what
could be seen of his right arm had been scorched by so much sun that it
was almost black. His left sleeve was tied at the wrist. As dilapidated
as the shirt, his gray trousers ended six inches above scuffed shoes,
and an expanse of naked leg showed that he wore no socks. A luxuriant
beard covered his face, and curly black hair dangled over his ears and
down the back of his head.
In many parts of the country Jeff had seen other men who might have been
this one's twin. Obviously a hillbilly, he carried a carbine as though
it were a part of him.
He lingered behind a pine about fifty yards from Jeff's pack and for a
full minute he regarded it closely. Then, making no noise whatever, he
approached and prodded the pack with his foot. As he looked curiously at
the grill of trout, Jeff spoke.
"That's mine, stranger."
The man whirled, shouldered the carbine, and put it down again. Jeff
rose. Bristling, his lips slightly lifted, Pal stayed very near. Pal
knew what Jeff could not; the man was Barr Whitney and presently he
spoke.
"I wa'nt goin' to tetch it."
"I know that." Jeff had a customer. "I can see that you're an honest
man. But I thought I'd better make sure first."
"Right smart idea."
Barr Whitney looked swiftly at Pal and glanced back at Jeff. His eyes
revealed nothing, but he kept the carbine down. Expecting a flow of
questions, Jeff was momentarily disconcerted when his visitor did not
speak. Jeff glanced at the knife on his belt.
With a six-inch blade, the point of the knife was thrust into a
deer-skin sheath and there was a six-inch guard that protected the
cutting edge. Sparkling keen, the blade probably was made out of an old
file and fitted with an ingenious hilt of deer antler. Jeff watched the
knife for only a split second. Homemade, it was the work of an artist
and Jeff knew of lowlanders who would pay a good price for it. But he
must not let the stranger know this. Barr Whitney remained silent and
Jeff said nothing. Often it was productive of the best results to fit
his own mood to that of a potential customer.
Jeff flicked his pack open, took from it a clasp knife that was almost a
small tool chest within itself, removed the trout from the grill, and
arranged them on a slab of bark. He became absorbed in the grill.
Opening the file on the clasp knife, he filed a sharp point from the
grill's wire handle.
He closed the file, opened a long, pointed blade, and cut the fishes'
heads off. As he did so, he brushed the grill with his trousers, caught
a loose thread which was always kept purposely loosened, and snipped it
off with the scissors that the clasp knife also contained. Carefully he
worked with the awl blade, poking the cut thread back into place.