A SHOT WELL PLACED
Grace started out early the next morning for a call on Ike Fairweather.
The whole party slept the late afternoon and night through, without
even awakening for supper. She found Ike grooming his horses.
“Good morning, Mr. Fairweather. I hope you are none the worse for your
trip,” greeted Grace smilingly.
“I shore ain’t,” grinned Ike. “How’s yourself?”
“I feel fit. What I wished to see you about was to ask if you can
recommend some one to provide and drive our supply wagon.”
Ike stroked his whiskers and regarded her quizzically.
“How will I do?” he asked.
“Do you mean it? Would you really like to drive for us?” questioned
Grace, brightening.
“I shore would, an’ it won’t cost you a cent ’cept for the feed for the
hosses. Tell me ’bout it.”
“Not supposing that you would care for such work, we did not even think
of you in that connection. If, however, you really wish to go with us
we shall be very glad to have you.”
“I’m your man.”
“That is fine. Of course, you understand that we shall pay you, and
before we start we must decide upon a price that will be perfectly
satisfactory to you. I would suggest that you get under way about two
o’clock this afternoon, and we will follow you a couple of hours later.
Make camp at Squaw Valley. There is plenty of room there for a camp.
Two horses should be enough to draw the wagon. Our camping outfit is at
the railroad station. Have you a wagon?”
“Yes, a covered one thet will be just the thing for you. Can sleep in
it if you like.”
“We shall sleep in our tents. All provisions and the like we shall send
to you some time before you leave.”
The hearing that afternoon, attended by the entire Overton outfit,
was of short duration. Grace gave her testimony briefly and to the
point. What she was most concerned about was whether or not it would be
necessary for her to return for the trial of the bandits, and she was
relieved to learn that it would not, and that Ike Fairweather would be
the witness who would appear against the prisoners at the trial at the
fall term of court.
Before leaving the court, Grace was complimented by the judge for her
part in capturing Con Bates and his fellow highwaymen. Sheriff Collins
accompanied her from the court room.
“I’ll have an eye on you while your party is in this neck of the
woods,” he volunteered. “What shall I do with the rifles I promised
you?”
“If not too much trouble, please send them to Mr. Fairweather’s stable
before two o’clock this afternoon. He is to drive our wagon for us and
will pack the rifles with the other equipment. Is there ammunition for
the rifles or shall I purchase some?”
“Get fifty rounds for each rifle, and, Miss, it’s my hunch that you
will do well not to pack the rifles away so deep that you can’t reach
them in a hurry,” advised Mr. Collins.
After thanking the sheriff for his courtesy, Grace hurried back to the
hotel. The rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the journey.
Ike Fairweather, now fully informed as to the immediate plans of his
party, got away with the wagon on time, and two hours later the Overton
girls started on their second journey into the gorgeous mountains that
stand sentinel along the Old Apache Trail. The ponies they were riding
were a bit lively at the start, especially the one ridden by Grace, as
the party galloped out of the town. Emma Dean was making heavy weather
of it, bobbing up and down like a chip on the sea, until Grace, fearful
that Emma would fall off, rode up beside her for a word of caution.
“Sit your saddle firmly, and do not try to resist the motion of your
horse. Move with him, or, rather, permit your body to follow his
movements,” advised Grace. “There! You see you _can_ ride.”
“I know, but it bumps me almost to death. How far do we have to ride?
This beast isn’t a bit like my pony.”
“Thirty miles or thereabouts.”
“Oh--h--h!” wailed Emma. “Look at Hippy!”
They had barely cleared the town and emerged into the open country when
Hippy Wingate’s apparently docile pony suddenly came to life. The
animal whirled and started back toward Globe, whereupon Hippy used his
crop vigorously. Instantly, the pony began to buck in the most approved
western broncho style, and Hippy was more often in the air than on the
saddle.
The Overton girls reined in and watched the lieutenant’s battle,
offering suggestions and advice that might have been helpful had the
lieutenant had time to listen.
Hippy had had no experience with bucking ponies, and, as a result, he
was becoming more and more confused from the terrible jolting he was
getting.
“Hang on, Hippy, my darling,” encouraged Nora in a shrill voice.
“There he goes!” gasped J. Elfreda Briggs.
Hippy made a long, ungraceful dive over the lowered head of the native
pony. At the side of the road there was a ditch with a full twelve
inches of water flowing over a bottom of soft mud. Lieutenant Wingate
landed on head and shoulders in the ditch. His feet pawed the air for a
few seconds, then Hippy flopped over, with face down in the water and
mud.
It was Elfreda Briggs who checked Hippy’s pony at the psychological
moment, for the little fellow already had whirled preparatory to racing
for home. As it was he dragged Elfreda along with him until Grace
sprang to her assistance and threw her weight on the bit, at the same
time talking soothingly to the animal whose stubborn resentment slowly
melted. Elfreda led him back without help and stood holding the pony,
waiting for Hippy to take charge of him.
Lieutenant Wingate was plastered with mud, which Nora was solicitously
mopping from his face with her handkerchief.
“Let it dry on, then roll him on the grass when we find some,”
suggested Emma.
“Yes, who coddled you when you fell out of a cloud and crashed down on
the French front?” laughed Grace.
“I didn’t fall out,” protested Hippy indignantly, though a little
thickly, for there was still mud in his mouth. “It was the other fellow
who fell and crashed.”
“Come, take your pony,” urged Elfreda. “I have my own to look after.
I would suggest, too, that if you will treat him right you will have
little trouble with him.”
“You don’t have to take the brute’s part. I reckon I know how to handle
a horse.”
“And you have a horse that knows how to handle you, if my observation
is not at fault,” interjected Grace Harlowe.
Hippy acted upon Elfreda’s advice, however, petted the pony and
offered it some candy, which the animal refused, and finally swung
himself into the saddle.
The party then moved off at a brisk gallop. The sun was behind the
mountains when they reached Squaw Valley for the second time. Down on
the level below the trail they saw their tents pitched and ready for
them. The wagon team was staked down, a fire was burning in front of
the tents, and Ike Fairweather was observed working about the camp. The
girls shouted and Ike waved a hand.
Without leaving their saddles, the entire party slid their ponies
down the steep bank without a single rider coming a cropper, though
Emma lost her stirrups and was clinging to the pommel of her saddle,
bouncing up and down perilously as the party trotted into camp. When
her pony stopped, which it did abruptly, Emma fell off in a heap. About
the same instant Lieutenant Wingate’s pony stepped in a hole and Hippy
went off over the pony’s head, but this time he clung to the bridle
rein and held the animal.
“Good work,” complimented Grace when Hippy, very red of face, struggled
to his feet. “You surely are a graceful animal, Lieutenant. Pinal Creek
is a little way beyond this camp, and I suppose you will be falling
into that next.”
“That’s right. Abuse a fellow when he is down,” growled the lieutenant.
Grace, with her bridle rein thrown over one arm, walked over to Ike
Fairweather.
“Now that Lieutenant Wingate has finished his performance, I wish to
say that it is very fine of you to get our supper started.”
The bacon was in the frying pan, and the potatoes, baked in hot ashes,
were ready to be served, as Grace discovered upon testing them with
a fork; the coffee was done, and the tin plates were already on the
folding table that had been included with the equipment. Oilcloth
spread over the table made it look quite attractive.
Folding camp stools had been placed by Ike, and Hippy promptly took a
seat at the head of the table.
“Being the only male member of this party, proper, my place is at the
head of the table,” he declared. “Be seated, ladies, I beg of you.
Kellner--Garcon, I mean, bring on the food and--”
“Please eat and be silent,” urged Grace laughingly, as she began
serving the food. “In my childhood days I was taught that children,
while at table, should be seen and not heard. Come, Mr. Fairweather,
sit down. We are all one family now.”
“Had my grub,” answered the driver gruffly. “Never did like to eat at
fashionable hours.”
Darkness had enveloped mountain and canyon by the time the evening meal
was finished. It was the deep, mysterious darkness of the mountains.
The girls could hear the faint, musical murmur of Pinal Creek, a few
hundred yards below them, music that accentuated the romance of the
mysterious mountain night. Hippy Wingate, finally, having eaten all he
could conveniently stow away, stood up and rapped on a tin plate for
order.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, raising the plate above his head
where it reflected the light from the campfire. “We are now in the
former haunts of the murderous Apaches. We have fallen willing victims
to the irresistible charm and the magic power of the waters of Pinal
Creek.”
“Some one has been reading a guide book,” observed Anne mischievously.
“Please be silent when your superiors are speaking. Where was I?”
“Up Pinal Creek, I believe,” reminded Elfreda dryly.
“Exactly. We have penetrated far into the labyrinth of the red men of
other days, the place where the savages crept with stealthy tread until
their primitive language came to know it as the Apache Trail. Along
this weird and amazing pathway--”
_Pock!_
The tin plate was whisked from Hippy’s hand and fell clattering to the
ground.
_Bang!_ came the belated report of a rifle.
Emma Dean uttered a stifled little cry of alarm.
“It is nothing but a bullet, my dear young woman, a chance shot from
somewhere up in the mountains. Kindly pass me another plate that I may
continue with my narration.”
Grace Harlowe’s face reflected sudden concern, then she smiled, but her
companions plainly were nervous.
“Where was I?” again asked Hippy.
“I believe you were laboring along on the amazing pathway,” Anne
informed him.
“Thank you,” bowed the lieutenant as Grace offered him another plate.
“Along this weird and amazing pathway, as already remarked, are
crowded, in bewildering succession, scenes that grip the imagination
like phantom photo plays of the world’s creation. It was on this
pathway, this weird and amazing trail that--”
The second plate left Hippy Wingate’s hand as if by magic, again
followed by the report of a rifle. Hippy sank down on his campstool,
holding the hand that had held the plate.
“The campfire, Mr. Fairweather!” urged Grace calmly, with a note of
incisiveness in her tone.
Ike sprang up and kicked the burning embers away, stamping out the
little flickering flames, leaving only a scattered bed of glowing coals.
A bullet whistled over the heads of the Overton girls, but the
shooter’s aim was not so good this time.
“Some critter shore is tryin’ to shoot up this outfit,” growled Ike
Fairweather.