_Messrs. James Meadows and Ticktock_
_Pony Express, Incorporated_
_R.R.#2_
_Springdale, Missouri_
_Gentlemen:_
_By a unanimous vote the Springdale Rotary Club has decided to offer you
both an honorary membership (no dues are required from honorary members).
It is hoped that you will accept this offer and join our ranks._
_A dinner is being held Thursday evening June 23, at 7:00 P.M. at the
Springdale Hotel. You are cordially invited to attend as our guest of
honor. We hope to be able to prevail upon you at that time to make a few
remarks about your new enterprise, its hazards and remunerations._
_Due to hotel regulations we will be unable to accommodate Ticktock at
the banquet table but the Springdale_ Gazette _has offered its usual
facilities in the rear of the newspaper office._
_We hope to receive your reply in the near future_.
_Sincerely yours,_
_Robert Morgan_
_Chairman, Membership Committee_
Jim was quite excited about the letter but he was uncertain as to what
certain portions of it meant. Particularly the word “remunerations.” He
took the letter to his father.
“I’m a member of the Rotary Club, Dad,” he said proudly, “but I don’t
understand all of this letter.”
Mr. Meadows read the letter over with a smile. “You are becoming quite
famous. You’ve been voted an honorary member and don’t have to pay dues
as the rest of them do. Also you are invited to a banquet next Thursday
where they want you to make an after dinner speech.”
“What’s that ‘hazards and remunerstuff’?”
“Well, they would just like you to tell them about the risks you take in
your business, the profits in it, how you like it and so on,” said his
father. “You should write a reply to this, accepting the invitation.”
“I’d like to go,” said Jim, “but I don’t think much of making a speech or
writing a letter either.”
“Well, that is one of the penalties of rising in the world,” said Mr.
Meadows dryly. “You have more public responsibilities. You have to make
speeches, contribute to charities and things of that nature.”
Jim got a paper and pencil and after an hour’s labor finally composed an
answer.
_Dear Mr. Morgan:_
_Thank you for inviting me to the Rotary Club. I will be at the hotel
at 7:00 P.M. on Thursday._
_I never made a speech before but I will tell you what I know about the
Pony Express._
_Sincerely yours,_
_Jim Meadows_
The next few days found Jim wishing a dozen times that he had given some
excuse and not promised to attend the dinner. He was afraid of getting up
before all those men and talking and, what is worse, he had not thought
of a single thing to say after two whole days’ concentration. He would go
over and over the matter in his mind and never get beyond: “I want to
thank everybody for inviting me to join the Rotary Club and for having me
at your banquet.” That sounded very impressive and polite as a starter
but he couldn’t stop there if they expected a speech. He began to dread
Thursday night. However, he had promised, so he felt that he had to go
through with it.
When Thursday came, Jim put on his best clothes. For the first time he
found himself wishing he had his gold watch. That watch would look very
impressive before all those business men. However, if he hadn’t traded
off the watch, he wouldn’t have been in a position to be invited.
He rode into town feeling very nervous. Robert Morgan and Bill Arnold met
him at the newspaper office and took him over to the hotel. Jim’s dismay
increased when he entered the banquet room. He looked at the big
horseshoe table and decided there must be at least fifty members. He had
never seen such a crowd before. Fortunately, he was placed between Robert
Morgan and Dr. Cornby; so he didn’t feel too lost among strangers.
Never having been at a banquet before, Jim was uncertain whether the
speeches came before, during or after the meal. However when the standard
banquet plate of creamed chicken, peas and mashed potatoes was set before
everyone, he decided there was little point worrying. He might get rid of
the hollow feeling in his stomach if he ate.
After the meal there were several short speeches and reports about Rotary
activities. Then Robert Morgan got to his feet.
“Gentlemen, there has been considerable fame achieved by a new business
firm in our city. This company has brought a new type of service to our
community. I refer to the Pony Express. While one of the members of this
organization has preferred to stay in back of the print shop and eat
grass rather than sit with us, Mr. James Meadows, the other partner, is
here tonight and has accepted our offer of an honorary membership. We
would like Mr. Meadows to tell us how he got started in his present
business and something about it. What is the future of the Pony Express
and does he expect competition? Gentlemen, I present Mr. Jim Meadows.”
Jim got to his feet. While the clapping was still going on, he looked
about nervously. He felt his knees shaking, and his throat was so dry he
was certain he could never speak. Then he began to see a few familiar
faces. There was Mr. Slemak, the buttermaker, Colonel Flesher, Mr.
Higgins from the grocery store and Bill Arnold. Everyone was smiling in a
very friendly manner. He thought about Ticktock. Well, if everyone wanted
to hear about his horse, that was one subject he could talk about.
“I want to thank everyone for inviting me to join the Rotary Club and for
having me here tonight,” he said, going over the opening he had rehearsed
so many times. From that point on the speech was extemporaneous. Jim just
talked. “The way I got started in business was that I traded my gold
watch for my horse Ticktock. I guess everybody thought I got stung on the
deal except me. But I didn’t because I knew he was an awfully smart
horse. After I got him, I decided I had to earn some money to feed him.
There’s a lot of overhead in my business—feed, a saddle, saddlebags and
things like that. As for the remuner-remunera-, whatever that word is
that means profits, I guess there isn’t much. I’ll be working all summer
for Colonel Flesher to pay for my saddle. I have twenty-three dollars now
in cash. That seems like a lot of money. It’s more than I ever had
before, but I don’t know how much it will take to feed Ticktock all
winter. I’ll probably end up broke. There aren’t many hazards in my
business. I was lost once, but Ticktock found the way home. He’s got
horse sense. Of course when he was thin and I didn’t have any saddle I
used to get kinda sore behind now and then.
“I don’t think I’ll have much competition. In the first place, not many
boys have a gold watch they can trade for a horse. Even if they did, they
couldn’t find as smart a horse as Ticktock. Maybe the Pony Express has a
big future ahead of it once I get my saddle paid for. But whether I make
much money or not, it’s sure a lot of fun.”
Jim sat down to loud and prolonged applause. His speech was
unquestionably a huge success. When everyone had finished congratulating
him on his prowess as an orator he walked back with the editor, Dr.
Cornby and Robert Morgan to the newspaper office.
“Thanks a lot for coming, Jim,” said Morgan sincerely. “Your speech was
the best and the frankest that club has heard in a long time.”
“Jim is getting to be quite a famous business man,” commented Arnold. “If
he were only a little older, we’d invite him to join our Thursday night
stag parties.”
Jim said good-by and went out to his faithful mustang. He had had an
enjoyable evening and felt rather guilty that Ticktock had such a small
share in his glory. After all the horse was a full partner.
“I guess you wouldn’t have enjoyed chicken and peas anyhow,” he said as
he mounted. “Anyway we got some very good publicity. Everybody knows
about us now and we should get lots of work.”
It was ten-thirty and the evening had been much more exhausting than Jim
had realized. The effort of making a speech had been as tiring as a day’s
hard labor and Jim felt like relaxing. Ticktock knew the way home as well
as he, so the boy let the mustang take charge. After a short distance the
steady jog-jog of the pony’s easy walk lulled him to sleep. Slumping in
the saddle, he dozed.
[Illustration: Dozing in the saddle]
Everything was serene for about a quarter of a mile, when Jim sensed
something was wrong. Sleepily he opened his eyes and tried to figure out
what was amiss. Finally he realized Ticktock had stopped and was standing
still at the edge of the road.
“Come on, Ticktock. It’s late. Let’s get on home,” he said in a drowsy
voice.
Ticktock didn’t move but stood looking down into the ditch. Jim had the
greatest confidence in his horse and as he gradually became fully awake,
knew that the pony must have some reason for stopping. Then he heard a
whimpering sound in the dark.
Feeling a little frightened, he slipped the loop of his lantern from the
saddle horn and flashed the light into the dark ditch beside the road.
There was a dog lying on its side.
“Why, it’s Horace!” exclaimed Jim. “He’s hurt.”
Dismounting, he climbed down the bank beside the dog and looked at him
carefully. The spaniel gazed up at him and whined piteously. Cautiously,
Jim began to feel the animal. The hind legs seemed sound enough but when
his hands touched the forelegs the dog suddenly growled viciously and
snapped at him.
“He’s hurt in the front legs,” Jim informed Ticktock. “I guess a car hit
him and broke them.”
So long as Jim did not touch the injured legs, the dog regarded him with
pleading pain-filled eyes. Jim was in a quandary. He could ride back into
town and inform Dr. Cornby that his dog was hurt and lying beside the
road. However, the dog might be hurt internally also and minutes might be
precious. By the time he reached town and then led the doctor back to
find the dog it might be too late. On the other hand, how would he take
the dog to town himself. The poor animal snapped at him each time he
touched the injured legs and moving him might be the wrong thing to do.
Jim’s knowledge of first aid was very limited but he had heard that
moving a broken limb was sometimes unwise. Horace decided the question by
looking up once more and crying pitifully. Jim just couldn’t leave him
there alone in the dark.
Returning to his horse, he untied his poncho. He carefully spread it out
flat beside the helpless dog. Then, talking gently and reassuringly, he
gradually inched the injured spaniel over onto the center of the poncho.
“We’re going to be as gentle as we can,” he told the dog. “If this hurts
a little, it won’t be because we mean it.”
He folded the edge of the poncho under so the dog’s head would be clear
and pulled up the corners. By maneuvering the sides of the poncho he was
able to roll the dog onto its back very gently. Then he tied the three
free corners together. Leading Ticktock down into the ditch, he finally
managed to lift the dog and hook the knotted corners of the poncho over
the saddle horn. He mounted very carefully and with the dog suspended as
comfortably as possible in his makeshift sling, started the journey back
to town.
Jim was on his way to the veterinarian’s home when he remembered the
words at the newspaper office. Doctor Cornby was probably still there
playing cards, as it was before midnight. Since the doctor’s office was
only two doors from the _Gazette_ building, Jim directed the mustang to
the main street. There were still lighted windows in the newspaper
office, so his guess proved correct.
He left Ticktock at the curb and went up to the front door. He found it
locked, so he banged loudly. Bill Arnold came to the door in his shirt
sleeves.
“Hello, Jim. What are you doing back?”
“Is Dr. Cornby here?” asked Jim.
“Sure, come on in. Something wrong?”
Jim followed Arnold back to the office. “Your dog’s out here with his
front legs broken,” he announced to the startled veterinarian.
“Good heavens!” said Cornby. “Where?”
Everyone followed Jim out to his horse where Horace was still lying in
his poncho sling. He was lifted down tenderly and carried into Cornby’s
office.
“Mary said he ran away sometime this afternoon,” said the doctor, as he
examined the moaning dog. “But he’s done that so often I didn’t think
anything about it. Where’d you find him, Jim?”
“I didn’t. Ticktock found him. I had gone to sleep and woke up when
Ticktock stopped. I tried to get him to go on, but he wouldn’t so I
flashed my light over to see what was bothering him. There was Horace in
the ditch with his legs hurt. How is he?”
Cornby straightened up from his brief examination of the injured spaniel.
“He doesn’t seem to have any internal injuries. Of course, two broken
legs are enough, but they can be fixed.”
“I hope I didn’t hurt his legs when I eased him onto my poncho,” said Jim
worriedly.
“Not a bit. You did a good job. I don’t know how to thank you for finding
him. My kids would never recover if they lost Horace.”
“Do you mind if I use your phone?” asked Jim. “Mom will be worried about
my being so late.”
“I’d be glad to drive you home,” offered a stranger who had been in the
card game.
“Jim has a horse,” said Morgan to the speaker. “He wouldn’t think of
riding in a modern contraption. Let alone leave Ticktock behind.”
“Thanks anyhow,” said Jim politely.
“It begins to look as if I am going to have to assign a reporter to
follow you,” said Arnold. “Wherever you and that horse go, there’s news.”
Chapter Eight
Exile
The account of Jim’s speech before the Rotary Club and his subsequent
finding of Horace by the roadside received prominent mention in the next
issue of the Springdale _Gazette_. As usual, Bill Arnold gave the account
of both episodes with many asides and much humor. Mr. Meadows read the
paper with amusement and considerable pride. He had been very intrigued
when the first account and the advertisement of the Pony Express had
appeared. Now his pride in his locally famous son grew even greater. He
was well aware how hard Jim had been working and saving and knew without
question what the purpose was behind all the industry. With quiet
satisfaction he watched his son going out to drive cattle, run errands,
or work at the auction.
Jim’s father was also becoming reconciled to Ticktock. As the mustang
blossomed under Jim’s loving care, the older man could see that he had
been rather hasty in his first judgment. Much against his will, he had to
admit, at least to himself, that Ticktock was an unusually smart horse.
Now that he had put on some flesh he was also a rather smart-appearing
pony. In spite of all his observations, Mr. Meadows said nothing. Like
most men, he hated to admit that he had been wrong. Also, he was
reluctant to abandon a stand that he had definitely taken. He had said
that Ticktock must go when fall came, and he hated to eat crow. In his
own mind he resolved to say nothing further about the matter but instead
just let events take their own natural course.
He knew Jim would never dispose of the pony until he was forced to; so if
nothing was said the pony would simply remain by silent agreement. Mr.
Meadows knew that he would ease his son’s mind a great deal if he could
tell the boy about his change of heart, but somehow he never seemed to
find the right moment. After all, he decided, the worry was doing Jim no
harm but merely making him work harder to earn money for feed. So the
days went by and nothing was said on either side about the pony’s fate.
Jim could sense a little lessening of the hostility on his father’s part,
but he was still worried. Mr. Meadows seldom changed his mind when he
made a decision and thus far Jim did not want to play his trump card
about paying for Ticktock’s feed. However, it was still summer, and he
felt there was plenty of time.
Jim made himself a lariat and began practicing. It was a slow process but
he was determined. After about a week’s exercise he was able to whirl an
open loop over his head. Then he began lassoing fence posts, tree stumps,
and even occasionally his sister Jean. After several trials of the
latter, however, he had to abandon Jean as a target. She objected rather
loudly to being roped and wouldn’t play unless Jim let her take turns at
lassoing him. Jean had been rather lonely all summer anyhow, as Jim spent
most of his time with Ticktock instead of playing with her as in former
years. Jim would give in and let her try roping him, but half a dozen
unsuccessful attempts would usually end with Jean hitting him in the eye
with the rope. Although he was very fond of his young sister, he had a
great deal of contempt for women as cowboys.
[Illustration: Lariat practice]
Ticktock watched all this practice with good-natured scorn. He had seen
experts twirling a lariat and had no illusions about Jim’s ability. A
number of times when Jim would fail miserably in a cast at a fence post,
Ticktock would open his jaws and give an unmistakable horse laugh.
However, he was an indulgent horse and realized Jim was young. So, when
Jim got to the stage of attempting to lasso from horseback, Ticktock
patronizingly coöperated.
A dummy was constructed of bags wrapped around a pole set in a heavy
wooden base. This fake man was set up in the drive and Jim would dash
past madly, astride Ticktock, whirling his lariat. About one cast in four
his noose would encircle the dummy. Then the end of the lariat would be
wrapped around the saddle horn and the horse and rider would drag their
victim triumphantly down the drive.
Practicing one thing for too long a period grew tiresome, especially when
the average of success was as low as it was with Jim’s roping endeavors.
So he would alternate with teaching Ticktock to jump. First a long
two-by-four was laid on two bricks about six inches from the ground. Jim
would ride up to the improvised bar at a full gallop, part of the time
swerving away or stopping, and other times urging his horse over the bar.
Ticktock caught on to the new game in a surprisingly short time. He was
prepared to jump or swerve at the slightest sign from his master. The bar
kept creeping higher and higher until Jim was certain his mustang could
sail over any ordinary fence.
Jim was feeling particularly jaunty and complacent one morning, for he
had made three perfect casts in a row during his roping practice. After
the third cast he jumped off his horse, freed the dummy from the noose,
and carelessly set the apparatus upright very near a small evergreen tree
bordering the drive. Remounting, he went all the way to the front gate
for his next approach. He came down the lane at a full gallop swinging an
exceptionally large noose. As he tore past the dummy, he swung wildly.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see the loop encircle the dummy.
Jim wrapped the end of his lariat around the saddle horn and braced
himself as if he had just roped a huge steer. It was well he did, for
unfortunately the noose caught the evergreen also. There was a terrific
tug on the lariat and before the horse and rider could stop, half the
branches on the little evergreen had been ripped off and were being
dragged down the lane with the dummy.
Jim stopped the pony and wheeled to gaze in dismay at the havoc he had
wrought. It was a sorry-looking tree with the upper half naked and torn.
While Jim was considering what to do next, he discovered that he wasn’t
the only one staring at the tree. His mother was standing on the front
porch, hands on hips, looking at the evergreen. Her face boded no good
for the cowboy and his horse. Mrs. Meadows was very proud of her lawn and
flowers. The trim little evergreen had been one of her pet trees.
“Young man, what do you think you are doing with that rope of yours?” she
demanded sternly.
“Lassoing,” said Jim humbly.
“So I see. Well, there will be no more lassoing around here if you have
to practice on my trees.”
“I didn’t mean to,” explained Jim. “I was roping the dummy.”
“And the tree got in the way,” said Mrs. Meadows, nodding her head. “Do
you have any idea how much it would cost to replace that tree?”
“How much?” asked Jim hoping that it would be some such sum as three or
four dollars. He would then offer to pay for a new tree and settle the
matter. After all, it couldn’t be much, as there were evergreens all over
the hills.
“About twenty-five dollars; that’s a golden cypress.”
Jim’s heart sank. He couldn’t afford such a sum as that, so instead of
being able to offer casually to replace the damage he was forced to
mumble, “I’m sorry.”
“That doesn’t replace the tree,” said his mother sternly. “From now on
there will be no more roping around here. I want you to take a book over
to Mrs. Alsop. When you come back you can go down and help your father in
the garden. Perhaps if you are kept busy enough you won’t be into any
mischief.”
Feeling very contrite, Jim took the book and went riding off to the
Alsop’s. He completed his errand and turned back toward home. His spirits
began to rise on the way back. His mother didn’t harbor a grudge long and
luckily his father hadn’t witnessed the incident. He would rush down to
the garden as soon as he returned and work like mad to correct the bad
impression he had made.
Mr. Meadows was busy in the garden picking watermelons. They had an
exceptionally large patch that year, and melons were bringing high prices
in Springdale. He carefully picked the largest and ripest and stacked
them near the fence. He rapidly collected a huge pile, all he could
possibly haul to town in one trip of the car. He had just about completed
his selection of all the ripe melons when Jim came tearing down the lane.
Most of the fences were barbed wire around the farm and too dangerous, in
Jim’s opinion, to jump unless there were some vital reason. However, the
garden was bordered by a relatively low board fence. It seemed the most
natural thing in the world to ride Ticktock directly to the garden and
thus show how anxious he was to help his father.
Unable to see what was on the other side, Jim came sailing grandly over
the fence. It was a beautiful jump with a very inglorious landing.
Ticktock came down squarely on the center of the pile of watermelons.
Fortunately the mustang recovered his balance and didn’t break a leg. As
it was, the result was bad enough. Broken watermelons were scattered far
and wide, the luscious juice dripping over the ground.
“You wild Indian!” shouted Mr. Meadows. “Look what you’ve done!”
Jim could only stare in consternation. There must have been at least a
dozen melons broken and no telling how many cracked. Numbed, he got down
from his horse.
“Gee, I didn’t know they were there, Dad.”
“Obviously. You’ve ruined half my morning’s work with that crazy horse of
yours,” said his father, the old animosity toward the mustang coming back
in his anger.
“Ticktock just jumped where I told him to,” explained Jim, who was
anxious above all else to remove any blame from his horse. “It was my
fault.”
Ticktock was very calm. He turned around to survey the damage and became
interested in the broken melons. He had never looked at a melon closely
before and was intrigued. He bent his head down and took a nibble at some
of the ripe red pulp. It tasted delicious. Curious as to just how a melon
was made, he reached out with a forefoot and pawed one of the remaining
unbroken ones. It cracked readily, exposing the red interior. Very
pleased with himself, Ticktock took another big nibble.
“Will you look at that!” shouted the now enraged Mr. Meadows. “Not
satisfied with breaking half the pile, that fool horse has to crack
another melon and eat it.”
Jim hadn’t been watching his horse too closely, but now he grabbed
Ticktock’s reins to prevent further damage.
“I’ll pick some more,” he offered. “I came down here to help you.”
“You’re certainly a big help,” said his father. “Get that horse out of my
sight. I’ll do better without you. There’s been enough of this
irresponsible jumping and chasing around here. You should never have
taught him to jump in the first place. How are you going to keep him any
place when he can jump fences?”
Sadly Jim led his pony out of the garden gate. It had certainly been a
disastrous day. He left the mustang tied to the orchard fence and went
into the house.
“Now what’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Meadows, looking at her son’s face as
he entered.
“I jumped over the garden fence and landed on the watermelons Dad was
picking.”
Jim’s mother was still irked about her tree; so she was not too
sympathetic.
“You are entirely too wild with that horse of yours,” she said sternly.
“It’s time you stopped being so heedless.”
Jim considered this additional rebuke for a while in silence. Everybody
was angry with him and no one cared for Ticktock, he decided. They just
weren’t wanted any more. The only solution was to go away. He had no idea
of running away permanently, but he felt he had to get away from his
troubles.
“Can I have some sandwiches?” he asked. “I want to make a trip and get
away from it all.”
“I guess so,” said Mrs. Meadows, trying not to smile at her son’s doleful
countenance. “When do you expect to come back from this trip?”
“What do you have for supper?”
“Steak for one thing and apple pie for another.”
“I guess my nerves will be steady enough by suppertime,” said Jim
judiciously.
After he packed his lunch in his saddlebags, Jim rode off down the road.
He decided to carry out his long delayed project of exploring Briggs
Woods. He had been so busy recently that he had forgotten his resolve.
The quiet gloom of the woods just fitted Jim’s mood of black despondency.
After he reached the center of the forested area, he turned up one of the
little trails that led invitingly into the tangled depths. He followed
the first one for some distance. It was slow going, winding in and out
between the trees, trying to keep branches from slapping him in the face.
Finally the path just faded and disappeared, leaving him nowhere. The
second and third attempts were equally unsuccessful. Feeling that the job
of exploring was vastly overrated, Jim decided to abandon the false
trails. He struck off through the woods, following roughly the course of
a stream. He had no fears about returning, putting complete trust in
Ticktock’s ability to find the way home.
Deep in the woods he turned from the main stream and followed a tiny
brook up an incline. Suddenly, to his delight, he came out in a small
natural clearing. There was bright sunshine on the deep grass, while the
little stream trickled away merrily at one end of the clearing. The open
area which was almost flat was several acres in extent. Tall trees grew
on every side, giving perfect seclusion.
“What a swell hideaway,” Jim said to his horse excitedly. “There’s plenty
of pasture and water for you and no one could ever find us.”
He began to make plans immediately for his secret camp. He would bring
over his roping dummy and his jumping bar. At one end of the clearing he
could build a brush hut. As he planned, his ideas grew larger. He would
make a big brush hut, big enough for Ticktock. In front of it he would
build a fireplace where he could cook. Then, if no one at home wanted him
and Ticktock, they would come here to live. He could cut some of the hay
for the winter. Perhaps he would also buy some grain and store it. As for
himself, he would trap and hunt for food. Now and then he would
mysteriously appear in town with valuable furs to sell. He would buy
candy and cakes and other delicacies and then disappear as mysteriously.
People would wonder where he lived and perhaps try to follow him, but if
anyone came too near the hide-out he would think up some plan to scare
them. Soon they would say the woods were haunted.
Jim ate his lunch full of all these plans, while Ticktock unconcernedly
cropped the grass. As the afternoon wore on, Jim decided to wait at least
another day before he became a lonely woodsman. He would eat one more
supper at home since there was apple pie. He rode home and went in to
supper with an air of secrecy.
There was no crisis at home that evening; so Jim further delayed his plan
of moving. However, the following day he did take his jumping bar and his
roping dummy to the new hide-out. He also took a hatchet and spent the
better part of several days building a brush hut which looked very
impressive, even though the brush roof did leak. In front of it he built
his fireplace. He thought about buying some weiners in town and holding a
weiner roast, but somehow the idea didn’t seem too much fun alone.
Ticktock and he seemed to be partially forgiven at home; so Jim stayed
on. There was no use becoming an exile if you didn’t have to, he
concluded sensibly. Still, it seemed a pity to waste such a perfect
hideaway. He used it for roping practice and for jumping, but it seemed
there should be something more dramatic that he could do.
It was hard to keep the secret of the hide-out to himself; so Jim began
to hint darkly to Jean about his lonely spot. At first that young lady
begged to be let in on the secret. She wanted to accompany him to his
hidden headquarters and teased and begged for several days. That suited
Jim exactly, and he went about acting mysterious and important. However,
Jean was not quite so guileless as her brother thought. Although she was
only ten, she knew a little about handling men, her brother in
particular. She dropped her attitude of pleading and began to scoff
openly.
“You are just making up the whole thing,” she said derisively. “You
haven’t got a secret hangout any more than I have.”
Several days of complete indifference had its effect on Jim. He felt he
had to prove his story. He felt a bit guilty about neglecting Jean all
summer anyhow; so he planned a grand picnic. Riding to town, he bought
some weiners, marshmallows and cookies. The rest of his supplies he
secured at home and got permission from his parents for the excursion.
With Jean mounted behind him, he rode to Briggs Woods. He felt that
revealing the general area of his hangout was not giving away too much of
his secret. Once in the woods, however, he insisted on blindfolding his
sister, extracting a solemn promise not to peek. She submitted to having
a large red bandanna tied over her eyes, even enjoying the mystery. Jim
then made his way to the hide-out, making several unnecessary circles to
confuse his companion. When they arrived in the middle of the clearing he
whisked off the bandage.
Jean looked around at the little clearing expectantly. There was nothing
very exciting.
“Why it’s nothing but a big open space!” she exclaimed.
“But look what nice pasture there is for Ticktock, with water and
everything,” explained Jim, a trifle annoyed at the poor impression his
headquarters made.
“Well, that’s nice enough,” admitted Jean who wasn’t much interested in
such details. She wanted something smaller and much more secret.
“There’s my hut and fireplace,” said Jim pointing.
“I like that,” said his sister finally, feeling she had to say something
complimentary since her brother had gone to such trouble to bring her on
the picnic.
They played for a time and then gathered dry wood for a fire. After they
had roasted the weiners and marshmallows, and stuffed themselves with
cookies, Jim stretched out lazily on the grass. This was the life. He
began to daydream that he was a cowboy who was hiding his sister from
dangerous kidnappers.
Jean, although she had enjoyed the day immensely, felt that there was
still something being kept from her. In her mind a hide-out couldn’t be
two acres of open pasture, even though it was concealed in the middle of
a wood. She suspected there was more to the place than Jim had shown her.
“I think I’ll walk around a little,” she said casually.
“O.K., but don’t go outside of shouting distance,” warned her brother in
a superior tone. “It’s awful easy to get lost unless you know the woods
like Ticktock and I do.”
One side of the clearing was bounded by a rocky hill which sloped up
abruptly. Jean chose this side to explore. She started climbing upward
through the rocks. After approximately half an hour went by, Jim decided
it was time that he had some word from his sister. He was about to shout
when he heard her calling him.
“Jim, guess where I am,” she shouted
“I don’t know; where are you?”
“I’m in your hide-out, smarty!”
Completely puzzled Jim started toward the hillside. He looked up at the
steep rocky slope in bewilderment.
“I can’t see you,” he said finally.
“Here I am,” came her voice from almost over his head.
Jim looked up as his sister appeared from behind a short stunted tree
about fifteen feet up the face of what was almost a cliff.
“It’s really a wonderful cave,” said Jean.
“Huh?” exclaimed Jim in complete astonishment.
“Don’t look so surprised because I found it. I knew there was more to
your hideaway than just a big field.”
Jim found a narrow ledge that made an easy path up to the tree. When he
pulled the stumpy pine tree to one side there was the narrow entrance to
the cave. It was a dark opening about two feet wide and four feet high.
“As long as you found it you might as well see the inside,” said Jim,
trying to talk casually. “I’ll run down and get the flash light.”
He didn’t quite keep the excitement out of his voice, and Jean looked
after him with growing suspicion. When he returned they made their way
inside excitedly.
“How big is it?” asked Jean as she followed her brother through the
opening.
“Why—uh—just medium,” answered Jim, trying to flash his light around
quickly in order to answer the question correctly.
There was only one room to the cave, but it was spacious and dry. The
ceiling arched above their heads at least twelve feet. Along one of the
stone walls there was a natural ledge at just the right height for a bed
or a seat.
“This will make a swell place,” said Jim incautiously.
“I don’t think you have ever been in here before,” accused Jean. “Have
you?”
“Well, not exactly,” hedged Jim not wanting to tell an outright lie.
“Is there another cave?” asked Jean.
“Not that I know of. All there was to my hide-out I showed you. The trick
is in finding your way here. You don’t seem to realize how important a
pasture is to a secret headquarters. A cowboy has to have some place for
his horse to graze. What good would a cave do? You couldn’t keep a horse
in a cave.”
“I’d rather play pirate or robbers,” decided Jean. “Then a cave would be
perfect. You wouldn’t need a pasture or a horse either.”
As they resaddled Ticktock and prepared to leave, Jean continued her
argument.
“I think the hide-out should be half mine since I discovered the cave,”
she maintained.
Jim pondered the question thoroughly. Jean’s demands did seem fair, for
the cave certainly added tremendously to the hide-out. Still, if the
emergency arose and he had to return to his original plan of disappearing
with Ticktock, he didn’t want Jean to know his whereabouts. A woman could
never keep a secret, and she would certainly tell her parents. No, unfair
as it seemed, he would have to keep his headquarters to himself.
Protesting bitterly, Jean was blindfolded. “It isn’t fair,” she stormed.
Jim was firm, however, so they rode off toward home. Since Jean felt her
brother was being very unjust, she decided she no longer had to keep her
promise not to peek. While Jim was busy keeping the branches from hitting
them in the face, she took cautious peeps from beneath the handkerchief.
Chapter Nine
The Lost Horse
Business took a midsummer slump, and Jim found time hanging heavy on his
hands. There were few calls for his services from the general public, and
even Colonel Flesher had no cattle to be driven to market. Jim tried to
persuade the stock buyer that it would be cheaper to drive hogs to town
than to truck them. While the colonel had much confidence in his young
assistant, he wisely concluded that driving hogs was beyond even Jim and
Ticktock.
Jim still went to town almost daily, partly to exercise his mustang and
partly because he liked to hang around the newspaper office. He helped
wherever possible, but probably hindered more than he helped, as he had
so many questions. The linotype machine fascinated him, and he begged
Bill Arnold to let him learn how to operate it.
“If I do,” said the editor jokingly, “the first thing I know you’ll have
that horse in here helping you. I’m afraid his feet would be too heavy
for the keys.”
“I need something to do,” urged Jim. “There’s a fierce depression in my
line of business.”
“Your overhead is low though,” pointed out Arnold. “That cayuse of yours
is getting his feed from my back yard.”
“Operating expenses may be low right now, but there is a long winter
ahead,” said Jim with a worried frown. His cash was accumulating too
slowly to suit him.
One day Arnold came out of his office waving a slip of paper. “Here’s a
fine opportunity for you and that wonderful horse to show your stuff.”
“A big job?” asked Jim excitedly.
“Do you happen to know Mr. Hernstadt?” asked the editor.
“I know where his farm is,” said Jim. “He has all those big fat work
horses.” Any horse that didn’t resemble Ticktock in size and build was an
object of contempt to Jim.
“Well, those big fat horses are very valuable Percherons. Hernstadt is
one of the finest breeders in the Middle West. Anyhow, his prize mare got
out of the pasture somehow and is lost.”
“Work horses must be dumb,” said Jim with conviction. “You could never
lose Ticktock.”
“Young man, will you quit bragging about that mustang long enough to
listen to what I am telling you?”
“I’m sorry,” said Jim, who really wasn’t at all.
“This mare strayed away two days ago, and Hernstadt has looked all over
for her. Now he is advertising, offering a reward of twenty-five dollars
for her return.”
“Twenty-five dollars!” exclaimed Jim. “How I’d like to find that horse!”
“This is scarcely ethical,” said Arnold. “The paper isn’t delivered until
tomorrow; so I’m giving you a twenty-four-hour advantage over my other
subscribers.”
“I wouldn’t give you away for anything. When I find the horse, I’ll wait
until the paper is out before I take it back to Mr. Hernstadt.”
“Rather confident, aren’t you?” asked Arnold laughing.
“Well, it couldn’t very well be stolen; a big horse like that would be
too easy to trace. She’s just strayed, and Ticktock and I will find her.”
Jim got up decisively. “If I can take a look at your big map, I’ll be on
my way to locate that dumb horse that got lost.”
After carefully studying the map, Jim drew a little sketch. He put Mr.
Hernstadt’s farm in the middle and then drew in all the roads in the
surrounding territory. He mounted Ticktock and galloped importantly out
of town. It was only midmorning, and he explored the country roads and
lanes for several hours before hunger drove him home.
“I have to be gone all afternoon on a very important mission,” he
announced as he was eating lunch.
Mr. and Mrs. Meadows just smiled and asked no questions. They were used
to Jim’s acting mysterious and important. Jean, however, followed him out
into the yard. Her curiosity was definitely aroused.
“Where are you going?” she teased. “I won’t tell on you.”
“I gave a cowboy’s word not to tell,” said Jim saddling Ticktock.
“Well, I think you’re mean,” said Jean. “You aren’t good to me at all any
more.”
Jim considered this a moment as he cinched up the saddle. He still felt a
little guilty about the matter of the hideaway. After all, Jean wouldn’t
be going anywhere to tell anyone. The secret would be safe.
“There’s a big reward going to be offered tomorrow for a lost horse,” he
said finally. “I’m going to find him before anyone knows about the
reward.”
“What kind of a horse?”
“A prize Percheron mare of Mr. Hernstadt’s.”
“If you find her, how are you going to catch her?” asked Jean, who was a
practical young lady.
“Why, Ticktock could catch any slow old Percheron,” said Jim scornfully.
Actually he hadn’t thought about what he would do after locating the
missing horse.
“I don’t mean catch up _with_ her. How are you going to put a halter on
her if she’s the kind of horse that runs away?”
“Well,” drawled Jim, who had just had an idea. “I’ve been doing a lot of
practicing with my lariat. I think I could lasso a slow-moving horse.”
While his admiring and envious sister gazed after him, Jim rode away. All
afternoon he jogged back and forth, up and down the hills, carefully
covering the territory of his map. The sun was hot and the country roads
were dusty.
What had begun as an adventurous hunt, turned out to be a tedious job. At
sundown he turned toward home. He was very tired and so was Ticktock.
Most of the roads were now crossed off the map. Only a few were left
unexplored.
That night Jim lay in bed considering the problem. The mail would be
delivered at about eleven the next morning and then everyone would be on
the lookout for the missing mare. He would have to work fast.
At breakfast the next morning Jim asked to be excused from the remaining
chores.
“What is this mysterious mission?” asked Mr. Meadows good-naturedly.
“Jean can tell you,” said Jim who was deep in thought as to the possible
whereabouts of the stray. They would know as soon as the paper arrived
anyhow.
“Mr. Hernstadt lost one of his Percherons. There is going to be a reward
in the morning paper and Jim is going to find her before anyone else
knows about it,” said Jean importantly. It never occured to her to doubt
her brother’s abilities or success. After all, he had said he would find
the horse so find the horse he would.
“Oh, he is, is he?” asked Mr. Meadows. “How?”
“He has a map,” said Jean who considered that a final answer. “After he
finds her he is going to catch her with Ticktock and then rope her. All
he has to do then is collect the reward.”
“I hope it’s as simple as it sounds,” said Mr. Meadows. “Anyhow, I think
I can do the rest of the chores myself while you’re off performing this
little task.”
Jim also hoped it was as simple as it sounded. As he rode off he wished
he hadn’t spoken so confidently either to the editor or to Jean. He was
on the spot now. He had to find the horse. He urged Ticktock to a faster
pace.
Noon found the boy and his horse covered with a blanket of dust and
discouragement. The allotted territory was exhausted and there was still
no horse. Of course, the Percheron could have strayed farther than Jim
had expected. He considered enlarging his area. That idea didn’t seem too
promising, as by now everyone in the countryside would know about the
reward. Feeling rather low in spirits and very hot, he turned toward
Briggs Woods. He had already explored the road through the woods and all
the open trails, but at least it was cool there and Ticktock could have a
drink of water.
Once in the cool cover of the forest, Jim turned toward his hideaway. He
would take a rest there and eat his lunch. He was picking his way moodily
through the trees when Ticktock suddenly decided to go off toward the
left. Somewhat annoyed, Jim pulled the mustang back in the direction of
the hideout. A few minutes later the pony again veered off to the left.
This time he put his nose in the air and neighed.
“What is it, boy?” asked Jim.
Ticktock stood still and neighed a second time. This time there was an
answer from the depths of the woods. Excitedly Jim urged the pony
forward, giving him his head. Ticktock threaded his way through the trees
confidently. After a short distance Jim suddenly saw through the woods
the figure of a big gray horse.
“Hurrah! Ticktock, you found her!” he shouted.
He uncoiled his lasso as he approached. He was going to make good his
boasts after all. Triumphantly he started to swing his rope. He made two
circles around his head and the rope caught on the limb of a tree and
fell in a tangle about his shoulders. He straightened out the lariat and
tried again. This time the noose caught on a limb and refused to come
loose. Feeling very uncowboylike, Jim dismounted, climbed the tree, and
freed his lasso.
Half an hour later Jim was still trying. Either the rope would catch on a
branch or the horse would move away just as he cast. He couldn’t use a
very large noose due to the crowding branches, and somehow a limb always
protected the mare’s head or she moved just in time to make the small
noose whiz by harmlessly. Being hit on the head a number of times by a
rope wasn’t making the Percheron any more approachable either. She was
definitely getting tired of the game and fast becoming skittish.
Ticktock watched his master’s endeavors patiently for a long time. He was
used to Jim’s games and at first thought this was another form of roping
practice. Gradually, however, he began to realize that Jim was really
trying to rope the mare for some purpose. He could sense the
disappointment after each unsuccessful try. Also, Ticktock was getting
tired of going through trees after the mare. He had been going steadily
all morning and felt like stopping. So he decided to end all this
nonsense. While Jim was resting after a particularly strenuous cast,
Ticktock took charge. He gave a soft neigh and then waited. The mare
neighed back.
Ticktock turned his head around and gave a long look at his rider. There
was no mistaking his meaning. “You’ve had your chance, now let me try,”
he seemed to say. Very slowly and patiently he made his way toward the
mare. Jim sat quietly in the saddle. Finally Ticktock stopped and stood
waiting. After a few more exchanges of nickers, the mare walked over to
the mustang and the two horses began to rub noses. Gradually Ticktock
edged around until they were side by side. Jim reached over and slipped
one end of his rope around the mare’s neck. The chase was ended.
He led the mare back to the hideaway and tied her to a tree. He took off
Ticktock’s saddle and the pony rolled gratefully in the tall grass. Jim
sat down to eat his lunch, feeling very satisfied and happy. Ticktock was
certainly a smart horse; he knew how to do everything. Now they could go
back home in triumph. That seemed even more important than the reward.
There was no question about it; his horse had saved the day.
[Illustration: Roping a horse]
As he thought about how creditable Ticktock’s part had been, Jim began to
grow dissatisfied with his own performance. He had fallen down on the
roping. He couldn’t very well go back and tell how he had finally caught
the horse. There wasn’t anything very dashing about that. Something had
to be done.
He got up, saddled Ticktock, and led the mare out to the middle of the
clearing. Very gently he undid the rope from her neck, talking soothingly
all the time. While the mare contentedly cropped the grass, Jim backed
Ticktock away a few feet. He swung his lariat quietly and slowly. He
leaned forward and when the mare looked up he cast. The noose dropped
squarely over her head.
With a sigh of relief, Jim rode up to the mare. He tied a knot so the
noose would not choke the Percheron and then rode off through the trees,
leading his valuable captive.
Home was only slightly out of his way to the Hernstadt farm and Jim could
not resist the temptation to display the mare. Trying to appear very
casual and unexcited, he rode up the lane. His father had just come in
from the field when he arrived; so the entire family came out to meet
him. It was a very satisfactory entrance.
“Where did you find her?” asked Mr. Meadows who was plainly amazed.
“Over in Briggs Woods. Ticktock found her and I roped her,” said Jim very
calmly, but with a twinge of conscience.
“You and that horse continually dumfound me,” said Mr. Meadows.
Jim went inside and telephoned Mr. Hernstadt that his missing horse had
been found. The pleased owner offered to come over after the mare but Jim
insisted on delivering her. Before he left he called the editor.
“You can take that ad out of the paper,” he told Arnold with a pardonable
amount of pride in his voice. “I am on my way to take the mare home right
now.”
Arnold insisted on knowing a few details which Jim gave him with
pretended reluctance. After all, as Mr. Morgan had said, what a business
needs is publicity. Besides it would look nice in the paper about his
roping the runaway horse. That would really make the other boys’ eyes bug
out.
When Jim delivered the horse that afternoon, Mr. Hernstadt handed him
twenty-five dollars gladly. He listened to the account of how the horse
had been found.
“The man that helped me take care of the horses left a few months ago to
run a farm of his own,” the horse breeder explained. “I’ve been so busy
that I didn’t notice the fence needed repairing in one corner. That’s how
she got out. Now that you have found the horse you don’t suppose you
could find me a good man to help take care of her and the other horses?”
“Well,” said Jim considering the matter seriously, “the Pony Express does
all sorts of things. I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter Ten
Ticktock Disappears
With the twenty-five dollars reward money added to his previous earnings,
Jim now had over fifty dollars. Fifty dollars was more money than he had
ever seen before and seemed like the largest sum in the world. It must be
adequate, he felt, to cover the cost of Ticktock’s feed for the winter.
Mr. Meadows had not brought up the subject, and Jim was content to keep
the unannounced truce. His father seemed to be over his anger about the
watermelons. Jim reasoned that if the matter of Ticktock’s board was
never mentioned, he would be foolish to call attention to it. It was
simple arithmetic—he would be fifty dollars wealthier if he let sleeping
dogs lie. If Mr. Meadows did raise the question, Jim was prepared. If
necessary, he figured he could even pay for Ticktock’s keep elsewhere,
although it would have broken his heart to have the mustang where he
could not be seen and ridden daily. Still, such a course would be better
than having to give up the pony in the fall as his father had threatened.
All over fifty dollars Jim felt he was free to spend. As he earned money
from odd jobs, he began using it to stock his hideaway. He bought cans of
pork and beans, sausages, corned beef, vegetables, fruits, soups,
condensed milk, and even one can of Boston brown bread. Anything that
came in cans or packages that seemed safe from spoilage was carefully
stowed away in the cave. He was frugal about the process, preferring to
take quietly those items that were in plentiful supply at home rather
than spend his hard-earned money.
For quite a while now, Jim had been allowed to take food from the pantry
for his picnics and all-day trips without asking for specific permission,
provided there was plenty on hand of what he needed. In case of doubt, it
was understood that he ask his mother. It was the same with anything that
his mother had piled on the left-hand side of the attic. Both he and Jean
could take anything they wished from the accumulation there.
Now, therefore, to the supplies which he bought with his own money, he
added from the family cupboard sugar, coffee, tea, salt, pepper and a
small quantity of flour. These he put carefully in jars that he picked
up. In the same manner he slowly accumulated a set of battered pots and
pans, two plates, and a few odd knives and forks, as well as an old
blanket and a torn quilt from the attic.
The only difference between what he did this time and what he had done
before was that he didn’t say a word to his mother about it all. Since
always before he had talked over his plans with her, he now had a guilty
feeling.
“I’ll keep a list of everything,” he said to himself, “and show it to
Mother later on.”
It was so much more exciting to act mysteriously and in secret. It made
the cave a real hide-out, something that belonged to him alone.
The quilt and blanket were the last items he needed to complete his
preparations. Since he couldn’t very well ride out of the yard with them
without causing questions, he slipped out one evening and hid them a
respectable distance down the road. The next morning when he had finished
his work, he saddled Ticktock and rode off to recover them. As he stopped
to pick up his bedding, he was congratulating himself on how secretly he
had managed everything. He looked under the little bush where he had left
them the previous evening but the quilt and blanket were gone. With a
puzzled frown on his tanned face, he tried to figure out the mystery.
There was little traffic on the road past the farm and no reason why
anyone would be prompted to stop at this spot and discover his bedding.
Very annoyed, he looked up and down the road to see if there was any
other bush he could possibly have confused with this one.
“Looking for your blankets?” asked a teasing voice.
Jim looked up, and there was his sister Jean sitting on the opposite side
of the road. She held his missing loot in her arms.
“What are you doing here?” Jim demanded, very crestfallen at being
caught.
“What are you doing with these?” asked Jean promptly.
“Oh, I was just going to use them somewhere!” said Jim in confusion. He
tried to think fast. “I thought I might go fishing and want a soft place
to lean back on while I fished.”
“Funny you’d go to all this trouble just to take some blankets with you
fishing,” observed Jean with mockery in her voice. “You forgot your fish
pole too.”
“Well, it’s none of your business,” replied Jim lamely.
“Yes, it is,” said Jean. “You were taking them to the hideaway and the
hideaway is part mine.”
“Don’t be silly. Whatever gave you the idea I was taking them there?”
“Oh, I’ve been watching things,” said Jean calmly. “Let’s see, you’ve got
sugar, coffee, plates, cups and two jars of peaches. Of course, I don’t
know what you might have bought in town. Where else would you take all
that stuff except to the cave?”
“Well, all right, the stuff was for the cave. Now what good does it do
you to know?”
“None, unless I know where the cave is. But you’re going to show me now.”
“Like fun I am.”
“Either you spill the beans or I’ll squeal.” Jean had read enough comic
strips that she could talk like a thug, and this was an occasion when she
felt she had to act tough.
“You promised not to tell when I took you to the hideaway,” objected Jim.
“Yes, but I didn’t promise not to tell about all this stuff you’ve been
stealing.”
“It isn’t really stealing,” protested Jim.
“It looks like stealing to me,” said Jean with infuriating calmness. “You
took a bunch of junk but you didn’t ask.”
Jim felt trapped. He still didn’t consider his recent activities
thievery, but that wasn’t the important part. If Jean talked, his parents
would ask embarrassing questions about what he had done with the
articles. They would know he had a secret headquarters, which spoiled
half the mystery. It was better that Jean knew, than everyone. Thus far
she had kept very quiet about what she already knew.
“Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take you there on your birthday,” he offered
finally.
Jean considered thoughtfully. “That’s three weeks away.”
“Yes, but I’m awful busy now. Besides, wouldn’t it be a nice birthday
present—making you a full partner in the hideaway. I’ve got a lot of
things there I bought at the grocery store and you can have half of
them.” Jim hoped she would forget about the matter in three weeks. He
didn’t expect it, but it was a possibility.
“All right, on my birthday.”
“O.K. Give me the blankets and remember, don’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, I won’t, now that everything is going to be half mine!” said Jean
with decision. “What are you going to do with all the stuff anyway?”
That question rather stumped Jim. He hadn’t gone into the reason behind
all his activity in stocking the cave. He had long ago forgotten his idea
of going there to live the life of a hermit. In the thrill of secretly
gathering a hoard of food and utensils he hadn’t given much thought as to
the purpose of it all.
“Well, I hadn’t thought about that too much,” he admitted frankly. “It’s
just fun to have the stuff in the cave. I can pretend I’m an outlaw
hiding out. Maybe Mother will let me camp out all night sometime.”
“Well, we could pretend we were shipwrecked on an island or that we were
in a war and surrounded by enemies, and lots of things,” suggested Jean.
“Good ideas,” said Jim. “Well, I better be going. I’ll take you there on
your birthday.” He rode off feeling that Jean might not be such a bad
partner to share his hide-out. She was resourceful and she had
imagination. Also, there was still three weeks in which he could enjoy
the secret in solitary splendor.
Jean watched her brother disappear down the road. She had earned a
victory, but three weeks was a long time. She walked back to the house
with a very thoughtful look on her determined young face. She had been
doing much thinking and observing, and she wasn’t going to stop and wait
calmly for her birthday.
Jim delivered his blankets to the cave. After gloating over his very
respectable pile of provisions, he made himself a pot of coffee. It was a
lot of trouble, and he didn’t care too much for coffee, particularly with
a lot of grounds, as his somehow always managed to have. Still it was
fun. He washed the pot in the stream, scouring it carefully with sand
before replacing it in the cave.
On his way back home he made a detour to go by the railroad tracks. It
was about time for the morning freight to pass by, and he enjoyed
watching the long train labor slowly up a hill which was about a mile
from the farm. Arriving at a good point of vantage near a stream at the
foot of the hill, he dismounted to sit by the roadside. Ticktock grazed
contentedly while Jim chewed on a long stem of grass.
In a few minutes the train came whistling around the bend at full speed,
trying for a head start up the hill. Jim counted the cars as they
appeared, his largest total was fifty-seven and he had hoped this freight
would break the record, for the engine slowed and began laboring the
moment it hit the upgrade. As the sixteenth car appeared around the
curve, he forgot about counting. A figure was running along the top of
the boxcars toward the engine, looking frantically over his shoulder
every few minutes. About ten cars later Jim saw the cause of the
excitement. A second man was pursuing the first, but the latter did not
seem particularly worried.
“Railroad cop,” thought Jim. “He’s trying to catch that hobo.”
The first man apparently realized that he didn’t have too far to run
before he reached the engine. He stopped in his flight and began
clambering down the side of one of the freight cars. The train had slowed
considerably now that it was part way up the hill. The man looked down at
the ground and then up at the car tops where his pursuer was hidden from
view. Then he jumped. The leap occurred almost at the point where the
tracks crossed the trestle over the stream. Jim could not tell if the man
landed on the ground or in the water. In either case, he must be badly
shaken up, for although the train had lost much of its speed it was still
traveling at a respectable rate.
It was several hundred yards to the trestle, so, deciding that it would
be quicker to ride than to walk, Jim dashed for his horse. Unfortunately,
Ticktock had strayed up the road looking for choice bunches of clover. By
the time Jim had run to his horse, mounted, and then ridden over to the
trestle, several minutes had elapsed. Pulling Ticktock to a dust-raising
stop that would have done credit to a Western movie, Jim slid to the
ground. There was no mangled corpse in sight. He rushed to the edge of
the bank bordering the stream and peered down. Still there was nothing to
be seen. As there were a number of bushes, weeds and stunted trees on the
steep banks, whoever had jumped might be lying unconscious behind some
clump. There was nothing to do but make a search.
[Illustration: Searching near the track]
Jim climbed up and down the sloping sides of the stream covering the area
where anyone might possibly have fallen. When his efforts turned out to
be fruitless, he decided there could be only one other solution. If the
man had landed in the stream, there was sufficient water to carry him
along to the shallows on the other side of the bridge. Although the water
was only a few feet deep, an injured or unconscious man could drown.
Working his way downstream under the bridge, Jim reached the shallows
about a hundred yards on the other side of the tracks without finding any
body. Puzzled, he decided to give up the search. Perhaps he had just
imagined someone had jumped. As he was slowly making his way back, he
heard the sound of rapid hoofbeats. Panic-stricken, he rushed as fast as
he could along the slanting banks. He clambered to the top and looked
around for Ticktock. The mustang was gone.
He looked up the road and there disappearing in the distance was his
beloved horse. Hunched over the pony’s back, urging him to greater speed,
was the figure of a man.
“Come back, you dirty horse thief!” screamed Jim at the top of his lungs,
with rage and panic in his voice.
He continued to shout uselessly as the figure of the horse and rider grew
smaller in the distance. Finally a curve in the road hid them from view.
Heartbroken, Jim sat down by the side of the road. He buried his face in
his hands and his body shook with sobs. It was a disaster much worse than
any he could possibly have imagined. His beloved mustang had been stolen.
He sat by the roadside for a long time before he looked up. The cheery
sunshine of a few minutes earlier had suddenly become hard and bitter.
The bright world had turned ugly, drab and cruel.
Finally he got to his feet and started plodding dejectedly down the road.
It was a long desolate walk. Each step seemed to take him farther from
Ticktock. His parents saw him when he finally came forlornly up the lane.
With his slow pace and sorrowful face, he was a heartbreaking sight.
“What’s the matter, Jimmy?” asked his mother, running to meet him.
“Someone stole Ticktock,” he said with a quavering voice.
“Stole Ticktock?” asked Mr. Meadows incredulously. “How did it happen?”
“I saw a man jump off a freight,” said Jim slowly. “I thought maybe he
was hurt. While I was hunting for him, he stole Ticktock. He must have
been hiding behind some bush.”
“Why the dirty rat,” said Mr. Meadows, his rage mounting as he listened
to the details. While he had threatened to get rid of the horse a few
months earlier, now the idea that anyone would steal his son’s mustang
made him furious. “I’m going in to call the sheriff. That horse is so
well known the thief won’t be able to get far. We’ll get Ticktock back,
Jim.”
Two days went by, and they didn’t get Ticktock back.
The sheriff passed the alarm to surrounding towns, while the Springdale
_Gazette_ carried big headlines warning everyone to be on the lookout. It
forgot its usual joking tone about Jim and his horse and seriously asked
everyone to cooperate in the search. Bill Arnold even had a front-page
editorial on the subject.
Jim sat at the telephone waiting for news, but there was no joyous
message. He was grief-stricken and refused to be consoled.
“Don’t feel so bad,” said Mrs. Meadows comfortingly. “You have money
enough to buy another horse.”
“I don’t want another horse. I want Ticktock,” said Jim.
While he was deep in misery, Jim did not lose hope. Somehow he felt that
Ticktock would escape from the thief and return. He was confident that no
matter how far the mustang might be ridden he would discover the way back
home. The third day following the theft was Saturday. The family tried to
persuade Jim to go to town to take his mind off his loss, but he was firm
in insisting on staying home. A message was sent to Colonel Flesher that
he would not be in for work for the sale. Ticktock might possibly return,
Jim felt, and he wanted to be home to greet him.
Jim sat sadly on the front porch after the family left for town, looking
up and down the road hoping to see the mustang. Three days was a long
time. A man could ride a horse a great distance in that length of time.
Still Jim kept gazing at the road hopefully. Suddenly he jumped up and
rubbed his eyes. He had been searching so long that he thought he was now
dreaming. He looked again and still saw the same wonderful sight.
Ticktock was jogging contentedly down the road toward home.
Jim ran to the gate to meet his horse. He threw his arms around the
pony’s neck and hugged him through sheer joy.
“You came back, boy, you came back!” he cried happily.
Ticktock closed one eye and winked. He wasn’t a demonstrative horse.
As Jim started to lead his prodigal pony into the yard, he noticed for
the first time that Ticktock wore no bridle.
“So you had to slip your bridle to get away,” he said. “Well, you did a
good job. We’ll get another old bridle. I’ll bet you’re tired and hungry.
You must have come a long way; so I’ll take the saddle off and let you
rest.”
When the saddle was removed, there was very little perspiration beneath
the blanket. The hair was scarcely ruffled. Jim stood back and looked at
Ticktock in puzzlement.
“You don’t look as if you had come so far,” he observed. “In fact, you
look as if you had just been groomed.”
He opened one of the saddlebags. He usually carried a curry comb and
brush with him so that he could use them in odd moments. The implements
were still there, but it was hard to tell if they had been used. Whatever
the thief had used, Ticktock had obviously been groomed only a short time
before. The pony didn’t look tired either, but acted quite fresh and
frisky.
Noticing that the other saddlebag bulged suspiciously, Jim opened it.
There, folded neatly, was the missing bridle.
“Now why would anyone fold up a bridle and put it in the saddlebag?”
asked Jim.
Ticktock didn’t answer but just nuzzled his master contentedly.
“If someone wasn’t going to ride you for a while,” said Jim musingly to
his pony, “he would take off your saddle as well as your bridle. If he
was going to ride you in a few minutes, he either wouldn’t take off the
bridle at all or at most hang it on a tree limb or the saddle horn. But
that bridle was carefully put away in the saddlebag. There’s something
fishy here. I don’t believe that thief is so far from here.”
The more Jim thought about the matter, the more puzzled he became. But no
matter what the solution, he was very angry with whoever had stolen his
horse. According to all the books he had read and movies he had seen, a
horse thief was considered three degrees lower than a murderer. Jim
agreed with the Western idea. Turning over such thoughts in his mind, he
finally came to a decision. He saddled Ticktock, put on the bridle and
then went into the house. He opened the closet to his father’s room and
carefully got out a twenty-two rifle. He had been forbidden to touch his
father’s firearms, but he felt this case was different. There was a heavy
deer gun in the closet too, but that looked too forbidding. He found five
twenty-two long shells in his father’s bureau, which he carefully stuck
in his pocket. It was a single shot rifle, and he knew how to load it.
Going back downstairs, he found a pencil and paper and wrote a short note
that he left lying on the kitchen table.
_Dear Dad and Mom:_
_Ticktock came back and is all right. I have gone to look for that
low-down horse thief. If I catch him alive, I hope they hang him._
_Jim_
Very grim-faced, Jim mounted and rode off in the direction from which
Ticktock had come. He had no idea where he was going to hunt for the
thief, but to hunt anywhere was a form of action. He jogged along, so
overjoyed to be back on his horse once more that he paid little attention
to where the pony was heading. Suddenly he realized that he was entering
Briggs Wood. At the proper point Ticktock turned off the road toward the
hideaway.
“Well, we might as well go there as anywhere else,” said Jim cheerfully.
He really didn’t have much hope of locating the thief anyhow.
At the clearing, Jim dismounted to stretch his legs. He sat down
contentedly on a big rock by his fireplace.
“Well, here we are, back together again at the old hangout, Ticktock,” he
observed happily to the pony.
He tossed a rock into the ashes of the fireplace. Nothing could keep him
and his mustang down. Then he noticed that the disturbed ashes were
smoking slightly. Alarmed, he poked in the fireplace with a stick. There
was no doubt that a fire had been built there recently. Clutching his
gun, he looked around at the trees.
“Someone has been here in our hide-out,” he confided softly to Ticktock.
The pony was not grazing as usual but looking around inquiringly.
Frowning fiercely, Jim tried to feel as brave as he looked. Cautiously he
peered inside the brush hut. It was empty; so he began to make a slow
circuit of the clearing, staying well back in the trees. He was
approaching the lower end near the stream, trying to move silently over
the rocky ground when he stumbled over something projecting from a low
bush. He spun around with his rifle ready, completely forgetting that he
had never loaded the gun. There was a stir in the bush and then a man’s
face peered out. Two sleep-clouded eyes looked at Jim and his rifle. The
eyes opened wide and lost their sleepiness.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I give up,” said a frightened voice.
Chapter Eleven
The Conspirators
It was difficult to say which of the two was the more frightened, the man
in the bushes or Jim. The only difference was that Jim held a rifle. He
didn’t know quite what to do with it as all his training had been to the
effect that he should never point the muzzle of a gun at anyone. So he
waved the gun around uncertainly, first pointing it at the man and then
away. The erratic maneuvers of the gun muzzle served to terrify the
stranger even more.
“Don’t shoot!” he repeated, his frightened eyes going back and forth as
they followed the end of the waving gun barrel with a horrified
fascination.
The man presented a very odd sight. He was short, but with abnormally
broad shoulders and powerful arms. His heavily muscled body was stripped
to the waist, and he wore nothing but a pair of faded khaki trousers.
This garment was crumpled and dirty with several jagged tears in the
legs. He was both barefooted and bareheaded. His brown weathered face and
arms had numerous partially healed scratches and cuts. At first Jim
received an impression of villainous ferocity caused by the man’s mangled
face. Then as he calmed down he saw the stranger had an ugly but rather
pleasant countenance. Also, that powerful chest looked rather gaunt, for
the ribs were beginning to show. Jim looked at his captive in
uncertainty, unable to decide whether to feel angry, terrified, or sorry
for the man.
“Did you steal my horse?” he asked finally, when he found his voice. He
tried to sound stern, but his voice insisted on quavering.
“No, sir!” denied the stranger, who was more frightened because Jim was
obviously excited than he would have been had the boy been calm and
steady. “I borrowed a horse a couple of days ago but I took good care of
him and turned him loose so he could go home.”
Jim thought this over for a minute. The evidence of the bridle and
Ticktock’s recent grooming pointed to the truth of the statement.
“Why’d you borrow him?” he asked. “I went down to the railroad tracks to
see if you were hurt, and you ran off with my horse.”
“I was scared,” said the man frankly. “I didn’t see you were a boy. A
railroad cop had just chased me off that freight. I thought maybe they
had rangers in this state like they have in Texas and one was after me
for bumming a ride. I just lost my head and ran.”
“How did you get here?” Jim was very annoyed at anyone’s finding his
hideaway.
“After I got on the horse I just rode away as fast as I could. When I
came to this woods I slowed down and let that little horse walk along.
All of a sudden he turned off the road and came here. It looked as good a
spot as any, so I stayed.”
The explanation was very logical. For once Jim wished that Ticktock would
refrain from displaying his intelligence to others. It was all right to
be smart, but to take a stranger to the secret hideaway was another
matter.
“We’ll go back to the clearing,” he said firmly, motioning with his gun.
“Yes, sir,” the captive moved forward promptly. Jim marched behind the
man, his nervousness gone. His brown hands held the gun steadily, and
there was a serious frown on his normally cheerful face. He couldn’t
quite figure out the situation. The stranger seemed perfectly frank and
straightforward in his manner and didn’t look like a horse thief should.
According to Jim’s conceptions, a horse thief should be a sullen,
villainous man with a mustache and a long scar on his cheek. This man was
a good-natured, honest-appearing person.
When they arrived at the clearing, Ticktock was standing near the brush
hut. The man walked up to him and began patting him on the neck.
“How are you, old fellow?” he asked in a soft persuasive tone. Ticktock
seemed to like the man. He looked over and winked at Jim as if he were
putting the stamp of approval on the stranger.
“Nice horse you got here, son,” said the man.
“He sure is,” agreed Jim. He always warmed toward anyone who appreciated
the mustang. Yes, this whole thing certainly was a puzzle.
“Why did you let him loose?” he asked.
“You don’t think I’m a horse thief, do you?” asked the other indignantly.
“I could see that someone was taking awful good care of this pony and
must like him. So I turned him loose.”
“Look here,” said Jim, “I can’t figure this out. Why should you be so
scared just because you were riding on a freight? Lots of people do
that.”
“In some states they put them in a chain gang or jail too, when they
catch them.”
“That would explain your running off with Ticktock,” said Jim, reasoning
out loud, “but it doesn’t account for your staying here in the woods. You
look peaked and hungry to me. Why don’t you go some place where you can
get something to eat? And where are your clothes?”
[Illustration: Where are your clothes?]
“I washed my clothes,” said the other nervously. “They’re hanging over
there in the bush.”
Jim’s eyes followed in the direction of the pointed finger. There was a
shirt, undershirt and two socks hanging on a limb. They had obviously
been washed, although it was rather a poor job, since there had been no
soap and only the cold water of the stream.
“That doesn’t answer the other questions,” said Jim stubbornly. “I think
you are hiding for some other reason.”
The man looked at Jim long and searchingly. Apparently he was reassured
by the appearance of the boy’s frank face and steady brown eyes.
“I think I’ll tell you the truth,” he said at last. “I think you’ll
understand.”
“Go ahead.”
“Look, I’m kind of weak from lack of something to eat. Why don’t we sit
down, because this is a long story? And how about pointing that rifle
just a little bit in the other direction? It makes me nervous.”
“All right,” agreed Jim, sitting down on a log, “but I’m keeping this gun
handy.”
As Jim placed the rifle across his knees, he suddenly realized that he
had forgotten to load it. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his
stomach and a big lump suddenly came up in his throat, threatening to
choke him. He couldn’t very well reach in his pocket, extract a shell,
open the breech, and load the gun. Nervous as he was, he knew he would be
slow reloading it. He knew how, but had never had much practice and it
might take a long time. The other man was too close to permit such a
maneuver. There was nothing to do but try not to change expression and
stick it out.
“You were right,” said the captive, commencing his story and apparently
noticing nothing wrong in Jim’s expression or behavior. “The law is after
me. I’m wanted for killing a man.”
“A murderer,” said Jim involuntarily. He gulped. Matters were getting
worse by the minute.
“I’m no murderer,” said the man with indignant sincerity. “But I’m sure
in the worst mess that ever happened to any man. The police are after me,
I’m starving, and I don’t have any place to go. All of it’s an accident
too.”
The man’s tone was full of so much woe that Jim felt a wave of sympathy
sweep over him. Somehow he couldn’t help liking the man and believing in
him. He didn’t look like a murderer.
“How did it happen?” Jim asked.