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[Illustration: “THE SPLENDID MOUNTAIN STREAM WAS A NEVER ENDING
DELIGHT”]
WILD ROSES
_A Tale
of the Rockies_
BY
HOWARD R. DRIGGS
[Illustration: colophon]
UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING COMPANY
CHICAGO AND LINCOLN
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY
THE UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING COMPANY
_All Rights Reserved_
To My Mother
WHO LOVED THE WILD ROSES
CONTENTS
CHAPTER TITLE PAGE
I. A COWBOY CELEBRATION 1
II. NEW TRAILS 15
III. MORGAN’S DANCE 28
IV. FIRE WATER 42
V. FISHERMAN’S LUCK 52
VI. ANKANAMP 65
VII. MOUNTAINEER MEMORIES 75
VIII. REMEMBERING THE EARLY DAYS 83
IX. AFTER THE BALL 99
X. COMPANIONSHIP 110
XI. MOUNTAIN FUN 120
XII. AMONG THE TEPEES 129
XIII. AT SHADOW POOL 138
XIV. AT THE OLD SHACK 147
XV. THE FATAL THROW 161
XVI. THE ROUNDUP 166
XVII. RANCH ROSES 177
XVIII. BY THE CABIN FIRE 196
XIX. IN THE HEART OF THE HILLS 204
XX. A TURN IN THE TRAIL 221
XXI. THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL 233
WILD ROSES
CHAPTER I
A COWBOY CELEBRATION
Some unpoetic old frontiersman first called the place a trapper’s
“hole,”--an ugly, misleading name for this wondrous mountain valley,
lying up there on the western slopes of the Continental Divide next to
the Yellowstone country, almost surrounded by a rim of craggy,
snow-streaked mountains, and grassy, wooded hills, out of whose
picturesque canyons streams came leaping and sparkling to make a silvery
network over the valley floor and to combine at last into the beautiful
river that winds along the base of the western hills. This web of
streams may still be traced as one gets a kind of bird’s-eye view of it
from the hills above; but irrigation has given a conventional aspect to
the valley floor by checkering it with farms, dotting it with regularly
laid out towns and cities, and marking it with surveyors’ roads and
canals.
Some thirty years ago, when the first wave of colonization broke over
the rim of this valley, it was still nature’s playground, the haunt of
herds of antelope, elk and deer. A few widely scattered ranch shacks, a
trapper’s hut or two, with occasionally a group of tepees, pitched
temporarily by some wandering band of Indians, were the only human
habitations within its borders.
There were no garden roses in the valley then, but the wild ones ran
riot along the streams among a tangle of thorns, sending their sweet
fragrance everywhere.
In that not-so-long-ago time, one day in July, the month of roses there,
the valley lay dozing under the spell of the noontide heat. A warm haze
spread over the drowsy hills; the cooling canyon breezes were asleep;
even the quaking aspens were still; the sky was cloudless; there was
nothing to keep the sun from pouring down all of its rays fiercely upon
the scene.
To escape its scorching heat, everything had sought the shade except the
grasshoppers and locusts; they were reveling in the burning brightness,
dancing and singing all over the grassy and sage-spread flats.
The cowboys at the Bar B ranch were sprawled about on their bunks,
sleeping after their noonday meal--all but Jim Hardy. He stood out
under the porch-like projection of the old log shack, making faces at
himself in a broken mirror as he worked with a dull razor to shave the
brown stubble off his square-set jaws and chin. Topsy and Rock, the
ranch dogs, lay near him, lazily snapping at the buzzing flies.
When the scraping process was done, Jim rubbed his persecuted face to
comfort it a little, and then stepped inside of the shack to get a
drink. As he was enjoying his second cup of coolness, his attention was
suddenly turned on Dick Davis, lying there with his half-open mouth
emitting a purring snore. The spirit of rough fun, always strong in Jim,
found expression as usual; he dashed the rest of the cup of water into
Dick’s face.
Dick jumped up choking and sputtering and swearing at his tormentor, who
stood laughing over his victim’s discomfiture.
“It’s a hill of a racket ye’re makin’,” said Pat Kelsey, the cook;
“can’t ye let a feller slape a little?”
“Oh, cut out your sleepin’; let’s do some celebratin’. Have you
forgotten it’s the glorious Fourth of July? Come, have a drink with me,
Pat.” He dashed a cup of water into the waking Irishman’s face.
“Ye dirty son of a Yankee!” blurted Pat, jumping up, and making for the
joker; “it’s auld Ireland that can lick you, if auld England didn’t.”
“Stop, or I’ll shoot,” said Jim, jerking a flask of whisky out of his
hip pocket, and pointing it at the wrathful cook.
“Be jabers, if it’s loaded,” said Pat, checking himself, “I’ll give up.”
He grabbed the bottle out of Jim’s hand, uncorked it, and said, “Here’s
to Ameriky, the land that Saint Patrick Henry didicated to liberty.”
Then he took a long drink and smacked his lips.
The rest of the boys, roused by the noise, were laughing over the fun.
“Pass the bottle around, Pat,” said Jim; “drink hearty, boys.”
Every one but Dan Miller and Fred Benton took a drink; they passed the
bottle on with thanks.
“Oh, will, boys,” said Pat, “there’s more for them as likes it.” He
raised the bottle and took another drink.
A wild thumping of horses’ hoofs was heard outside. The boys jumped up
and reached the door just as a band of half-tipsy cowboys from Morgan’s
and other ranches, with Bud Nixon at their head, charged up to the
shack. They checked their ponies with a suddenness that sent the gravel
flying in front of them.
“Hello, you stags!” shouted Nixon; “got anything to drink?”
“Sure an’ we have,” returned Pat; “bring the bucket, Tiddy, and water
’em.”
“Oh, to hell with your water; give us some whisky.”
“Well, seein’s it’s you,” said Jim, reaching up the flask. It soon went
the rounds and returned empty.
“Got any race horses?” said Nixon.
“Yes, a whole herd of ’em that can kick dust in your eyes.”
“Talk’s cheap, but it takes money to buy whisky. Bet ye my bridle ’gin
yours that my horse can outrun yours.”
“It’s a go. Your bridle’s mine,” said Jim, starting for the barn, while
the rest of the boys continued bantering one another and matching their
ponies for other races.
A race track, about a quarter of a mile stretch along the dusty road,
was chosen. Dick Davis and Bill Peters were selected as starters. Dan
Miller and Tick Johnson were the judges. Pat was elected stakeholder.
The first race was between Silver Bill, one of the blooded animals of
the Morgan ranch, and Tex, Jim’s best saddle horse. The two cowboys,
with saddles and with chaps on, jogged off to the starting place and
began to play for a good start.
Suddenly they whirled and leaped together across the line towards the
goal, the eager riders leaning low with quirts flying. Jim’s horse held
an easy lead for nearly half the way, then he lost it, the longer-winded
roan gradually slipping up and past him. When they dashed by the judges,
Bud was full two rods ahead.
“You made me eat dirt square enough,” said Jim, jerking off his
silver-mounted bridle and tossing it to Bud. “That’s a good horse you’ve
got.”
“Yes, ’n he kin beat any cayuse in this hole,” boasted Bud.
“Got anything beside talk to stake on that?”
“My saddle ’gin yours.”
“Pull ’er off, and stack her here with mine.” Jim loosed the cinches as
he spoke, jerked off his saddle and flung it over by Pat.
“Here, Teddy, get your little mare. Let’s take the cackle out of this
crow.”
“All right, Jim, if you say so; but I don’t know what Brownie can do.
I’ve never run a race with her.”
“That’s my risk. Get yer mare.”
Fred went back to the shack, took a pan of oats, and walked over to the
pasture bars to call Brownie. Hearing him, she raised her pretty head
and trotted nimbly up to him. He threw his arm over her glossy neck
while she enjoyed the taste of grain, then slipped the bit into her
willing mouth, leaped on her and rode over to the boys.
He reached them just in time to see a “joke race” pulled off between
Freckles, a pinto squaw pony belonging to Hen Sikes, a big cow-puncher
from the Morgan ranch, and Meg Murphy, a tall and lanky old mare that
Pat had purchased for five dollars from a stranded emigrant who was
passing through the valley. It was a comical sight to see the plump cook
perched on his high-backed steed, his smooth face held sober, but his
bright eyes twinkling with fun; and beside him tall Hen, with his long
legs dangling almost to the ground over the little pony’s back. The race
was funnier still. The cowboys howled and whooped to see the two coming,
Pat making clown antics to keep his big mare going; the little Indian
pony struggling to carry his big load through first; but in spite of all
Pat’s efforts, Freckles won the race, leaving Meg full fifty yards
behind.
“Home at last!” cried Pat as he reined his mare, galloping stiffly, to a
sudden standstill at the finish. “Give us a drink to cheer our droopin’
spirits.”
“Have a swig on me,” said Bud; “I kin stan’ it, fer we’re goin’ to skin
you good and proper to-day.”
“Not so sure of that,” said Jim; “here, Teddy, let me fix things for
you.”
“Goin’ to ride ’er stripped, air ye?” said Bud, as Jim began to put a
surcingle around the mare and over Fred’s knees. “Well, tie the kid on
tight, for I’m--goin’ to--sha--shake ’im up.” He took another drink of
whisky.
“You’d better tie yourself on, old soak.”
“Oh, I kin stick all right,--all right,” said Nixon, staggering toward
his horse, “and I’ll beat thet cow-kid so fer he’ll never know he
started. Gimme a leg up, Ticky, ole boy.” Tick helped Bud to mount, and
he rode off with Fred toward the starting point, swaggering and boasting
all the way.
They had to do a good deal of jockeying to get a fair start. Silver
Bill, naturally nervous after his first race, was driven frantic by his
tipsy rider, who thrashed the beautiful little animal unmercifully with
his quirt. For half a dozen times they tried to get off, and as many
times Dick shouted Bud back, until he got angry and began to curse both
Dick and Fred; but finally they managed to get over the line with
Brownie about a neck ahead.
“Go,” shouted Dick, and down the track they flew. The little mare,
without a touch from her rider, held her lead until they were almost to
the finish, then leaping in response to a sharp cut from Fred’s quirt,
she spurted ahead and came across the line an easy winner. The Bar B
boys threw their hats in the air and yelled like Comanches.
When the riders had slowed down and turned back, Nixon broke out with
his cursing again, and galloped into the crowd sputtering and swearing
and accusing Dick and Fred of foul play.
The winning crowd checked their jubilant expressions and turned on him.
“Here, you calf, stop your bellerin’ and take your medicine,” said Jim.
“What about the start?” asked Dan, as the starters rode up.
“Fair enough!” returned Dick.
“You’re a liar,” shouted Bud.
Dick leaped from his horse and started for Nixon, who was bristling for
a fight.
“Hold on, boys!” shouted Dan, pointing down the road.
The opponents checked themselves and looked up to see two ranch girls
galloping towards them. It was Alta Morgan, of the Morgan ranch, and
Sally Johnson, the daughter of the game warden. They were riding around
the valley to invite everybody to come to the dance at Morgan’s that
night. As they dashed up to the crowd, the cowboys received them with
whoops of welcome. Their coming suggested a new hope to Nixon.
“Here’s the pony that can beat the cow-kid’s mare,” he said. “You’re
just in time to sa--to save the day, little gal.”
“What do you mean?” asked Alta.
“I mean that--that Silver Bill’s got beat, and you’ve got to save the
rep--rep-u-tashun of the Morgan ranch; you got to do it.”
“How?”
“By racin’ Eagle agin’ that Brown mouse over thar. Come, now, show ’em
your spunk, little one--show ’em your spunk.”
“What, ride in a race?”
“Sure!”
“Well, I never did such a thing; but if the Morgan name is at stake, I’m
ready.”
A lusty cheer greeted the girl’s decision. The boys began to lay their
wagers. Hats, spurs, chaps, bridles, shirts, kerchiefs, saddles and
even horses were put at stake, while Alta, laughing nervously, made
ready for the race. Fred also was excited. To ride any race is enough to
make one a little nervous, but to be matched against a dashing girl, and
a stranger at that, was a thrilling experience.
“I’m going to win the race,” said Alta, throwing a smile at him.
“I hope you do,” he said gallantly, “but I’ll give you a merry chase.”
“All right, come on!”
She was a picture of animation, as they cantered away
together,--graceful, alert, eager for the fun, her pretty cheeks glowing
and her eyes laughing.
His bright eyes were dancing too; and his frank face was flushing, from
the thrill of blended emotions that were stirring his heart.
Eagle and Brownie seemed to sense that something unusual was in the air,
but they both held their nerves responsive to their riders’ wills.
“Get ready,” cried Dick.
They turned their horses toward the north, riding in that direction a
few rods; then they whirled close together, and the little animals
leaped back, head to head across the line; and head to head they stayed
as they flashed along the track. Alta’s hat flew off, her hair was
flying in the breeze. They both were leaning forward in excitement and
eagerness as the fleet little horses strained every nerve and muscle to
win.
The cowboys yelled their wild delight to see them coming, nose to nose,
nearer and nearer, heads low, hoofs fluttering, the result in doubt
until almost at the finish, when Alta cried, “Win, Eagle, win!”
The little dapple-gray pony leaped in response, and forged half a neck
ahead of his glossy brown rival, and he held this slight lead till they
shot over the line, past the excited faces of the yelling cowboys
crowded close to see the finish. The riders gradually slowed down to an
easy gallop, then turned round together to canter back.
“Fine!” cried Fred; “I’m so glad you won.”
“I said I would; but you certainly gave us a close chase. Oh, wasn’t it
fun?” She threw another joyous smile at him; her eyes were dancing with
delight, as they rode up to the cheering crowd. The losers were as happy
as the winners. The race was worth the money. And they really wanted her
to win, for Alta was a great favorite among them.
“You’re full of grit and ginger, little gal,” said Jim, reaching out his
big hand.
“A regular trump,” said Sally, giving her a big squeeze.
“A quane o’ hearts!” put in Pat gallantly.
“Oh, thank you, thank you! It was heaps o’ fun,” responded Alta; “and
now I want you all to have some more fun. Will you come to our dance
to-night? Everybody is invited.”
“We’ll sure be there!” shouted the boys, as the girls turned to gallop
away.
“I speak for the first dance with you, Miss Morgan,” said Dick.
“You may have it,” responded Alta, laughingly,--“to pay for giving us
such a fine start. Good-by.”
They waved their hands at the admiring group of boys and dashed away.
An ugly, jealous look flashed out of Bud Nixon’s eyes when Dick spoke up
so smartly to get first place that night with Alta.
“You’d better go a little slow around that gal, pardner; er ye might
strike some tr-trouble,” he said, threateningly.
“If you’re lookin’ fer trouble, old man,” retorted Dick, “you can find
it any time you want it.”
“Here, cut your cussin’,” said Jim, “and have another one on me. You
beat us all right, Nixon, but we’re game yet.”
The bottle was passed around. Then Bud and his tipsy followers gathered
up their winnings and struck off whooping down the road, while the Bar B
boys returned to the old shack.