NEW TRAILS
While the rest of the boys were discussing the fun, Fred took his
shotgun, mounted Brownie and rode away toward the old ford to hunt
chickens.
Who was this Alta Morgan, he began to wonder. The daughter of some
rancher, no doubt. But she gave signs of a greater culture and a wider
experience than the ranch life of those days afforded. Perhaps she was
some city visitor to the valley. This seemed improbable, however; no
untrained city girl could have ridden a race with such skill. Who was
she?
Brownie broke the reverie with a sudden start. Her rider glanced up to
catch a glimpse of a yellowish gray object slinking through the sage
just a few rods ahead. It was a coyote, trotting sleepily along. Jerking
loose his lasso, the boy tapped his mare lightly with his spurs. She
leaped in response straight towards the unsuspecting animal. A few
bounds brought them within rope’s length. Fred flung his lasso, just as
the coyote, catching sight of his pursuers, gave a terrified yelp and
leaped, one breath too quick for the whizzing rope.
Fred let out a joyful whoop, as Brownie bounded to bring her eager rider
close enough for another fling; but the coyote was flying for his life,
and he simply turned himself into a twisting streak of yellow, as he
sped through the brush. The little mare held her own well, but she could
not close the gap between them; and when the foothills were reached, the
coyote, having no burden to carry, gradually slipped up the hills and
away.
With one more whoop to relieve his feelings, Fred slowed down. As he sat
watching the terrified animal dive into the bigger brush along the
creek, he saw a big flock of sage hens, frightened by the coyote, take
wing and fly away over the flat.
“There’s my chance,” he thought, following them with his keen eyes until
they settled down again among the sage brush. Then he rode away toward
them. When he came within about a hundred yards, he jumped from his
mare, tied her rather carelessly to a brush, and, cocking his gun, began
to step watchfully through the sage toward the place where the chickens
had lighted.
Suddenly, with a sputtering cluck, a big hen sprang into the air. The
excited hunter fired at the flying bird and missed. The report of the
gun brought the flock out of the brush. He fired again and down tumbled
one of them. Watching where it dropped, he reloaded his gun and began to
walk about to scare up others; but evidently the whole flock had risen
at the first shot; so he picked up the fallen bird and turned to carry
it back to Brownie.
To his surprise she was half a mile away, galloping back toward the
ranch. Always nervous around guns, she had jerked loose at the shooting,
and run away. And she might have kept on going; but suddenly some one on
horseback galloped out of the trees at the old ford crossing, and taking
in the situation, struck straight for the runaway. It was Alta Morgan,
who, returning from her ride, had taken the shorter way home.
Brownie saw her coming, whirled and headed back toward the hills; but
Eagle gradually overtook her. Fred, watching eagerly, saw the girl loose
her lasso, whirl and fling it over the little mare’s head. Checked
suddenly at the saddle horn, she turned humbly and came trotting back to
her master led by the daring girl.
“Thank you very much,” said Fred, “but you shouldn’t have risked
yourself so to save me a chase.”
“Oh, Eagle wouldn’t fall with me, would you?” she said, patting his warm
neck.
“He is certainly a fine pony; and you surely know how to ride and to
throw a lasso,” was Fred’s complimentary response. “But how can I repay
you for this kindness?”
“Just come to our dance to-night.”
“Thank you; I’ll be there.”
“Now mind that you do,” she said lightly, turning to leave. “Good-by.”
“Good-by,” he responded reluctantly, captivated by her wildly sweet
ways. She dashed off through the sage on her nimble pony.
Fred intended fully to keep his promise, but his hunt for more chickens
led him several miles from the ranch up into the eastern foothills, and
before he realized how the day was slipping by the sun had almost set.
The eastern slopes, with all their wondrous forms brought into relief by
the evening shadows, and the mountain tops, lighted by the golden glow
of the sinking sun, made so beautiful a picture that the boy stopped to
enjoy it. As he sat there resting, with leg flung over the saddle horn,
drinking in the cool scented breezes that had begun to pour out of the
canyons, he noticed just above him to the eastward a kind of glen that
opened gently with grassy, flower-strewn, aspen-groved slopes on to the
flat below. Farther up the sides were ragged rocks and pines; and just
above the hill over which the shorter trail led into the glen, was a
rather bold cliff.
Fred thought he saw smoke rising up the face of the cliff. He looked
again more sharply; no smoke could be seen. Perhaps his eyes had
deceived him; but he was curious now to explore further.
“How about it, Brownie? Shall we find out what the place looks like?” It
was his habit sometimes to think out loud around Brownie. She did not
seem to object, so they began to climb slowly up the hillside.
The smoke appeared again; there was no mistaking it this time. The
thought flashed across him, “Perhaps it is Indians.” He checked his
mare. If it should be, Fred had no desire to meet them alone in this
strange place, especially since he had heard they were in an ugly temper
just then because the game wardens had been checking them in their
killing the elk and deer.
He half decided to turn back, but his curiosity held him--his curiosity
and love of adventure made him decide to slip up the hill and take a
peep at things. Suiting his action to the thought, he dismounted,
tethered his mare to a bunch of brush, and made his way cautiously to
the top. When very near it, he dropped to his hands and knees, crept to
the summit, and peered through the brush to take in the scene below.
It was a kind of cove, grassy, flower-sprinkled, and strewn in nature’s
delightfully careless way with groves and shrubs. A great cliff formed
part of the background. Several shaggy pine trees shot above it. At the
base of the cliff was a grove of aspen saplings, out of which a brook
came dancing. But the thing which held his interest most was the cabin
that stood directly before him just within the edge of the aspen grove.
The cabin was rather roughly built, but it looked cozy. A generous stone
chimney, out of which the thin blue smoke was rising, stood at the north
end. One door, half open, and a small window were on the west. The skin
of some animal was nailed on the outside. A large dog lay dozing near
the door. The occasional clingety-clang of a cow bell broke the evening
stillness as bossy, grazing on the sweet grasses near the cabin, would
throw her head from time to time to shake off the bothersome flies.
There were no other signs of life around. Fred, however, had assured
himself of one thing: it was not Indians that lived there.
Yet Indians could scarcely have frightened him more than did a quiet
voice behind him, as it said, “Wal, boy, how do ye like the place?”
Fred jumped to his feet trembling like a leaf, and found himself facing
an old mountaineer, gray-bearded, long-haired, looking curiously at him.
“I scared ye, didn’t I?” the old man continued calmly. “Wal, stop
shakin’; I won’t hurt ye; but what are ye doin’ here anyway?”
“Why, I was just roaming about the hills, and--and--I happened to see
the smoke of your house, and thought it might be Indians, so I slipped
up to see.”
“Hain’t lost any Injuns, hev ye?” the calm gray eyes lighted with a
little twinkle.
“No, not exactly,” Fred returned more easily; “I’m just out hunting
chickens.”
“You hain’t found many.”
“No, I haven’t had very good luck.”
“That old hen’s pretty tough eatin’! You better come down and try some
young ones I killed this mornin’. It’s gettin’ near supper time.”
Fred was ready enough to accept the invitation. The afternoon’s
excitement had made him hungry; but he was hungrier to learn more about
his new acquaintance.
They trudged down the trail to the cabin. The dog leaped up at their
coming and bounded toward his master; but he stopped uncertain how to
greet the boy, till the mountaineer said calmly, “It’s all right, Tobe”;
and the dog turned to trot ahead of them back to the house.
“The old fellow allus wants to be introduced to strangers,” he
explained; “good thing he didn’t catch you spyin’ up there; he might ’a’
turned savage. Unsaddle your pony, now, and stake her on that grass
patch yender; then come in.” Fred obeyed.
“What’s yer name, boy?” the old man asked rather abruptly, as Fred
returned.
“Fred--Fred Benton.”
“Sounds honest,” was the rejoinder; “come in and set down while I stir
up the fire and get a flapjack fryin’; you won’t git pies and cakes
here, you know.”
“I’m not used to them; but, here, let me help you, mister.”
“Don’t mister me, boy; call me Uncle Dave, if ye want to. There ain’t
much to help about; but ye might git some water in that pail, and chop
a bit of wood. It’ll hurry things.”
“All right,” returned Fred, picking up a brass pail that stood on a rude
bench along the wall. By the time he had returned with the water and
wood, the mountaineer had his batter ready. While the bake oven was
heating on the fire, he stepped to a kind of box that he had built over
the creek and brought out something wrapped in a damp cloth. He unrolled
it on the table and showed two dressed sage hens. It took but a few
strokes of his hunting knife to carve them for frying, and then Fred was
given the task of tending the chickens while the old man baked the bread
and made the coffee.
A rude table was set with tin dishes. The food was spread on it,--a dish
of mountain berries, with some cream and sugar, being added to the hot
bread and coffee and the fried chicken.
“This is a real feast,” said Fred.
“Wal, let’s give thanks for it,” was the quiet response, and they bowed
their heads while the old man said a simple grace. “Now be at home,
boy,” he added.
The two ate and chatted the while with friendly ease. There was a native
charm about the mountaineer, and a touch of mystery that was
captivating. Something in the boy, too, seemed to please the old man.
It was Fred’s spontaneous, open-hearted attitude toward life. His nature
was a blended one. He was full of latent manliness, clearly shown in his
straight, square-shouldered form, firm step, and intelligent eyes; yet
he possessed a dash of boyishness, too, that kept him natural and
unsophisticated. It was this spirit of trustful innocence that won
friends for him quickly, especially among children and old people,
though it sometimes brought on him the ridicule of fellows like Dick.
Uncle Dave responded more freely than was his wont to the boy’s
questions about the wilds, revealing the while touches of his own life,
about which he seldom talked.
He had been a hunter and trapper ever since his boyhood. Yielding, while
yet in his teens, to the call of his red blood for adventure, he had
come west with some mountaineers who had chanced to camp near his
father’s pioneer home in the woods of Ohio. Thrilled by their tales of
the wild life on the Upper Missouri, he begged his old parents to let
him go. He could help them best, he felt sure, by following the life of
a trapper. He would return and settle down some day. They finally gave a
reluctant consent, allowing him to leave with their prayers and
blessings. As a constant reminder to duty, the mother slipped into his
pack her old Bible. It lay even now on the top of his cupboard. He never
saw his parents again. They died before he could return.
Free of all other home ties, he made the Rockies his home. His life had
been a long series of thrilling experiences. For many years he had lived
among the Indians. He had trapped for Bridger, and other famous
fur-traders. Sometimes he had worked with fellow mountaineers, but for
the most part he had lived alone as now in some quiet spot close to the
heart of nature.
The old trapper rarely mingled with men; when he did, it was but for
time enough to swap his furs and stock up with the simple supplies that
he needed. He said little; and he parried curious questions so curtly
that those who sought to find out anything about his life usually left
about as wise as they began.
If Fred had shown any sign of prying into his new-found friend’s
affairs, he might have met the same kind of rebuff. Fred, however, had
no such thought. He simply was enjoying the old mountaineer. They talked
of the past of these hills, of the wild life, the Indians, the bear,
beaver, and buffalo.
“This country was thick with game when I fust come here,” said Uncle
Dave.
“I should have liked to live here then,” responded Fred.
“Yes, them was good old days,” said the mountaineer, “but they was
mighty hard ones too, only I was young then and didn’t mind hardships.
After all, boy, the best days fer you is right now. Don’t go to sighin’
fer any better time. The life you’re livin’ is the best one you’ll ever
live. I’ve had most o’ my days; you’re havin’ yours. Fill ’em right,
boy, jest as they come to you. Don’t get the frettin’ and wishin’ habit.
But if you want to see some new country, I reckon I kin help you find
it. There air some pretty wild places left in these hills yet. How’d ye
like to take a day with me explorin’ ’em?”
“Fine! When shall I come?”
“Any time this month’ll do; but come up early; I don’t like climbin’
these hills in the heat o’ the day.”
“I’ll be here the first chance I can get; but I must be off now before
it gets dark.”
While Fred went after his mare, the old man stood in his cabin door
peering up the hills toward the north.
“Wonder what them Redskins got to-day,” he said, as Fred rode up.
The boy turned in his saddle to look in the same direction and saw
several Indians trailing down the hill. Their ponies seemed to be
loaded.
“Guess they’ve killed some blacktail or young elk.”
“It’s out of season, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but they don’t pay any heed to the game laws.”
“Won’t the warden arrest them?”
“He’ll ketch ’em fust; and then if he tries to bring ’em to time,
there’ll be trouble. They’re perty sassy ’bout their rights in this
country yet. You’d better take the trail south o’ the creek, and keep
out of their way.”
“All right. Thanks for your kindness, Uncle Dave. I hope I haven’t
bothered you too much with my questions.”
“No bother at all, boy. Glad to hev you. It gets kind o’ lonesome here
sometimes, with no one to talk to ’cept nature. Come agin.”
“I surely will; good night.”
“Good night, boy.”
The old mountaineer watched until Fred disappeared with a good-by wave
of his hand over the crest of the hill, and then he turned to his dog
and said quietly, “Come, Tobe, let’s git old Middie; it’s ’bout milkin’
time.”