“It is as you have said,” rejoined old Joe, “the signs are seldom in the
wrong. But I have been thinking, my friend, that perhaps on your way you
have seen this weasel of a white man whom the owl and the two young
hares pursue?”
But, to Joe’s disappointment, the Indian shook his head.
“I did meet no white man who is as the weasel and whom the owl and the
two young hares pursue,” he rejoined; “neither, till I met you, have I
met any man, either white or Indian, since I left Blue Hare Lake.”
“You do not come from the way of the setting sun, then?” For the trail
of the fleeing thief had so far led west.
Another negative sign was the reply as the Indian said:
“We come from the north. But some half day’s journey back I crossed a
trail which was even as the trail you now follow.”
“I am sorry,” said old Joe. “The weasel must travel as the wind.”
“It may well be even so,” rejoined the Indian. “But hasten, my brother,
if you would still follow the trail, for the snows are awakening and the
wind stirs in its sleep.”
They bade the Indian and his two silent women “Good day,” and pushed on.
Now there was good reason for haste. Indians are rarely or never
mistaken in their weather prophecies, and if the snow came before the
pursuers had caught up with the thief, they stood a fair chance of
losing him altogether, for the snow would infallibly blot out his trail.
That night they came to a small trading post kept by a tall, gangling
American, by name Ephraim Dodge. He had a thin, hatchet face and a
bobbing goatee, and on either side of his prominent bridged nose
twinkled a shrewd, although kind, eye.
Yes, Ephraim had seen the man they were pursuing and “allowed he was
pretty badly tuckered out.” He had stopped at his post and purchased
some canned goods and oatmeal. Then he had pressed straight on. No, he
had not offered any skins for sale, and, according to Ephraim, was an
“ornery-lookin’ cuss, anyhow.”
When he heard their story Ephraim was sympathetic, but he could not
offer much in the way of consolation except to assure them that they
were bound to catch the man, for he appeared to be “right poorly.” There
was no possibility of their pushing on that night, for old Joe, anxious
as he was to continue the pursuit, decided that his dogs must have rest.
So they spent the evening with Ephraim, who brought out an old violin
and amused them by executing jigs and double shuffles while his old
fiddle squeaked out the “Arkansas Traveler” and other lively airs.
After Ephraim had exhausted his repertoire they sat about the big stove
and talked. Ephraim was a lively companion, and was frankly glad of
company. He “allowed it was plum lonesome with nothing but Injuns and
mamelukes fer company.” It was not necessary to attempt to join in his
incessant flow of talk. He talked like a man who has pent up his
thoughts and words for months and lets them go in a flood of
conversation.
The talk turned to California, which Ephraim “’lowed was a white man’s
country, fer sure.” He wished he was back there. What a climate it was!
What wonderful air!
“Why,” declared Ephraim, “that air out thar is so wonderful deceiving
that two fellers who set out fer the mountains from a plains town,
thinking the hills weren’t but two miles away, rode two days without
gettin’ any closer to ’em. Then they come at last to a river. One of ’em
was fer crossing it, but the other, he 'lowed they wouldn’t. ‘It don’t
look to be more’n a few feet across,’ says he, ‘but in this climate it’s
liable ter be Christmas afore we ford it,’ an’ so they come back ag’in,”
he concluded.
“'Nother time I’ve got in mind,” he went on, while his auditors gasped,
“a friend of mine went fishin’. He was known as the most truthful man in
the San Juaquin Valley, so there ain’t no reason ter suppose that his
word wasn’t gospel truth and nothin’ else. Anyhow, he was known as a
mighty good shot and right handy with his shootin’ iron, so nobody ever
was hearn to doubt his word.
“Well, sir, as I’m a-saying, William Bing—that was his name, gents,
William Bing—went a fishin’. He went up in the mountains, where the air
is even clearer than it is on the plains. Bing, he moseyed along,
lookin’ fer a likely place and totin’ his pole, when all at once he
happened ter look down over a bluff, and what do you think he seen?
Right below him thar was a fine hole in a big creek, and right in that
hole, gents, William Bing, he seen hundreds and hundreds of trout and
black bass swimming about so thick they was regularly crowdin’ one
another.
“Bing says he could see their gills pumpin’ an’ their fins wavin’ jes’
like they was a-sayin’, ‘Hello, Bill! We’re waitin’ fer you. Throw us
down a line and a bite ter eat, old sport.’ Waal, Bing, he didn’t lose
no time in lettin’ down his line. He figgered it was erbout a hundred
feet down to that hole, and he had a hundred and fifty feet on his pole.
But he fished and fished all that mornin’ without getting a bite, not
even a nibble. An’ thar below he could see all them fish swimmin’ about
and every now and then looking up at him sort of appealin’ like. Bing
says it looked jes’ as if they wanted to be caught and was reproaching
him fer not doin’ the job an’ doin’ it quick.
“Bing, he reckoned something was wrong, so he changed his bait. But
still nary a bite. Then he changed it again. Not a flicker, and there
was those fish jumping around like peas on a griddle. It was plum
aggervatin’, Bing 'lowed, and he couldn’t figger it out noways.
“He ate his lunch up thar on the top of the bluff, and then he decided
that he’d kinder investigate the mystery of why those fish didn’t bite.
He kind of pussyfoots around on the top of the bluff fer a while, and
then he finds a place whar he reckons he can climb down right by that
pool and dig inter the mystery in due and legal form.
“He sticks his pole in the bluff, leaving his bait on the end of the
line, thinking that maybe he’ll git a bite while he’s carryin’ on his
investigations. Then Bing, he starts to climb down. Waal, sirs, he clumb
and clumb, did William Bing, and at last he got to the bottom. And then
what do you suppose he found out?
“That clear air had fooled him. Made a plum jackass out’n him. Instid of
bein’ a hundred feet high, that bluff was all of three hundred! Then he
looked down in that hole whar the trouts and bass were swimming about.
Gee whillakers, sirs, that thar hole 'peared to be more’n a hundred feet
deep! And thar was all them fish per-ambulatin’ and circumambulatin’
erbout in it an’ looking up at William Bing’s bait that was danglin’ in
the air a good hundred and fifty feet above that thar gosh almighty
hole. Yes, sirs,” concluded Ephraim, “that Californy air is some air.”
“I should say so,” laughed Tom. “I don’t see how they can field a ball
in it without being gone for a week on the journey.”
“Waal, that may hev happened, too,” rejoined Ephraim gravely, “but I
never hearn tell on it. Leastways, not frum any reliable source such as
William Bing.”
“Boosh!” exclaimed old Joe. “Long time 'go I out West. An’ you talk
'bout cleefs! In one part of zee country dere ees beeg cleef. More big
dan Beeng’s cleef. Bien, I had a friend dere. His name Clemente Dubois.
He ver’ fine man, Clemente. But, poor fel’, he dead long time ago.”
“How’d he die?” inquired Ephraim.
“Poor Clemente, he fall off’n dat cleef. Oh, he beeg cleef, more’n
t’ousand feet high!”
“Mashed plum ter mush, I reckon?” queried Ephraim, while the boys, who
had caught a twinkle in old Joe’s eye, listened to see the storekeeper’s
discomfiture.
“No, Clemente, he not mashed to pieces. Leesten, I tell you how Clemente
die. He was miner. Ver’ well. One day Clemente take peek, shofel an’ he
go to aidge of dis cleef. Clemente, he have on one beeg pair rubbaire
boots. Oh, ver’ beeg rubbaire boots. Bien! Clemente, he work an’ teenk
he strike fine colors. Zee colors of gold. He get ver’ excited. He deeg
an’ deeg, an’ bimeby he deeg so hard zee aidge of zee cleef geev way.
“Bang! Clemente, over he go right into zee air. He land on zee ground
below, but den hees rubbaire boots begin to work. Clemente, he bounce
back. Jus’ lak zee rubbaire ball. He bounce up and down, up and down and
no one can stop Clemente. He bounce all zee day, and once in a while
some of zee boys from zee camp zey t’row heem biscuits to keep Clemente
from starving. But Clemente, he no can catch zem. Two days he bounce up
and down and no stop.
“Den zee head man of zee camp, he say: ‘Boys, Clemente, he starve if we
no do someteeng. We have to put heem out of zee misery of die lak dat
way. Somebody have to shoot Clemente.’ Everybody say, ‘No, no,’ but zee
boss, he make dem draw lot. Man name Beeg Terry, he be zee one as draw
lot to shoot Clemente. Everybody feel ver’ bad, but no can be help. Beeg
Terry, he shoot Clemente zee next mornin’. Poor fellow, it was hard on
heem, but it was better dan starving to deat’ in meed-air. After dat,
nobody go near zee cleef wiz rubbaire boots on zeer feet.”
This truly remarkable and pathetic narrative brought the evening to a
close, as a glance at Ephraim’s alarm clock showed that it was almost
eleven o’clock. With old Joe still chuckling triumphantly over the
manner in which he had “capped” Ephraim’s brief and truthful story, they
turned in, sleeping in regular beds for the first time since they had
taken to the trail.