TWO MEN OF THE WILDERNESS
The westering sun was drooping heavily toward its fiery couch. The
purple of evening was deepening from the east, meeting and blending
softly with the gold of the dying day. A great furnace of ruddy cloud
rose above the mountain-tops, lighting the eternal snows of the peaks
and ancient glaciers with a wealth of kaleidoscopic color. Viewed from
the plains below there might have been a great fire raging among the
hill-caps, where only snow and ice could provide the fuel.
The radiant colors of sunset held the quiet eyes of a solitary
horseman riding amidst the broken lands of the lesser foot-hills. He
was a big man, of powerful shoulders and stout limbs. He was a man of
fifty or thereabouts, yet his hair was snow white, a perfect mane that
reached low upon his neck, touching the soft collar of his cotton
shirt. His face was calm with something of the peace of the world
through which he was riding, something of the peace which comes to
those who have abandoned forever the strife of the busy life beyond.
It only needed the garb of the priest, and his appearance would have
matched perfectly his sobriquet, "the Padre."
But Moreton Kenyon was clad in the rough moleskin, the riding boots
and general make-up of the western life to which he belonged. Even he
carried the protecting firearms by which to administer the personal
laws of the wilderness. His whole appearance, the very horse under
him, a prairie-bred broncho of excellent blood, suggested a man who
knew the life amidst which he lived, and was more than capable of
surviving it.
Whatever his appearance, whatever his capacity for the rougher corners
of earth, Moreton Kenyon was a man of great kindliness, of great
sympathy, as the mission from which he was now returning might well
have testified. Those who knew him best held him in deep affection.
Those who knew him less withheld their judgment, but never failed to
treat him with a courtesy not usual amongst the derelicts of an
out-world camp.
Just now something of the smallness of human life, of human aims and
efforts, of human emotions, was occupying the busy brain behind his
reflective eyes. The scene before him, upon which he had so often
looked, never failed to remind him of the greatness of that which lay
beyond the ken of man. Somehow it exalted his thoughts to planes to
which no association with his kind could ever have exalted them. It
never failed to inspire him with a reverence for the infinity of power
which crowned the glory of creation, and reduced self to a humble
realization of its atomic place in the great scheme of the Creator.
His horse ambled easily over the ribbon-like trail, which seemed to
rise out of the eastern horizon from nowhere, and lose itself
somewhere ahead, amidst the dark masses of forest-crowned hills. The
journey was nearly over. Somewhere ahead lay the stable, which could
be reached at leisure in the cool of the evening, and neither master
nor beast seemed to feel the need for undue haste.
As the light slowly faded out and left the snow-white hill-crests drab
with the gray of twilight, the man's mind reverted to those things
which had sent him on his journey. Many doubts had assailed him by the
way, doubts which set him debating with himself, but which rarely made
him turn from a purpose his mind was once set upon. He knew that his
action involved more than his own personal welfare, and herein had
lain the source of his doubt. But he had clearly argued every point
with himself, and through it all had felt the rightness of his
purpose.
Then, too, he had had the support of that other with whom he was
concerned. And he smiled as he thought of the night when his decision
had been taken. Even now the picture remained in his mind of the eager
face of his youthful protege as they discussed the matter. The younger
man had urged vehemently, protesting at every objection, that they two
had no right to live in comparative comfort with women and children
starving about them.
He remembered young Buck's eager eyes, large dark-brown eyes that
could light with sudden, almost volcanic heat, or smile their soft,
lazy smile of amusement at the quaintnesses of life about him. The
Padre understood the largeness of heart, the courage which urged him,
the singleness of purpose which was always his. Then, when their
decision had been taken, he remembered the abrupt falling back of the
man into the quiet, almost monosyllabic manner which usually belonged
to him.
Yes, Buck was a good lad.
The thought carried him back to days long gone by, to a time when a
lad of something less than eight years, clad in the stained and worn
garb of a prairie juvenile, his feet torn and bleeding, his large
brown eyes staring out of gaunt, hungry sockets, his thin, pinched,
sunburnt face drawn by the ravages of starvation, had cheerfully
hailed him from beneath the shelter of a trail-side bush.
That was nearly twenty years ago, but every detail of the meeting was
still fresh in his memory. His horse had shied at the sudden
challenge. He remembered he had thrashed the creature with his spurs.
And promptly had come the youthful protest.
"Say, you needn't to lick him, mister," the boy piped in his thin
treble. "Guess he'll stand if you talk to him."
Strangely enough the man had almost unconsciously obeyed the mandate.
And the memory of it made him smile now. Then had followed a dialogue,
which even now had power to stir every sympathy of his heart. He
started by casually questioning the starving apparition.
"Where you from, sonny?" he asked.
And with that unequivocal directness, which, after twenty years, still
remained with him, the boy flung out a thin arm in the direction of
the eastern horizon.
"Back ther', mister."
The natural sequence was to ask him whither he was bound, and his
answer came with a similar gesture with his other hand westward.
"Yonder."
"But--but who're your folks? Where are they?" the Padre had next
hazarded. And a world of desolation was contained in the lad's
half-tearful reply--
"Guess I ain't got none. Pop an' ma's dead. Our farm was burnt right
out. Y' see there was a prairie fire. It was at night, an' we was
abed. Pop got me out, an' went back for ma. I never see him agin. I
never see ma. An' ther' wa'an't no farm left. Guess they're sure
dead."
He fought the tears back manfully, in a way that set the Padre
marveling at his courage.
After a moment he continued his interrogation.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Buck," came the frank response.
"Buck--what?"
"Buck--jest plain, mister."
"But your father's name--what was that?"
"Pop."
"Yes, yes. That's what you called him. What did the folks call him?"
"Ther' wa'an't no folks. Jest pop, an' ma, an' me."
A great lump had risen in the man's throat as he looked down into
those honest, hungry eyes. And for a moment he was at a loss. But the
boy solved his dilemma in a way that proved the man in after-life.
"Say, you ain't a farmer?" he inquired, with a speculative glance over
his general outfit.
"Well, I am--in a small way," the Padre had replied, with a
half-smile.
The boy brightened at once.
"Then mebbe you can give me a job--I'm lookin' for a job."
The wonder of it all brought a great smile of sympathy to the
man's eyes now, as he thought of that little starving lad of eight
years old, homeless, wandering amidst the vastness of all that
world--looking for a "job." It was stupendous, and he had sat
marveling until the lad brought him back to the business in hand.
"Y' see I kin milk--an'--an' do chores around. Guess I can't plough
yet. Pop allus said I was too little. But mebbe I kin grow--later.
I--I don't want no wages--on'y food. Guess I'm kind o' hungry,
mister."
Nor, for a moment, could the man make any reply. The pathos of it all
held him in its grip. He leant over and groped in his saddle-bag for
the "hardtack" biscuits he always carried, and passed the lad a
handful.
He remembered how the boy snatched the rough food from his hands.
There was something almost animal in the way he crammed his mouth
full, and nearly choked himself in his efforts to appease the craving
of his small, empty stomach. In those moments the man's mind was made
up. He watched in silence while the biscuit vanished. Then he carried
out his purpose.
"You can have a job," he said. "I've only a small farm, but you can
come and help me with it."
"Do you mean that, mister?" the boy asked, almost incredulously.
Then, as the Padre had nodded, a sigh of thankfulness escaped the
young lips, which were still covered with the crumbs of his recent
meal.
"Say, I'm glad. Y' see I was gettin' tired. An' ther' didn't seem to
be no farms around--nor nuthin'. An' it's lonesome, too, at nights,
lyin' around."
The man's heart ached. He could stand no more of it.
"How long have you been sleeping--out?"
"Three nights, mister."
Suddenly the Padre reached out a hand.
"Here, catch hold, and jump."
The boy caught the strong hand, and was promptly swung up into the
saddle behind his benefactor. The next moment they were speeding back
over the trail to the lad's new home. Nor was the new-born hope solely
beating in the starving child's heart. The lonely farmer felt that
somehow the day was brighter, and the green earth more beautiful--for
that meeting.
Such had been the coming together of these two, and through all the
long years of weary toil since then they still remained together,
working shoulder to shoulder in a relationship that soon became
something like that of father and son. The Padre remained the
farmer--in a small way. But the boy--well, as had been prophesied by
his dead father, later on he grew big enough to plough the furrows of
life with a strong and sure hand.
The man's reflections were broken into abruptly. The time and distance
had passed more rapidly than he was aware of. The eager animal under
him raised its head, and, pricking its small ears and pulling heavily
on the reins, increased its pace to a gallop. Then it was that the
Padre became suddenly aware that the home stretch had been reached,
and before him lay a long, straight decline in the trail which split a
dense pine-wood bluff of considerable extent.
* * * * *
A man was lounging astride of a fallen pine log. His lean shoulders
were propped against the parent stump. All about him were other stumps
left by those who had made the clearing in the woods. Beyond this the
shadowy deep of the woods ranged on every side, except where the red
sand of a trail broke the monotony of tone.
Near by two horses stood tethered together by a leading rein. One was
a saddle-horse, and the other was equipped with a well-loaded
pack-saddle. It was no mean burden of provisions. The carcass of a
large, black-tailed deer sprawled across the back of the saddle, while
on one side were secured three bags of flour, and on the other
several jack-rabbits were strung together. But the powerful beast
remained unconcernedly nibbling at the sparse green peeping here and
there through the carpet of rotting pine cones and needles which
covered the ground.
The man's eyes were half-closed, yet he was by no means drowsing. On
the contrary, his mind was essentially busy, and the occasional
puckering of his dark brows, and the tightening of his strong jaws,
suggested that his thoughts were not always pleasant.
After a while he sat up. But his movement was only the restlessness
caused by the worry of his thought. And the gaze he turned upon his
foraging horses was quite preoccupied.
A change, however, was not long in coming. Simultaneously both horses
threw up their heads, and one of them gave a sharp, comprehensive
snort. Instantly the man's large brown eyes lit, and a pleasant
expectancy shone in their depths. He was on his feet in an instant,
and his tall figure became alert and vibrant with the lithe activity
which was so wonderfully displayed in his whole poise. He, too, had
become aware of a disturbing element in the silent depths of the
woods.
He moved across to the trail, and, glancing down it, from out of the
silence reached him the distant, soft plod of hoofs in its heavy
covering of sand. His look of satisfaction deepened as he turned back
to his horses and tightened the cinchas of the saddles, and replaced
the bits in their mouths. Then he picked up the Winchester rifle
propped against a tree stump and turned again to the trail.
A moment later another horseman appeared from beyond the fringe of
pines and drew up with an exclamation.
"Why, Buck, I didn't reckon to find you around here!" he cried
cordially.
"No." The young man smiled quietly up into the horseman's face. The
welcome of his look was unmistakable. No words of his could have
expressed it better.
The Padre sprang from his saddle with the lightness of a man of half
his years, and his eyes rested on the pack-saddle on Buck's second
horse.
"For the--folks?" he inquired.
"Guess so. That's the last of the flour."
For a moment a shadow passed across the Padre's face. Then it as
suddenly brightened.
"How's things?" he demanded, in the stereotyped fashion of men who
greet when matters of importance must be discussed between them.
"So," responded Buck.
The Padre glanced quickly round, and his eyes fell on the log which
had provided the other with a seat.
"Guess there's no hurry. Let's sit," he said, indicating the log. "I'm
a bit saddle weary."
Buck nodded.
They left the horses to their own devices, and moved across to the
log.
"Quite a piece to Leeson Butte," observed Buck casually, as he dropped
upon the log beside his friend.
"It surely is," replied the Padre, taking the young man in with a
quick, sidelong glance.
Buck was good to look at, so strong, so calmly reliant. Every glance
of his big brown eyes suggested latent power. He was not strikingly
handsome, but the pronounced nose, the level, wide brows, the firm
mouth and clean-shaven chin, lifted him far out of the common. He was
clad simply. But his dress was perfectly suitable to the life of the
farmer-hunter which was his. His white moleskin trousers were tucked
into the tops of his Wellington boots, and a cartridge belt, from
which hung a revolver and holster, was slung about his waist. His
upper covering was a simple, gray flannel shirt, gaping wide open
across his sunburnt chest, and his modest-hued silk handkerchief tied
loosely about his neck.
"Leeson Butte's getting quite a city," Buck went on presently.
"That's so," replied the Padre, still bent upon his own thoughts.
After that it was quite a minute before either spoke. Yet there seemed
to be no awkwardness.
Finally it was the Padre who broached the matters that lay between
them.
"I got ten thousand dollars for it!" he said.
"The farm?" Buck's interrogation was purely mechanical. He knew well
enough that the other had purposely gone to Leeson Butte to sell the
farm on which they had both lived so long.
The Padre nodded.
"A fancy price," he said. "The lawyers closed quick. It was a woman
bought it. I didn't see her, though she was stopping at the hotel. I
figured on getting seven thousand five hundred dollars, and only asked
ten thousand dollars as a start. Guess the woman must have wanted it
bad. Maybe she's heard they're prospecting gold around. Well, anyway
she ought to get some luck with it, she's made it easy for us to help
the folks."
Buck's eyes were steadily fixed on the horses.
"It makes me feel bad seeing those fellers chasin' gold, and never a
color to show--an' all the while their womenfolk an' kiddies that thin
for food you can most see their shadows through 'em."
The eyes of the elder man brightened. The other's words had helped to
hearten him. He had felt keenly the parting with his farm after all
those years of labor and association. Yet, to a mind such as his, it
had been impossible to do otherwise. How could he stand by watching a
small community, such as he was surrounded with, however misguided in
their search for gold, painfully and doggedly starving before his very
eyes? For the men perhaps his sympathy might have been less keen, but
the poor, long-suffering women and the helpless children--the thought
was too painful. No, he and Buck had but their two selves to think of.
They had powerful hands with which to help themselves. Those others
were helpless--the women and children.
There was compensation in his sacrifice when he remembered the large
orders for edible stores he had placed with the merchants of Leeson
Butte before leaving that town.
"There's a heap of food coming along for them presently," he said
after a pause.
Buck nodded.
"I've been settin' that old fur fort to rights, way up in the hills
back ther'," he said, pointing vaguely behind them. "Guess we'd best
move up ther' now the farm's--sold. We'll need a few bits of furniture
from the farm. That right--now you've sold it?"
"Yes. I made that arrangement. She didn't seem to mind anything I
suggested. She must be a bully sort of woman. I'm sorry I didn't see
her. The lawyer says she comes from St. Ellis."
"Young?" suggested Buck.
The Padre shook his head.
"I wouldn't say so. A young woman with money wouldn't be likely to
hide herself in these hills."
"That's so. Guess it's the gold fetching her--the gold that isn't
here."
"Gold's a cursed thing," said the Padre reflectively.
"Yet none of 'em seem to shy at the curse." Buck smiled in his slow
way.
"No. Not without experiencing it." The Padre's eyes were still
serious. Then he went on, "We shan't farm any up there--at the fur
fort?"
Buck shook his head.
"It means clearing every inch of land we need. Guess we best hunt, as
we said. We'll make out with pelts. There's the whole mountains for
traps."
The other stared over at the horses, and his face was very grave.
After a while he turned directly to his companion, and his eyes were
mildly anxious.
"See here, Buck," he said, with what seemed unnecessary emphasis.
"I've thought a heap on the way back--home. It seems to me I'm not
acting square by you. And I've made up my mind." He paused. Buck did
not change his position, and his eyes were carefully avoiding those of
his companion. Then the Padre went on with a decision that somehow
lacked confidence. "You must take half the money, and--and get busy
your own way. We've done farming, so there's no reason for you to hang
around here. You're a man now, and you've your way to make in the
world. You see, when we had the farm I thought it was good for you.
It would be yours when I died, and then who knows, in time, how
valuable it might become? Now it's all different. You see the hills
are best for me." He smiled strainedly. "They've always been good
friends to me. But----"
"Yes, you don't fancy leavin' the hills." Buck's eyes wore a curious
expression. They were half-smiling, half-angry. But the other could
not see them. The Padre jumped eagerly at his words.
"Just so. I've known them so long now that there doesn't seem to be
any other world for me. Even Leeson Butte makes me feel--er--strange."
Buck nodded. Then he changed the subject.
"Say, we don't sleep at the farm to-night," he said. "The blankets are
up at the old fort. That's why I got around here. When's she comin'
along?"
"In two or three days." The Padre had no choice but to follow the
younger man's lead. "She's sending along a farm woman first. She's
going to run the place herself."
"Ther's no man comin'?" Buck half turned to his friend.
"I don't think so."
"They can't do it--hereabouts," Buck retorted quickly. "That farm
needs a man."
"Yes."
Buck rose abruptly and went over to the horses.
"Going?" inquired the Padre.
"I'll get along with the vittles, and hand 'em over to the boys. Guess
I'll git back to the fort in a few hours."
The Padre sat hesitating. He watched the movements of his companion
without observing them.
"Buck!"
The other paused as he was about to put his foot into the stirrup. He
glanced over his shoulder.
"Yes?"
"About that money. There's five thousand of it yours."
"Not on your life, Padre!"
The elder man sighed as he stood up, and his look changed so that it
almost seemed as if a weight had been lifted from his mind. Their eyes
met as Buck swung himself into the saddle.
"Then we're going to the hills--together?" he said smilingly.
"Sure," responded Buck promptly. Then he added, "But we're goin' to
hunt--not farm."
His decisive manner left no room for doubt, and the Padre, moving over
to him, held out his hand. They gripped till the elder man winced.
"I'm glad I found you on the trail that time," he said, looking
squarely into the steady brown eyes. "I've always been glad, but--I'm
gladder still now."
"Me, too," said Buck, with a light laugh. "Guess I'd have hated to ha'
fed the coyotes."
Buck swung round to the trail, leading his packhorse, and the Padre
went back to his horse. Just as he was about to mount the younger
man's voice reached him again. He paused.
"Say, what's the woman's name?" Buck inquired.
"Eh?" The Padre looked startled. "The woman that bought the farm?"
"Yes--sure."
The elder man's face flushed painfully. It was a curious sight. He
looked as stupidly guilty as any schoolboy.
"I--I can't say. I never asked." He felt absurdly foolish and tried to
explain. "You see, I only dealt with the lawyer."
Buck shook his head, and smiled in his slow fashion.
"Sold the farm, an' don't know who to! Gee!"
It was good to hear his laugh as he rode away. The Padre watched him
till he was out of sight.