The stage had not trundled so far on its Silver City road but that a
whistle from Nampa station reached its three occupants. This was the
branch train starting back to Boise with Max Vogel aboard; and the boy
looked out at the locomotive with a sigh.
“Only five days of town,” he murmured. “Six months more wilderness now.”
“My life has been too much town,” said the new school-master. “I am
looking forward to a little wilderness for a change.”
Old Uncle Pasco, leaning back, said nothing; he kept his eyes shut and
his ears open.
“Change is what I don't get,” sighed Dean Drake. In a few miles,
however, before they had come to the ferry over Snake River, the recent
leave-taking and his employer's kind but dominating repression lifted
from the boy's spirit. His gray eye wakened keen again, and he began
to whistle light opera tunes, looking about him alertly, like the
sparrow-hawk that he was. “Ever see Jeannie Winston in 'Fatinitza'?” he
inquired of Mr. Bolles.
The school-master, with a startled, thankful countenance, stated that he
had never.
“Ought to,” said Drake.
“You a man? that can't be true!
Men have never eyes like you.”
“That's what the girls in the harem sing in the second act. Golly whiz!”
The boy gleamed over the memory of that evening.
“You have a hard job before you,” said the school-master, changing the
subject.
“Yep. Hard.” The wary Drake shook his head warningly at Mr. Bolles to
keep off that subject, and he glanced in the direction of slumbering
Uncle Pasco. Uncle Pasco was quite aware of all this. “I wouldn't take
another lonesome job so soon,” pursued Drake, “but I want the money.
I've been working eleven months along the Owyhee as a sort of junior
boss, and I'd earned my vacation. Just got it started hot in Portland,
when biff! old Vogel telegraphs me. Well, I'll be saving instead of
squandering. But it feels so good to squander!”
“I have never had anything to squander,” said Bolles, rather sadly.
“You don't say! Well, old man, I hope you will. It gives a man a lot
he'll never get out of spelling-books. Are you cold? Here.” And despite
the school-master's protest, Dean Drake tucked his buffalo coat round
and over him. “Some day, when I'm old,” he went on, “I mean to live
respectable under my own cabin and vine. Wife and everything. But not,
anyway, till I'm thirty-five.”
He dropped into his opera tunes for a while; but evidently it was
not “Fatinitza” and his vanished holiday over which he was chiefly
meditating, for presently he exclaimed: “I'll give them a shooting-match
in the morning. You shoot?”
Bolles hoped he was going to learn in this country, and exhibited a
Smith & Wesson revolver.
Drake grieved over it. “Wrap it up warm,” said he. “I'll lend you a
real one when we get to the Malheur Agency. But you can eat, anyhow.
Christmas being next week, you see, my programme is, shoot all A.M. and
eat all P.M. I wish you could light on a notion what prizes to give my
buccaroos.”
“Buccaroos?” said Bolles.
“Yep. Cow-punchers. Vaqueros. Buccaroos in Oregon. Bastard Spanish word,
you see, drifted up from Mexico. Vogel would not care to have me give
'em money as prizes.”
At this Uncle Pasco opened an eye.
“How many buccaroos will there be?” Bolles inquired.
“At the Malheur Agency? It's the headquarters of five of our ranches.
There ought to be quite a crowd. A dozen, probably, at this time of
year.”
Uncle Pasco opened his other eye. “Here, you!” he said, dragging at his
box under the seat. “Pull it, can't you? There. Just what you're after.
There's your prizes.” Querulous and watchful, like some aged, rickety
ape, the old man drew out his trinkets in shallow shelves.
“Sooner give 'em nothing,” said Dean Drake.
“What's that? What's the matter with them?”
“Guess the boys have had all the brass rings and glass diamonds they
want.”
“That's all you know, then. I sold that box clean empty through the
Palouse country last week, 'cept the bottom drawer, and an outfit on
Meacham's hill took that. Shows all you know. I'm going clean through
your country after I've quit Silver City. I'll start in by Baker City
again, and I'll strike Harney, and maybe I'll go to Linkville. I know
what buccaroos want. I'll go to Fort Rinehart, and I'll go to the Island
Ranch, and first thing you'll be seeing your boys wearing my stuff all
over their fingers and Sunday shirts, and giving their girls my stuff
right in Harney City. That's what.”
“All right, Uncle. It's a free country.”
“Shaw! Guess it is. I was in it before you was, too. You were wet behind
the ears when I was jammin' all around here. How many are they up at
your place, did you say?”
“I said about twelve. If you're coming our way, stop and eat with us.”
“Maybe I will and maybe I won't.” Uncle Pasco crossly shoved his box
back.
“All right, Uncle. It's a free country,” repeated Drake.
Not much was said after this. Uncle Pasco unwrapped his concertina from
the red handkerchief and played nimbly for his own benefit. At Silver
City he disappeared, and, finding he had stolen nothing from them, they
did not regret him. Dean Drake had some affairs to see to here before
starting for Harper's ranch, and it was pleasant to Bolles to find how
Drake was esteemed through this country. The school-master was to board
at the Malheur Agency, and had come this way round because the new
superintendent must so travel. They were scarcely birds of a feather,
Drake and Bolles, yet since one remote roof was to cover them, the
in-door man was glad this boy-host had won so much good-will from
high and low. That the shrewd old Vogel should trust so much in a
nineteen-year-old was proof enough at least of his character; but when
Brock, the foreman from Harper's, came for them at Silver City, Bolles
witnessed the affection that the rougher man held for Drake. Brock shook
the boy's hand with that serious quietness and absence of words which
shows the Western heart is speaking. After a look at Bolles and a silent
bestowing of the baggage aboard the team, he cracked his long whip and
the three rattled happily away through the dips of an open country where
clear streams ran blue beneath the winter air. They followed the Jordan
(that Idaho Jordan) west towards Oregon and the Owyhee, Brock often
turning in his driver's seat so as to speak with Drake. He had a long,
gradual chapter of confidences and events; through miles he unburdened
these to his favorite:
The California mare was coring well in harness. The eagle over at
Whitehorse ranch had fought the cat most terrible. Gilbert had got a
mule-kick in the stomach, but was eating his three meals. They had a new
boy who played the guitar. He used maple-syrup an his meat, and claimed
he was from Alabama. Brock guessed things were about as usual in most
ways. The new well had caved in again. Then, in the midst of his gossip,
the thing he had wanted to say all along came out: “We're pleased about
your promotion,” said he; and, blushing, shook Drake's hand again.
Warmth kindled the boy's face, and next, with a sudden severity, he
said: “You're keeping back something.”
The honest Brock looked blank, then labored in his memory.
“Has the sorrel girl in Harney married you yet?” said Drake. Brock
slapped his leg, and the horses jumped at his mirth. He was mostly
grave-mannered, but when his boy superintendent joked, he rejoiced with
the same pride that he took in all of Drake's excellences.
“The boys in this country will back you up,” said he, next day; and
Drake inquired: “What news from the Malheur Agency?”
“Since the new Chinaman has been cooking for them,” said Brock, “they
have been peaceful as a man could wish.”
“They'll approve of me, then,” Drake answered. “I'm feeding 'em hyas
Christmas muck-a-muck.”
“And what may that be?” asked the schoolmaster.
“You no kumtux Chinook?” inquired Drake. “Travel with me and you'll
learn all sorts of languages. It means just a big feed. All whiskey is
barred,” he added to Brock.
“It's the only way,” said the foreman. “They've got those Pennsylvania
men up there.”
Drake had not encountered these.
“The three brothers Drinker,” said Brock. “Full, Half-past Full, and
Drunk are what they call them. Them's the names; they've brought them
from Klamath and Rogue River.”
“I should not think a Chinaman would enjoy such comrades,” ventured Mr.
Bolles.
“Chinamen don't have comrades in this country,” said Brock, briefly.
“They like his cooking. It's a lonesome section up there, and a Chinaman
could hardly quit it, not if he was expected to stay. Suppose they kick
about the whiskey rule?” he suggested to Drake.
“Can't help what they do. Oh, I'll give each boy his turn in Harney City
when he gets anxious. It's the whole united lot I don't propose to have
cut up on me.”
A look of concern for the boy came over the face of foreman Brock.
Several times again before their parting did he thus look at his
favorite. They paused at Harper's for a day to attend to some matters,
and when Drake was leaving this place one of the men said to him: “We'll
stand by you.” But from his blithe appearance and talk as the slim boy
journeyed to the Malheur River and Headquarter ranch, nothing seemed
to be on his mind. Oregon twinkled with sun and fine white snow. They
crossed through a world of pines and creviced streams and exhilarating
silence. The little waters fell tinkling through icicles in the
loneliness of the woods, and snowshoe rabbits dived into the brush. East
Oregon, the Owyhee and the Malheur country, the old trails of General
Crook, the willows by the streams, the open swales, the high woods
where once Buffalo Horn and Chief E-egante and O-its the medicine-man
prospered, through this domain of war and memories went Bolles the
school-master with Dean Drake and Brock. The third noon from Harper's
they came leisurely down to the old Malheur Agency, where once the
hostile Indians had drawn pictures on the door, and where Castle Rock
frowned down unchanged.
“I wish I was going to stay here with you,” said Brock to Drake. “By
Indian Creek you can send word to me quicker than we've come.”
“Why, you're an old bat!” said the boy to his foreman, and clapped him
farewell on the shoulder.
Brock drove away, thoughtful. He was not a large man. His face was
clean-cut, almost delicate. He had a well-trimmed, yellow mustache, and
it was chiefly in his blue eye and lean cheek-bone that the frontiersman
showed. He loved Dean Drake more than he would ever tell, even to
himself.
The young superintendent set at work to ranch-work this afternoon of
Brock's leaving, and the buccaroos made his acquaintance one by one and
stared at him. Villany did not sit outwardly upon their faces; they were
not villains; but they stared at the boy sent to control them, and they
spoke together, laughing. Drake took the head of the table at supper,
with Bolles on his right. Down the table some silence, some staring,
much laughing went on--the rich brute laugh of the belly untroubled by
the brain. Sam, the Chinaman, rapid and noiseless, served the dishes.
“What is it?” said a buccaroo.
“Can it bite?” said another.
“If you guess what it is, you can have it,” said a third.
“It's meat,” remarked Drake, incisively, helping himself; “and tougher
than it looks.”
The brute laugh rose from the crowd and fell into surprised silence; but
no rejoinder came, and they ate their supper somewhat thoughtfully. The
Chinaman's quick, soft eye had glanced at Dean Drake when they laughed.
He served his dinner solicitously. In his kitchen that evening he and
Bolles unpacked the good things--the olives, the dried fruits, the
cigars--brought by the new superintendent for Christmas; and finding
Bolles harmless, like his gentle Asiatic self, Sam looked cautiously
about and spoke:
“You not know why they laugh,” said he. “They not talk about my meat
then. They mean new boss, Misser Dlake. He velly young boss.”
“I think,” said Bolles, “Mr. Drake understood their meaning, Sam. I have
noticed that at times he expresses himself peculiarly. I also think they
understood his meaning.”
The Oriental pondered. “Me like Misser Dlake,” said he. And drawing
quite close, he observed, “They not nice man velly much.”
Next day and every day “Misser Dlake” went gayly about his business, at
his desk or on his horse, vigilant, near and far, with no sign save a
steadier keenness in his eye. For the Christmas dinner he provided
still further sending to the Grande Ronde country for turkeys and other
things. He won the heart of Bolles by lending him a good horse; but the
buccaroos, though they were boisterous over the coming Christmas joy,
did not seem especially grateful. Drake, however, kept his worries to
himself.
“This thing happens anywhere,” he said one night in the office to
Bolles, puffing a cigar. “I've seen a troop of cavalry demoralize itself
by a sort of contagion from two or three men.”
“I think it was wicked to send you here by yourself,” blurted Bolles.
“Poppycock! It's the chance of my life, and I'll jam her through or
bust.”
“I think they have decided you are getting turkeys because you are
afraid of them,” said Bolles.
“Why, of course! But d' you figure I'm the man to abandon my Christmas
turkey because my motives for eating it are misconstrued?”
Dean Drake smoked for a while; then a knock came at the door. Five
buccaroos entered and stood close, as is the way with the guilty who
feel uncertain.
“We were thinking as maybe you'd let us go over to town,” said Half-past
Full, the spokesman.
“When?”
“Oh, any day along this week.”
“Can't spare you till after Christmas.”
“Maybe you'll not object to one of us goin'?”
“You'll each have your turn after this week.”
A slight pause followed. Then Half-past Full said: “What would you do if
I went, anyway?”
“Can't imagine,” Drake answered, easily. “Go, and I'll be in a position
to inform you.”
The buccaroo dropped his stolid bull eyes, but raised them again and
grinned. “Well, I'm not particular about goin' this week, boss.”
“That's not my name,” said Drake, “but it's what I am.”
They stood a moment. Then they shuffled out. It was an orderly
retreat--almost.
Drake winked over to Bolles. “That was a graze,” said he, and smoked for
a while. “They'll not go this time. Question is, will they go next?”