A MERITED REBUKE.
Uncle Bob would have been glad to put himself and Arthur on a friendly
footing with his nephew, but the latter would not give him the
opportunity.
As soon as the train stopped, he and George went into another car, and
stayed there. When they reached Leavenworth, Bob telegraphed Mr. Evans,
as the latter had instructed him to do, winding up the message with the
following words:
“Bring two saddle-horses besides your own, and see that there is
just room enough in the wagon for two persons.”
“I want nothing to do with the old hypocrite,” said Bob, as he and
George went back to the train, “and by sending for two saddle horses I
have made it possible for you and me to have a little private
conversation with Mr. Evans. Uncle Bob and Arthur will have to occupy a
seat in the wagon.”
When they reached Dixon Spring, which was as far as the track was laid
at the time of which we write, their journey by rail was ended.
Now came a ride of a hundred and sixty miles, part of the way lying
through the southwestern portion of New Mexico and the rest through
Arizona.
Mr. Evans was on hand when the train stopped at Dixon Spring, and when
Bob had greeted him cordially, he presented his friend, George Edwards.
He paid no attention to Uncle Bob, but that gentleman was not to be put
off in any such way.
He kept a sharp eye upon his nephew, and seeing him in the act of
shaking hands with a roughly dressed man, who wore a brace of revolvers
about his waist, he walked up and broke in upon the conversation without
offering an apology for so doing, thereby committing a breach of
etiquette, which, under different circumstances, would have been pretty
certain to bring him into trouble.
“Have I the honor to speak to Mr. Evans?” inquired Uncle Bob, holding
out his hand.
“You have,” replied the owner of that name, running his eye over Uncle
Bob’s figure, and then over Arthur’s, taking in at a glance, their fine
clothes, gloves, canes, patent-leather shoes, and all their ornaments,
but making no move toward accepting the proffered hand.
Like all men of his calling, he heartily despised finery of every sort,
and he was suspicious of it, too. There was only one class of persons in
that country who dressed in that way, and they were rascals without a
single exception.
“I supposed that my nephew would introduce me,” said Uncle Bob, throwing
off a hint of his haughtiness and pomposity, and speaking in his
ordinary tone of voice; “but as he seems to have forgotten me, I must do
it myself. I am Robert Howard, at your service, the brother of the late
Eben Howard, who, I believe, was—”
“Oh, why didn’t you say so?” interrupted Mr. Evans. “I received your
telegram, and was looking for you when I found Bob; but I didn’t suppose
that _you_ were Mr. Howard.”
He looked inquiringly at the boy as he said this, and then he
reluctantly took the outstretched hand; but he did not shake it as
though he was glad to see Uncle Bob. And indeed he wasn’t. He knew more
of the man’s history than the latter thought he did.
“Now, then,” said Mr. Evans, who had no desire to prolong the interview,
having already seen as much of Uncle Bob and Arthur as he cared to see,
“I will bring up the wagon, and while I am gone, you can present your
checks and get your trunks. We have about twenty-five miles to go to
reach our camping-ground, and, if we want to get there before dark, we
have no time to waste.”
“Camping-ground!” repeated Arthur. “Do you mean that we must sleep out
of doors?”
“Oh, no! Knowing that you were tenderfeet, I took the liberty to stop at
Bob’s house and get his tent.”
“Why, I was under the impression that a stage-line ran within a short
distance of my brother’s ranch, and that there were hotels along the
way, at which we could put up at night,” said Uncle Bob.
“Hotels in this country!” exclaimed Mr. Evans. “There are stations along
the route, if they are what you mean; and if you want to eat soggy
potatoes, green biscuit, and oleomargarine butter, and be eaten up with
fleas when you go to bed, you can do it and welcome; but I won’t.
Well-cooked camp-fare and a bed of clean prairie-grass are good enough
for me.”
Mr. Evans hurried away, and when he returned a few minutes later, he was
driving a span of mules, which were hitched to a light spring wagon with
a canopy top.
There was one seat in the wagon, placed in the extreme forward end, so
that the driver’s feet hung out over the pole; and the body of the
vehicle was filled with camp-equipage.
Still, there was room enough in it for Bob’s trunk and George’s, as well
as for the valises which the others had brought with them.
“All ready!” said Mr. Evans, when all these articles had been safely
stowed away. “Jump in, Mr. Howard, and keep the trail, which is as plain
as the nose on your face. The boys and I will follow on horseback.”
Arthur was not at all satisfied with this arrangement, and neither was
his father. The former was wondering what his aristocratic acquaintances
in Bolton would say if they could see him dressed in his fine clothes
and perched behind a span of lazy mules; while Uncle Bob told himself
that he was losing something by leaving his nephew and Mr. Evans
together. He wanted an opportunity to tell his story before Bob could
say anything to prejudice the man against him.
“So _that’s_ the man who is to act as your guardian, is it?” said Mr.
Evans, as the wagon moved off. “He is the chap who borrowed money of
your father to start him in business, and then failed and cheated him
out of the most of it?”
“Yes; and when father came out here, in the hope of recovering the
health he had lost by overwork, Uncle Bob industriously circulated the
report that he had run away from his creditors,” added Bob, in a voice
that was husky with indignation. “Father couldn’t have forgotten all
this, and yet he made this man my guardian, and gave him control of the
property.”
“No, he didn’t forget it, but he forgave it,” said Mr. Evans. “I know
that the fierce quarrel he had with his brother was the cause of much
sorrow to him; and as soon as he had paid all your Uncle Bob’s debts, he
went to work to heal the breach—”
“And Uncle Bob helped him; and this is the result,” broke in the boy.
“That seems to be about the way the thing stands. I know what sort of a
will he made, and I know, too, that it was his intention to speak to you
about it when you came home this fall, and to change it, if you raised
the least objection to it.”
“I shouldn’t have done it,” said Bob, with tears in his eyes. “As it was
his wish that my uncle should act in his stead, I shall submit, and be
as dutiful and respectful as I can; but, unless he changes very much, I
shall be heartily glad to see the last of him. Now, let us drop the
matter. I don’t want to talk about it any more.”
Neither did Mr. Evans. Regrets could not change the situation.
He was sorry for Bob, and he made the mental resolution that he would
keep an eye on this guardian of his, and at the very first sign of
tyranny or unfaithfulness, he would raise a storm about his ears that
would drive him from the country.
The journey from Dixon Spring to Bob Howard’s home consumed the best
part of five days, and during that time Arthur and George had
opportunity to learn what Western life, of which they had often read the
most glowing accounts, really was.
George was delighted with it, but Arthur did not like it at all, and
told himself over and over again that he would make his way back to
Bolton just as soon as he could induce his father to give him money
enough to take him there.
There was no fun in sleeping on the hard ground every night. The tent
which he thought ought to be devoted to the exclusive use of himself and
his father, was crowded every night, all the strangers they encountered
on the way (roughly-dressed, loud-talking fellows they were, whose words
and actions seemed to indicate that they were spoiling for a fight)
being given a hearty welcome and urged to make themselves perfectly at
home; and he had so much to say about the food that was served up to
him, that he finally exhausted all the patience of Mr. Evans, who one
day took him to task in the following style:
“Young man,” said he, shaking a piece of hardtack at Arthur, “I have
traveled a good deal, spent some years in the army, associated with all
sorts and kinds of people, and I have always noticed one thing—that
those who never have anything worth eating at home are the very ones who
growl the loudest at what is set before them when they are away from
home.”
Arthur would have been glad to make an angry reply to this merited
rebuke, but something in the clear brown eye that was fastened upon his
own told him that it would not be quite safe to do so.
Both he and his father took the hint, and from that time forward
conducted themselves like reasonable beings.
The result was just what might have been expected. Mr. Evans became more
sociable and communicative, and instead of following behind the wagon,
as he had formerly done, he rode beside it, patiently answering all
Uncle Bob’s questions and trying his best to enlighten him on every
subject on which he sought information.
The latter was astonished at his knowledge, and could hardly believe his
nephew when the latter told him that those rough clothes covered a Yale
College graduate.
While Mr. Evans was devoting himself to the senior member of the party,
Arthur was not neglected. As soon as he threw off his assumed
dignity—which did not set well on him, anyway—George and Bob met him
half-way, and the latter, having come to the sensible conclusion that it
was useless to fight against the inevitable, went to work to place
himself on friendly terms with his cousin.
He gave him his horse when he saw that he was tired of riding in the
wagon, took pains to direct his attention to all the interesting objects
along the trail, and showed him his new home while they were yet ten
hours’ journey distant from it.
“What a grand view this is!” exclaimed Arthur, as he drew rein on the
brink of a frightful precipice and gazed down into the valley below him.
He was riding Mr. Evans’ horse, that gentleman having taken his seat in
the wagon. Bob did not object to this arrangement now. He knew that Mr.
Evans was his friend, and it mattered little what his uncle said to him.
“Yes, it’s a splendid sight,” said Bob, who was thinking of the lonely
grave there was somewhere in that valley, and not of the beauty of the
scenery. “People who have traveled among the Alps say that Switzerland
has nothing that can beat it. Every foot of that valley belonged to my
father.”
“And if anything should happen to you during the next three years it is
quite possible that every foot of it will belong to me,” said Arthur to
himself.
This thought had been uppermost in his mind ever since the day that
telegram was received. He had pondered upon it day and night, and he
continued to ponder upon it until it led to something—something that
created the greatest excitement, and came pretty near ending in a
fearful tragedy.