“No sir, we aren’t. We’re going straight to camp, and you’re going to save old Patsy—you like Patsy, you know; many’s the time you’ve tanked up together and then fell on each other’s necks and wept because the good old times won’t come again. He got poisoned on canned corn; the Lord send he ain’t too dead for you to cure him. Come on—we better hit the breeze. We’ve lost a heap uh time.”
“I not like dees rope; she not comforte. I have ride de bad horse when you wass in cradle.”
Weary got down and went over to him. “All right, I’ll unwind yuh. When we started, yuh know, yuh couldn’t uh rode a rocking chair. I was plumb obliged to tie yuh on. Think we’ll be in time to help Patsy? He was taken sick about four o’clock.”
Old Dock waited till he was untied and the remnant of bridle-rein was placed in his hand, before he answered ironically: “I not do de mageec, mon cher Weary. I mos’ have de medicine or I can do nottings, I not wave de fingaire an’ say de vord.”
“That’s all right—I’ve got the whole works. I broke into your shack and made a clean haul uh dope. And I want to tell yuh that for a doctor you’ve got blame poor ventilation to your house. But I found the medicine.”
“Mon Dieu!” was the astonished comment, and after that they rode in silence and such haste as Glory’s lameness would permit.
The first beams of the sun were touching redly the hilltops and the birds were singing from swaying weeds when they rode down the last slope into the valley where camped the Flying-U.
The night-hawk had driven the horses into the rope-corral and men were inside watching, with spread loop, for a chance to throw. Happy Jack, with the cook’s apron tied tightly around his lank middle, stood despondently in the doorway of the mess-tent and said no word as they approached. In his silence—in his very presence there—Weary read disaster.
“I guess we’re too late,” he told Dock, in hushed tones; for the minute he hated the white-bearded old man whose drunkenness had cost the Flying-U so dear. He slipped wearily from the saddle and let the reins drop to the ground. Happy Jack still eyed them silently.
“Well?” asked Weary, when his nerves would bear no more.
“When I git sick,” said Happy Jack, his voice heavy with reproach, “I’ll send you for help—if I want to die.”
“Is he dead?” questioned Weary, in hopeless fashion.
“Well,” said Happy Jack deliberately, “no, he ain’t dead yet—but it’s no thanks to you. Was it poker, or billiards? and who won?”
Weary looked at him dully a moment before he comprehended. He had not had any supper or any deep, and he had ridden many miles in the long hours he had been away. He walked, with a pronounced limp on the leg which had been next the medicine-case, to where Dock stood leaning shakily against the pinto.
“Maybe we’re in time, after all,” he said slowly. “Here’s some kind uh dried stuff I got off the ceiling; I thought maybe yuh might need it—you’re great on Indian weeds.” He pulled a crumpled, faintly aromatic bundle of herbs from his pocket.
Dock took it and sniffed disgustedly, and dropped the herbs contemptuously to the ground. “Dat not wort’ notting—she what you call—de—catneep.” He smiled sourly.
Weary cast a furtive glance at Happy Jack, and hoped he had not overheard. Catnip! Still, how could he be expected to know what the blamed stuff was? He untied the black medicine-case and brought it and put it at the feet of Old Dock. “Well, here’s the joker, anyhow,” he said. “It like to wore a hole clear through my leg, but I was careful and I don’t believe any uh the bottles are busted.”
Dock looked at it and sat heavily down upon a box. He looked at the case queerly, then lifted his shaggy head to gaze up at Weary. And behind the bleared gravity of his eyes was something very like a twinkle. “Dis, she not cure seek mans, neider. She—” He pressed a tiny spring which Weary had not discovered and laid the case open upon the ground. “You see?” he said plaintively. “She not good for Patsy—she tree-dossen can-openaire.”
Weary stared blankly. Happy Jack came up, looked and doubled convulsively. Can-openers! Three dozen of them. Old Dock was explaining in his best English, and he was courteously refraining from the faintest smile.
“Dey de new, bettaire kind. I send for dem, I t’ink maybe I sell. I put her in de grip—so—I carry dem all togedder. My mediceen, she in de beeg ches’.”
Weary had sat down and his head was dropped dejectedly into his hands. He had bungled the whole thing, after all. “Well,” he said apathetically. “The chest was locked; I never opened it.”
Old Dock nodded his head gravely. “She lock,” he assented, gently. “She mooch mediceen—she wort’ mooch mooney. De key, she in mine pocket—”
“Oh, I don’t give a damn where the key is—now,” flared Weary. “I guess Patsy’ll have to cash in; that’s all.”
“Aw, gwan!” cried Happy Jack. “A sheepman come along just after you left, and he had a quart uh whisky. We begged it off him and give Patsy a good bit jolt. That eased him up some, and we give him another—and he got to hollerin’ so loud for more uh the same, so we just set the bottle in easy reach and let him alone. He’s in there now, drunk as a biled owl—the lazy old devil. I had to get supper and breakfast too—and looks like I’d have to cook dinner. Poison—hell! I betche he never had nothing but a plain old belly-ache!”
Weary got up and went to the mess-tent, lifted the flap and looked in upon Patsy lying on the flat of his back, snoring comfortably. He regarded him silently a moment, then looked over his shoulder to where Old Dock huddled over the three dozen can-openers.
“Oh, mamma!” he whispered, and poured himself a cup of coffee.
GOOD INDIAN (Part 1)
CHAPTER I
PEACEFUL HART RANCH
It was somewhere in the seventies when old Peaceful Hart woke to a realization that gold-hunting and lumbago do not take kindly to one another, and the fact that his pipe and dim-eyed meditation appealed to him more keenly than did his prospector’s pick and shovel and pan seemed to imply that he was growing old. He was a silent man, by occupation and by nature, so he said nothing about it; but, like the wild things of prairie and wood, instinctively began preparing for the winter of his life. Where he had lately been washing tentatively the sand along Snake River, he built a ranch. His prospector’s tools he used in digging ditches to irrigate his new-made meadows, and his mining days he lived over again only in halting recital to his sons when they clamored for details of the old days when Indians were not mere untidy neighbors to be gossiped with and fed, but enemies to be fought, upon occasion.
They felt that fate had cheated them—did those five sons; for they had been born a few years too late for the fun. Not one of them would ever have earned the title of “Peaceful,” as had his father. Nature had played a joke upon old Peaceful Hart; for he, the mildest-mannered man who ever helped to tame the West when it really needed taming, had somehow fathered five riotous young males to whom fight meant fun—and the fiercer, the funnier.
He used to suck at his old, straight-stemmed pipe and regard them with a bewildered curiosity sometimes; but he never tried to put his puzzlement into speech. The nearest he ever came to elucidation, perhaps, was when he turned from them and let his pale-blue eyes dwell speculatively upon the face of his wife, Phoebe. Clearly he considered that she was responsible for their dispositions.
The house stood cuddled against a rocky bluff so high it dwarfed the whole ranch to pygmy size when one gazed down from the rim, and so steep that one wondered how the huge, gray bowlders managed to perch upon its side instead of rolling down and crushing the buildings to dust and fragments. Strangers used to keep a wary eye upon that bluff, as if they never felt