CHAPTER XXI

“He said that my best plan—for it must go in my name, now—is to get to town to-morrow before Mr. Horton does, explain to the agent about father’s death—he must have heard of it, Mr. Wilson says, but he is not obliged to take official note of a thing that has not been reported to him, and that he has only heard of incidentally—and ask him to make out the deed to me, as the present head of the family. Mr. Wilson says that I must be there, ready to tell my story, the minute the office opens. He hopes that, in that way, we may frustrate Mr. Horton, who is likely, he says, to be one of the very first on hand to-morrow morning. After I have explained matters to the agent, he will be forced to wait the arrival of my witnesses, of course, before he can do anything. But Mr. Wilson thinks that anything that Mr. Horton may say, after the agent has seen me, and heard my story, will be likely to work in my favor, it will show so plainly what Mr. Horton is up to. Mr. Wilson says that I had better take a horse and start for town to-morrow, just as soon as it is light enough to see.”

“Twenty miles!” I said. “How long will it take you to ride it?” I knew how long it would take me, on Frank’s back, but Jessie is less wonted to the saddle than I.

“It will take me nearly four hours, I should think, shouldn’t you?” She stopped milking while she looked at me, anxiously awaiting my reply.

“Just about that, Jessie.”

“It would kill me to keep up such a gait as you and Frank seem to both take delight in,” she continued. “So I must be poking along for four hours doing the distance that you could cover in two. The Land Office opens at seven o’clock—there’s a rush of business just now, Mr. Wilson says—and I must start not later than half-past two.”

“Dear me, Jessie, I hate to have you start out alone in the night, that way!”

“I don’t like it very well myself,” Jessie admitted. “But Mr. Wilson thought we’d better not say a word to any one about my going—lest it should get to Mr. Horton’s ears some way, and he will drive around later in the morning and pick up the witnesses and bring them down. Oh, and Leslie, above all things, don’t forget the Bible. Be sure to put that in the wagon when Mr. Wilson comes.”

“Certainly I shall! Do you imagine that I would forget the one fundamental clause of our proving up?”

“No, of course you wouldn’t. Mr. Wilson said that he would go down with me—we could drive his fast horse down in the light cart, if only Joe were here to bring down our witnesses. But he isn’t, and I must go alone.”

It was evident that Jessie did not relish the prospect of taking a lonely night ride.

“I will leave the money—what little there is of it—for Mr. Wilson to bring down,” Jessie presently remarked. “Then, if I am held up, we will have saved that much, anyhow.”

“And much good it will do us, with our fundamental clause in the hands of brigands,” I retorted laughingly. For, indeed, there was about as much danger of a hold-up as of an earthquake.

“What a fuss you are making, Guard—what’s the matter?” Jesse said, in a tone of remonstrance, as she resumed the milking. The dog had been looking toward the house, growling and bristling, for some minutes. His response to Jessie’s remonstrance was a tumultuous rush toward the house, around the corner of which he disappeared. Presently we saw him bounding away into the oak scrub beyond, apparently in hot pursuit of some retreating object, for his voice, breaking out occasionally in angry clamor, soon died away in the distance.

“I hope there isn’t another wildcat after the chickens,” Jessie remarked, as, the milking finished, we started toward the house.

“I don’t think it’s a wildcat,” I said; “from all the legends we have heard lately, a wildcat would have stood its ground: more likely it was a polecat.”

Entering the house that we had left vacant, save for the sleeping child in the bed-room, we were startled at sight of a dusky, silent figure, sitting motionless before the fire—for, in the mountain country, a blaze is always welcome after night-fall, even in midsummer. At the sound of our approaching footsteps the figure turned toward us a head crowned with white wool, and smiled benignly.

“Joe!” we both cried, in a breath.

“Joe I is!” returned the old man, placidly, stretching his gnarled hands toward the blaze, and grinning delightedly; “I reckon you all begin fur to projec’ ‘Whar’s Joe?’ long ’bout dish yer time o’ day, so I done p’inted my tracks in dish yer way.”

“It must have been you that Guard was barking at,” I said, stirring the fire into a brighter blaze.

“No; hit wa’nt me. I yeard his racketin’ as I come up along. Hit war’ some udder varmint, I reckons. What fur he want ter bark at me?”

“True enough. Well, we’re just awful glad you’ve come back, Joe,” Jessie told him. “Leslie has been out all the afternoon and she hasn’t had her supper. I waited for her before eating mine, so now I’ll fix yours on this little table beside the fire and we can all eat at the same time.”

Joe accepted the proposition thankfully, and, after seeing him comfortably established, we seated ourselves at the large table near the window. I was hungry after my long ride and fell to with a will, but I presently observed that Jessie ate nothing.

“Why don’t you eat your supper, Jessie?”

“I can’t,” she replied, pushing away her plate; “I’m so worried. Leslie, have you thought that if the agent refuses to issue a deed to us we shall have no home? I feel just sure of it, for we haven’t money enough to re-enter the claim, hire a surveyor, and all that.”

“Must there be a new survey made?”

“So Mr. Wilson says; he says that it will be the same, in the eye of the law, as if no entry had ever been made.”

“The eye of the law must be half blind, then!” I exclaimed, indignantly. “As if the survey already made and paid for, was not good enough, and when we know that a new one would only follow the same lines!”

“That’s just what I said to Mr. Wilson. He said that surveyors had to have a chance to earn their living, and this way of doing business was one of the chances,” Jessie replied, dropping her head dejectedly on her hand.

“Well; don’t let’s worry about it, Jessie dear, we must keep on hoping, as father used to say. He used to say, you know, that no one was ever really poor until he had ceased to hope. We will do our best and God will look out for the rest, I guess. I don’t believe He intends to let our home be taken from us. He wouldn’t have given us such good men for witnesses if He had.”

“Yes, they are good. If we were only able to borrow a little more money now I should feel quite safe. If we could just borrow money enough to—”

“Woe unto him that goeth up an’ down de lan’ seeking fur t’ borrow money! Borrowed money, hit stingeth like an adder; hit biteth like a surpunt! Hit weaves a chain what bin’s hit’s victims han’ an’ foot! Hit maketh a weight what breaks his heart, amen!”

In the interest of our conversation we had, for the nonce, forgotten Joe, who was quietly toasting his ragged shoes before the fire, until his voice thus solemnly proclaimed his presence.

“Dat’s w’at ole Mas’r Gordon, yo’ chillen’s gran’fadder, used fur t’ say, an’ hit’s true. Hit’s true! He knowed; Good Heaven, didn’t he know!”

There was the tragedy of some remembered bitter suffering in the old man’s voice, and, recalling father’s stern determination to endure all things, to lose all things, if need be, rather than to become a borrower, I felt that the misery hinted at in old Joe’s words had been something very real and poignant in the days of those Gordons, now beyond all suffering.

“Hit may be,” continued the old man reflectively, “dat I ain’ got all dem verses jess right, but dat was deir senses. W’at s’prises me, Miss Jessie, is dat yo’ alls is talkin’ ob wantin’ fur to borrow money, too. W’at fur yo’ wan’ ter borry money, w’en de’re’s a plenty in de fambly? A plenty ob hit, yes. W’at yo’ reckons I’s been doin’ all dese yer weeks, off an’ on? T’inks I’s a ’possum, an’ doan know w’en hit’s time ter come t’ life? Ain’ I been a knowin’ ’bout dish yer lan’ business an’ a gittin’ ready fur hit, ebber sense long ’fore Mas’r Ralph was took. I didn’t git drownded w’en he did—wish’t I had, I does—an’ long ’fore dat, I’se been sabin’ up my wages agin’ a time w’en Mas’r Ralph goin’ need ’em wustest. I reckoned he goin’ need ’em w’en hit comes to de provin’ up on dish yer claim. Hit doan tek’ much ter keep a ole nigger like me, an’ I ain’ been crippled wid de rheumatiz so bad until ’long dis summah, an’ so, chillen, I’se done got five hundred dollahs in de bank at Fa’hplay, fo’ de credit ob Mas’r Ralph Gordon—dat’s yo’s now, Miss Jessie, honey, cause yo’s ob age.”

Joe had remembered that important fact, too, it seemed. We could only stare at him in speechless amazement, while he concluded, abruptly: “So doan let’s heah no more fool talk ’bout borrowin’ money. We’s got a plenty, I tells yo’. I been a-keepin’ hit in de bank at Arnold—whar’ Mas’r Ralph an’ me stopped fur quite a spell ’afore we done come yer—an’ so, a few days ago, I done slipped ober to Arnold an’ drawed de money out, an’ put it in de bank at Fa’hplay, subject to de order ob Miss Jessie Gordon—dat’s yo’, honey,” he added, as if fearful that Jessie might not recognize herself under this formal appellation. He was holding his coffee-cup suspended, half-way to his lips, while he looked at us exultantly, and then we both expressed our feelings in a characteristic manner. I ran to him, and threw my arms around his neck.

“Oh, Joe! Joe! you are an angel!” I sobbed, dropping my head on his shoulder.

“Maybe I is,” the old man admitted, stiffly, edging away; “but if dere’s airy angel, w’ite or black, w’at likes ter hab hot coffee spilled ober his laigs, I ain’ nebber met up wid him!”

“I’ll get you another cup, Joe,” I said, laughing, as I brushed away my tears. While I was getting it, Jessie clung to his rough old hand.

“God bless you, Joe! Oh, you have lifted such a weight from my heart! I don’t know how to thank you; but Joe, we’ll pay it all back to you! We will, if it takes the place to do it!”

Joe, freeing his hand from her clasp, rose to his feet—not stiffly, this time, but with a certain grave dignity. Motioning aside the coffee that I was bringing, he picked his ragged old hat up from the floor beside his chair, put it on, pulled it down over his eyes, and started for the door.

“’Fore Heaben! I wouldn’t ’a’ beliebed dat one ob Mas’r Ralph Gordon’s chillen gwine fur insult me like dis!” he muttered, huskily; “Talk ob payin’ me! Me, like I was a stranger, an’ didn’ belong to de fambly!”

“Wait!” cried Jessie, springing forward, as the old man laid a trembling hand on the door knob. “Wait, sit down, Joe, dear Joe, don’t desert us when we need you most! As for the money, God bless you for making sure of our home, for, of course, it’s your home, too, always, always! And I’ll never pay a cent of the money back; not if I use it all!”

“Yo’s gwine hab to use hit all, honey,” Joe returned, with a beaming face, as he resumed his seat. “Dere’s de fence buildin’ an’ breakin’ de new groun’, and de seedin’.”

“True enough! Oh, we shall come out all right, now, thanks to you, Joe.”

And Jessie spoke with the happy little laugh that we had not heard for a long, long time.

CHAPTER XXII

“Yes,” Jessie said, “he’s been asleep ever since a little while before dark.”

“Yo’ reckons hit gwine fur ’sturb him, jess fur me ter tek’ a look at him, honey?”

“Surely not, Joe.” Accordingly I took up a lamp, and stepped with it into the next room—the sitting-room, in which Ralph’s crib was stationed. The crib stood close to the window, which was open. I was surprised that Jessie had left it so, knowing, as she did, that Ralph caught cold with painful facility. Joe cast a disapproving look at the opening as we stood by the crib side, but, fearful of awakening the little sleeper, he said nothing. All children are lovely in their sleep, but as I held the lamp aloft, while we admiringly surveyed this one, I think the same idea occurred to us both—that never was there one more beautiful than our Ralph. Joe, cautiously advancing a horny fore-finger, softly touched the moist, dimpled little hand that lay relaxed outside the coverlet. Then he drew the coverlet a little closer over the baby sleeper’s shoulders, and, noiselessly closing the window, turned away with a sigh that belonged, I felt, not to Ralph, but to some one whom he seemed to the old man to resemble.

When we were again in the kitchen, he said decidedly: “I ’clar fo’ hit, Miss Jessie—fo’ hit mus’ ’a’ been yo, w’at done hit; fo’ yo’ said Miss Leslie done been gone—I’se ’sprised fur to see yo’ a-puttin’ dat chile ter bed wid the winder beside him wide open, an’ the nights plumb cole an’ varmints a wanderin’ roun’—”

“Why, Joe, what are you talking about? I never left it open. I’d be afraid that that cat of Ralph’s would jump in and wake him, if nothing else. When it’s open at all I’m careful to open it from the top; but it’s so cool to-night that I didn’t open it.”

“I jess reckons yo’ furgot ter shet it, honey,” Joe insisted.

“I’m quite sure it hasn’t been opened,” returned Jessie, who did not give up a point easily. I could see, though I had no doubt that Joe was right, that the matter really puzzled her.

“Ralph, he de libin’ picter ob Mas’r Ralph, w’en he was a little feller, an’ hit in’ no ways likely dat I gwine ter set still an’ see Mas’r Ralph’s onliest son lose his ’heritance; not ef I can holp it,” Joe remarked reflectively, after Jessie had again proclaimed that she did not leave the window open.

The words reminded me of the danger which still threatened us, in spite of the providential help that Joe’s coming had brought us.

A new idea occurred to me. “Jessie,” I said, “there’s nothing to hinder your going down to town as early as you please to-night, now that Joe has come, and Mr. Wilson will be left free to go with you.”

Jessie sprang to her feet, as if she would go on the instant.

“That is so!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Joe, how glad I am that you came just as you did!”

The matter was then explained to Joe, who volunteered to go over at once to Mr. Wilson’s and arrange to take his place in the morning, thus leaving him free to go with Jessie.

It was past ten o’clock and the moon was just coming up over the tree-tops when Joe started on his two-mile tramp to Mr. Wilson’s.

“You’d better take one of the horses,” Jessie had told him.

“W’at fur I want ob a hoss? Rudder hab my own two footses to trabbel on—if dey is kine o’ onsartain some times—dan airy four-legged hoss dat eber libed,” Joe returned, disrespectfully.

Sure that our good neighbor would return with him, Jessie proceeded to make ready for the trip. We were not disappointed. After a wait of about an hour we heard the rattle of approaching wheels, and presently Mr. Wilson, with Joe in the cart beside him, stopped the fast colt before the gate.

“All ready, Miss Jessie?” he sang out in response to our eager greeting.

“Yes,” said Jessie, “I’m quite ready.”

“Climb right in, then, and we’ll get well started before midnight. Whatever Horton does, he can’t beat that, for we’ll have our forces—part of ’em, any way—drawn up in battle array before the Land Office doors when they open at seven o’clock. We won’t need to hurry to do it, either. We’ll have time to brush up and eat our breakfasts like a couple of Christians after we get there.”

“Had I better take the money with me?” Jessie asked.

“Certainly, all you can rake and scrape.”

Jessie laughed gleefully; it was evident that Joe had not told Mr. Wilson of his recent financial transaction. When Jessie told him, he got up—the colt had been tied at the gate and we were all within doors again, in spite of Mr. Wilson’s first entreaty to Jessie to “get right in”—crossed the room and held out his hand to the old negro.

“Shake, friend!” As Joe, rather reluctantly, I thought, for he was a shy old man, laid his black hand in Mr. Wilson’s clasp, the latter continued: “I reckon I know a man when I see one, be he white or black, and I tell you I’m proud to have the chance of shaking hands with you!”

Joe, furtively rubbing the hand that he had released—for, in his earnestness, Mr. Wilson had evidently given it a telling pressure—hung his head, and responded, sheepishly: “I reckons I’se be a whole Noah’s A’k full of animals ef dish yer sort ob t’ing gwine keep on. Miss Leslie, she done call me a angel, and now yo’ done says I’se a man. Kine o’ ha’d on a ole feller like me, hit is!”

Mr. Wilson laughed good-humoredly.

“You’re all right, Joe; we won’t talk about it. And now, how is Miss Jessie to get the money?”

“I’se gwine draw a check on de bank in Fa’hplay to cobber de whole ’posit,” returned Joe, with dignity; “I done axed the cashier ’bout hit, an’ he tole me w’at ter do. He gin me some papers w’at he called blanket checks, an’ tole me how to fill ’em out. I’se done been keepin’ ob ’em safe.” In proof of which statement Joe drew an old-fashioned leather wallet from an inner pocket of his ragged coat, undid the strap with which it was bound, and, opening it, carefully extracted therefrom two or three bits of paper, that a glance sufficed to show were blank checks on the First National Bank of Fairplay. While he was getting the checks out another paper, loosely folded and yellow with age, slipped from the wallet, falling to the hearth. As it fell there slid from its loose folds a soft curl of long, bright hair, of the exact hue of little Ralph’s. Stooping, Jessie picked up the shining tendril, pausing to twine it gently around her finger before tendering it to Joe.

“Ralph’s hair is a little darker, I believe, than it was when you cut this, Joe,” she remarked, going to the light for a nearer view.

“Dat ar’ cu’l didn’ grow on dis Ralph’s head, honey; I cut dat offen de head ob dat odder Ralph w’at’s a lyin’ in de grabeya’d, w’en he was littler dan dis one; an’ I’se ’done carried dat cu’l close to my heart fo’ upwa’ds ob fo’ty yeah,” responded Joe simply, as he took the bit of hair from Jessie’s finger, and carefully replaced it. “W’en I dies,” he continued, “I ain’ carin’ w’at sort ob a berryin’ I gets, ner w’at sort ob clo’se my ole body is wrapped up in, but I’d like fur to be suah dat dish yer bit o’ hair goes inter de groun’ wid me.”

He looked up at us, his beloved young master’s children, solemnly and questioningly, as though exacting a promise, which was given, though no words were spoken on either side. Eyes have a language of their own.

“Now ef yo’ll done fotch me de ink bottle, Miss Leslie, honey, I’se boun’ ter fill out dish yer blanket check, same like de cashier done tole me,” Joe went on with a business-like change of tone.

The ink bottle, with pen and holder, was produced and placed on the table which Joe immediately cleared for action by removing every article upon it until he had a clear sweep of some three or four feet, then he sat down and proceeded, slowly, slowly, to fill out the check in Jessie’s favor. It was a task that required time and infinite painstaking. We had not known that Joe could write, and I am afraid that, even when he announced that the work was done and the check filled out, we were by no means sure of it, for wonderful indeed were the hieroglyphics through whose agency Joe proclaimed his purpose. There was one thing certain, however, no sane cashier, having once seen that unique signature, could for a moment doubt its authenticity.

Mr. Wilson glanced over the document, as Joe at length put it in Jessie’s hand. “That’s all right,” he said, in his hearty, re-assuring way. “You’ve got it all as straight as a string, Joe”—which he had not, so far as mechanical execution went—“we’ll have no trouble now. Put that away safely, Jessie, and let’s be going.”

“Shall we take the Bible now?” Jessie asked, after she had complied with his directions.

“Oh, no; time enough for that when Joe comes down. Put on a warm bonnet and shawl, now,” he continued, “for the nights are chilly.”

In the days of his youth women and girls wore bonnets and shawls, and I never knew him to refer to their cloaks or headgear in any other terms. Jessie assured him that she was well protected, and Joe and I followed her and her sturdy escort out to the gate.

“Had Leslie better come down with the others to-morrow?” Jessie inquired after they were seated in the cart, and while Joe was tucking the lap robe around her feet.

“Oh, no! By no means. It isn’t necessary, and her being here will enable us to swear that the house hasn’t been vacant, day or night, since the claim was first filed on, and ain’t vacant even at the present minute. We can’t be too careful, you know. Good night to you both!”

He spoke to the colt; Jessie echoed his good night, and they were gone.

CHAPTER XXIII

Accordingly, I lay down on my bed without taking the trouble to undress—I was so fearful of oversleeping. For a long time I lay thinking of Jessie, on her hurried night ride, of old Joe, and the blessed relief that his coming had brought us, and, above all, of Mr. Horton and his machinations. I meant to be awake when the hour that Joe had suggested for rising struck. The hour was five o’clock, but it was well past, when a gentle tap on the door awoke me, and Joe’s voice announced: “Hit’s done struck fibe, Miss Leslie; yo’s bettah be stirrin.”

My reply was forestalled by a delighted cry from the crib, where Ralph was supposed to lie asleep: “Oho! Mine Joe is tum ’ome! Mine Joe is tum ’ome!”

I heard the negro shuffle quickly across the floor, and the next instant Ralph was in his arms and being borne triumphantly into the kitchen. The friendship between the two was mutual, and it was not at all surprising that Ralph was beside himself with joy at Joe’s return. He hurried through his own breakfast, watched Joe, gravely, through his, and then announced his intention of accompanying the latter, “in ’e waggin.” He had gathered from our conversation that Joe was going somewhere, and, wherever it was, he was willing to bear him company.

“W’er my ’at?” he asked, trotting about in search of that article, as Joe drove up to the door with the horses and light wagon.

“Your hat is under your crib, dear, but you can’t go with Joe to-day.”

“’Ess; me doin’,” he returned, obstinately, securing the hat, while I was carrying the Bible out to Joe.

“Now, Joe, take good care of it!” I counseled him, as he stooped down to take the bulky volume from my arms.

“Keer? Ha! I reckons I’se boun’ fur tek’ keer ob dat book! Lots ob folks w’at done all sorts ob t’ings, shet up ’atween de leds ob dat book. Some good t’ings dey done, an’ a mighty lot o’ bad ones, an’ I ain’ goin’ let none ob ’em git out! Leslie, chile, I’se gwine sot on dat book, an’ keep dem folks squelched ’til we all roun’s up in front ob de ’lan’ office; yo’ kin count on dat!”

Placing the book on the wagon-seat, he spread a blanket over it, then planted himself, squarely and with emphasis, upon it. “Dere, dey’s safe!” He gathered up the lines; the outfit was in motion when its progress was suddenly arrested by a piercing cry from Ralph:

“’Top, ’top, Joe! Me’s doin’ wiv’ ’oo, me is!”

The little fellow was standing beside the wagon, his arms upstretched to be taken, and the tears streaming down his cheeks. Joe looked at him, and scratched his head in perplexity. “I’se wisht’ yo’d stayed asleep till I’se done got away, honey, chile—I does so!” he muttered, ruefully.

“Me’s doin’!” Ralph insisted, taking advantage of the halt to swarm up over the wheel-hub, and to get his white apron covered with wagon-grease.

“Me is doin’!” he repeated.

“Train up a chile in de way w’at he wants ter go, an’ w’en he is ole he won’t depart from it!” Joe quoted, with fatal aptness. “Dat chile cain’t be ’lowed fur ter run t’ings dish yer way; he cain’t be ’lowed ter go to town, noway; but I tell yo’ w’at, honey, yo’ might jess slip er clean apern on ter him an’ let him ride down ter Wilson’s ’long ’er me. Dat Mis’ Wilson, she always bein’ tickled when she see Ralph.”

“’Ess; me do see Mif’ ’Ilson,” Ralph declared, brightening. It was true that the good ranchman’s wife had always made much of him, and was glad to have him with her, and I had a particular reason for being glad of the temporary freedom that his going over there would give me. I made haste to change his soiled dress and get him ready. “Tell her,” I said, as I lifted him into the wagon, “that I’ll come over after him some time this afternoon; it isn’t far, and if I start early enough he can easily walk home with me before night.”

“Dat’s right; we’s got dat all fixed,” Joe responded cheerfully. He started the team again, while Ralph, his good humor restored, threw me kisses as the wagon rattled away.

I had mentioned it to no one, but I was secretly a good deal worried over the non-appearance of Guard. In the present absorbed interest in other matters, I think none of the family, save myself, had taken note of the fact that the dog had not been seen since his noisy scramble up the hillside in pursuit of some animal, the evening before.

Only hunters, or those who dwell in remote and lonely places, can realize how fully one’s canine followers may become, in certain surroundings, at once comrades and friends. I missed the dog’s shaggy black head and attentive eyes as I hurried through with the morning’s milking. He was wont to sit beside me during that operation, and watch proceedings with absorbed and judicial interest. I missed him again as I heard a fluttering and squawking that might mean mischief, near the poultry yard. Above all, in the absence of the other members of the family, I missed his companionship. So, as I hastened with the morning’s tasks, I resolved to take the opportunity afforded by Ralph’s absence, and go in search of him. Disquieting recollections of the wildcat that he and I had dared, and of the wildcat that had dared Mrs. Lloyd, came to my mind. It seemed to me by no means improbable that Guard had treed one of these creatures and was holding it until help came or until the cat should become tired of imprisonment and make a rush for liberty; a rush that, if it came to close quarters, would be pretty certain to result disastrously for Guard. So thinking, I took father’s light rifle—which was always kept loaded—down from its place on the kitchen wall, buckled a belt of cartridges around my waist, and, locking the door behind me, started on my quest.

Guard’s vanishing bark, on the previous evening, had led up the hillside, behind the house. So, up the hillside I went, scanning the ground eagerly for tracks, or for any sign that might indicate which direction to take. The ground was thickly strewn with pine needles and the search for tracks was fruitless; an elephant’s track would not have shown on such ground as that. After a little, though, I did find something that puzzled me. Lying conspicuously near the cattle trail that led upward into the higher hills, was a large piece of fresh beef. Stopping, I turned the meat over cautiously with the toe of my shoe, wondering greatly how it came to be just there. It was cut—not torn—so it could not have been dropped there by any wild beast, but by some person. As I looked attentively at it, some white substance, lying half hidden in a deep cleft in the meat, attracted my attention. I stood still for a long time, studying that bit of beef. That the white substance was poison I had not a doubt. If some one were anxious to kill a dog—like a flash the recollection of Guard’s indiscreet charge on Mr. Horton’s horse, and of Mr. Horton’s speechless rage thereat, came to my mind. An attempt to poison Guard did not strike me, at the moment, as an act indicating anything more than a determination to be revenged on him for the trouble that he had already given Mr. Horton. Afterward, I understood its full significance. A little beyond the spot where I found the poisoned meat, well out of sight from the house, or of any chance passers-by, I came to a tree under which a horse had evidently been recently tethered, and that, too, for a long time. I wondered at this, for, among us, people seldom tether a horse; it is considered an essential part of a cow pony’s training to learn to remain long in one place without being fastened in any way. Still, as I reflected, the matter was not one to cause wonder. The ground was torn and trampled by the impatient, pawing hoofs, and I knew very well what horse it was that, for his recent sins, might have been compelled to do penance in this manner.

Something over half a mile from our house there was a break in the hills—the beginning of a long and dark ravine that, trending southward, led, if one cared to traverse it, in a tolerably straight course to the far lower end of the valley, near where the Hortons lived.

It was an uncanny place—dark at all times, as well as damp, and so uninviting in its wildness, even as a short cut to a brighter place, that it was very seldom entered. As I stood on the hill above it, peering down into its shadows, a great longing took possession of me to know whether Mr. Horton had really gone to town as he threatened. Besides, if Guard were really standing sentinel over a wildcat, no more promising place to search for him could be found. So thinking, I readjusted my cartridge-belt, swung the rifle muzzle to the front, ready for instant use, should occasion demand it, and, not without some unpleasant, creepy sensations at the roots of my hair, I dropped down into the ravine.

CHAPTER XXIV

I had not met Mrs. Horton since the morning that the wheat crop was destroyed, although I had seen her passing the house frequently on her way to and from the store. It was plain that she avoided us, through no fault or desire of her own, but out of very shame because of the brand on the cattle that had ruined our crops. Casting about in my mind for an excuse for calling on her now, I was impelled to go on, even without an excuse. My conscience told me that I had treated her with less kindness on that occasion than she deserved. Striking into the cattle trail that, bordering the park, led to Horton’s corral, I followed it to the corral gate, and was soon after knocking at Horton’s front door. My knock was answered by Mrs. Horton, who exclaimed in astonishment at sight of me:

“Why, I declare! I thought you’d be gone to town to-day, sure. Has Jessie gone?”

“Oh yes; and Ralph is at Mrs. Wilson’s.”

“Well, well! Come right in! And so you didn’t go. I don’t see how you managed it, hardly.”

“Joe came home in time to drive down, and Mr.—we thought it best not to leave the homestead alone.”

Mrs. Horton nodded her head approvingly.

“That was a good thought; you can’t be too careful. I declare, I wish you had brought Ralph over here—the precious! I’ve been feeling as lonesome as an owl this morning. Generally I don’t mind being left alone, not a bit; I’m used to it; but I was feeling disappointed to-day, and so everything goes against the grain, I s’pose.”

I must have looked sympathetic, for she presently broke out:

“I don’t feel, Leslie, as if I was an unreasonable or exacting kind of woman, in general, but Jake talked last night as if he thought I was. You see, I had set my heart on going to town when it came time for you girls to prove up. I’d thought of lots of little things that I was going to mention to the Land Agent, to influence him in your favor, and I guess there aren’t many folks that know better than I do how you’ve tried and tried to fill all the requirements. But Jake—”

She paused, her mouth, with its gentle-looking curves, closing as if she would say no more. But her grievance was too fresh and too bitter to admit of her keeping silence. In answer to my respectful inquiry as to why she didn’t go, she burst out impatiently:

“Jake wouldn’t let me. Said if I did I’d be interfering with what was none of my business—as if I ever interfered with any one else’s business—and, besides, he said it wasn’t convenient to take me. He went on horseback himself.”

“Oh, he’s gone, then?”

“Gracious, yes! Gone! He’s been in town nearly all night. He was out somewhere last evening, looking up cattle, he said, and he didn’t get in till almost nine o’clock; then he ate supper and started right off. I thought it was a rather dark time to be starting for town, but he said the moon would be rising before he got out on to the plains, and he didn’t care for the dark.”

“Why was he so anxious to get to town early this morning?” I asked, with what I inwardly felt to be almost insolent persistency. Mr. Horton’s good wife suspected nothing, however.

“Why, I suppose, to help you folks, if help was needed,” she replied, readily. “I’ve felt awfully cut up, Leslie, about the way our cattle destroyed your crops. It just went to my heart to think that it was our cattle that did it”—and the tears in her honest blue eyes attested the sincerity of her words—“I’ve talked to Jake a good deal about it. He hasn’t said straight out that he’d pay damages, but I’ve been thinking maybe he intended to do it in his own way, and his way was to get to town and help you all he could with the Land Agent. As he’s been known to the claim so long, his word ought to have weight. Don’t you think so?”

“I am afraid—I mean yes, certainly,” I stammered. It was not re-assuring to think of the weight that his word might have.

“When do you look for Mr. Horton to return?” I asked, rising from my chair as I spoke.

“Oh, not until your business is all settled; he said he’d stay and see it all through. He said that he’d have a surprise for me when he got back; but I guess he won’t. I imagine that he thought I’d feel surprised to learn that you’d received your papers, but I’d be surprised if you didn’t, after the way you’ve kept the faith, so to speak. Oh, now, sit down! You’re not going yet, are you? And after such a walk as it is from your house here, too!”

“I came down by the trail, Mrs. Horton.” And then I told her about Guard, thus accounting for the gun, which I had caught her glancing at, once or twice, rather curiously.

“Young dogs are foolish,” was her comment, when she had heard the story. “If he was older, I should tell you not to be a mite worried, but as he’s a young one, it’s different. I’ve known a young dog to get on a hot trail, and follow it until he was completely lost. My father lost a fine deerhound that way once. The dog got on the trail of a buck, and last we ever heard of him he was twenty miles away, and still going. I do hope you won’t have such bad luck with your dog.”

I bade good-by to Mrs. Horton, and started homeward, again taking the trail through the ravine. I was not much cheered by her words in regard to Guard, and heavily depressed by the knowledge that Mr. Horton had, after all, beaten Mr. Wilson and Jessie in his start for town—though what difference it could make, either way, until the Land Office was open in the morning no one could have told. Being troubled, I walked slowly, this time, with my eyes on the ground. Half-way through the ravine I came to a point where a break in the walls let in the sunlight. Through this low, ragged depression the light was streaming in in a long, brilliant shaft as I approached the spot. The warm, bright column of golden light had so strange an effect, lighting up the gray rocks and the moist, reeking pathway, that I paused to admire it. “If it were only a rainbow, now,” I thought, “I should look under the end of it, there, for a bag of gold.” My eyes absently followed the column of light to the point where it seemed suddenly to end in the darkness of the ravine, and I uttered a startled cry. Under the warm, bright light I saw the distinct impression of a dog’s foot. It was as clearly defined in the oozy reek as it would have been had some one purposely taken a cast of it, but after the first start, I reflected that it did not necessarily follow that the print was made by Guard. Still, examination showed that it might well be his. Searching farther, I found more tracks—above the break in the wall, but none in the ravine below it. The footprints had been a good deal marred by my own as I came down the ravine, and, what I thought most singular, supposing the tracks to have been made by Guard, there were also the hoof-marks of a horse—not a range-horse, for this one wore shoes, and, developing Indian lore as I studied the trail, I presently made the important discovery that, while the dog’s tracks occasionally overlaid those of the horse, the horse’s tracks never covered the dog’s. Clearly, then, if those footprints belonged to Guard, as I had a quite unaccountable conviction that they did, he was quietly following some horseman. For an indignant instant I suspected some reckless cowboy of having lassoed and stolen him, but a little further study of the footprints spoiled that theory. Guard would have resisted such a seizure, and the footprints would have been blurred and dragging. The clean impressions left by this canine were not those of an unwilling captive. I followed the tracks along the trail to the upper end of the ravine for some time, but learning nothing further in that way, returned again to the break in the wall. Looking attentively at that, I at length discovered a long, fresh mark on the slippery rock. Such a mark as might have been made by the iron-shod hoof of a horse, scrambling up the wall in haste, and slipping dangerously on the insecure foothold. With the recognition of this, I was scrambling up the bank myself. Scarcely had my head reached the level of the bank when a loud, eager whinny broke the silence. Startled, I slipped into a thicket of scrub-oaks, and, from their friendly shelter, made a cautious reconnoissance. Not far away, and standing in clear view, a bay horse was tethered to the over-hanging limb of a pine tree. It did not need a second glance for me to recognize Don, Mr. Horton’s favorite saddle-horse. That the poor creature had had a long and tedious wait, his eager whinnying, and the pawing of his impatient hoof, as he looked over in my direction, plainly told.

I watched him for awhile, breathlessly, and in silence, but he was far too anxious to keep silent himself. His distress was so apparent that I felt sorry for him, and finally decided that I might, at least, venture to approach and speak to him. Leaving my place of concealment I started toward him, but stopped abruptly with my heart in my mouth, before I had taken a dozen steps, as a new sound broke the silence. A new sound, but familiar, and doubly welcome in that wild place. It was the sharp, excited yelping that Guard was wont to make when he had treed game and needed help.

CHAPTER XXV

At the sound of Guard’s voice, regardless of caution, and waiting only to raise the hammer of the rifle that I held ready in my hand, I ran forward. Guard evidently had his eyes on me, although I could not see him; his yelps ceased for an instant to break forth with redoubled energy as I came within sight of him. He was standing over a heap of rubbish, into which he was glaring with vindictive watchfulness, but with one alert ear bent in my direction and the tip of his bushy tail quivered in joyful recognition as I advanced toward him. Before reaching him, however, I had found my bearings, as the hunters say, and knew the locality. Still, the place had an unfamiliar air. It was a minute or two before I saw the cause of this; then I missed the one thing that particularly designated the spot, setting it apart to that extent from many similar places. I had not seen the lonely, secluded little park more than two or three times in all the years that we had lived so near it, but whenever I had seen it, hitherto, a hunter’s shack, long abandoned, had stood on the farther edge of the opening. It had always seemed on the verge of falling, and, as I neared Guard, I saw that this was the thing that had happened: the cabin had collapsed, and, more than that, Guard had run something to earth under it.

The dog’s excited yelping, now that relief was at hand, was ear-splitting, but his vigilant watch did not for an instant relax.

“What is it, Guard—have you got a wildcat in there?” I panted, breathlessly, halting beside him. “Well; you just wait, now; we’re going to get him this time!” So speaking, I cautiously trained the muzzle of the rifle on the spot that his vigilant eyes never left off watching. Then I cast a hasty glance around. If half the wildcat stories that I had been hearing of late were true, it would be well to have some place of retreat to fall back upon, in case the cat, proving obdurate, should decline to die easily. Fortunately, as I thought, there was a large pine tree close at hand; it was, indeed, immensely large. I could no more have swarmed up that scaly trunk, had I flown to it for protection, than I could have spread out a pair of wings and flown to its topmost branches. In my excitement, I never thought of that, nor of the equally unpleasant fact that wildcats are expert climbers. Sure that the refuge at hand would suit, I dropped on one knee, training the rifle-muzzle into a crevice between a couple of fallen logs, and sighting along the barrel. I could see nothing, but, with my finger on the trigger, I was prepared to fire whether I sighted the enemy or not. Guard drew back, silent, now, but trembling with excitement.