CHAPTER VII.

ZEKE’S LETTER.

All the incidents described in the preceding chapters happened before the beginning of our story; but it was necessary that we should devote some time to them in order that the reader might be able to follow us understandingly. We have only one thing more to tell about, and then the thread of our story will run smoothly. Let us go back to George Ackerman, whom we left sitting on the porch in front of the rancho, mending his bridle and talking earnestly to himself.

“Uncle John and Ned act as though they don’t want me here,” repeated George, “and I have the best notion in the world to pack up my few things and clear out. The house doesn’t seem like home to me now. I am a great deal happier when I am in camp with Zeke than I am anywhere else. I have put up with a good deal, but I shan’t surrender my herd of cattle just to please that lazy Ned. If he wants to make a beginning in stock-raising, let him go to work, as I did. I had nobody to smooth the way for me.”

George was expecting a visit from his cousin, who had promised that he would come to him on this particular morning for an answer to a proposition he had made him a short time before. That proposition was, that George should accept him as a full partner in his business.

During the winter that had just passed, Ned had learned, to his entire satisfaction, that it is hard work to do nothing. He could not tell how he had managed to live through the long, dreary weeks, and he had made up his mind that he would never pass another winter in that way. He considered himself a full-fledged farmer now, for he had fifty acres of wheat planted; but wheat was a crop that required no care except for sowing and harvesting, and all the rest of the year he had to himself to spend as he pleased. After thinking the matter over he decided to go into partnership with his cousin. That would be the easiest thing he could do. As he knew nothing about taking care of cattle, of course George would not expect him to act as herder. He could stay in camp, when he felt like it, come home when he pleased, and George and Zeke would do all the work, and Ned would share in the profits. It was a very nice plan, no doubt, but George did not seem to be very enthusiastic over it; so Ned did not press him for an answer when he made the proposition, but informed him that he would ask for it before George left for his camp on the plains. The latter was getting ready to start now, and looking for Ned at the same time. He came just as George finished his soliloquy.

“Well,” said he, “have you considered my proposition?”

“I have, and it can’t be done,” was George’s reply. “Two persons are all that are needed to take care of so small a herd as mine.”

“Couldn’t you discharge Zeke and take me in his place?”

“And do all the work myself?” exclaimed George “No sir; I couldn’t.”

“You would rather keep him than please your cousin, I suppose,” snapped Ned, who was always angry when he could not have his own way.

“I am willing to do anything reasonable,” replied George, “but I can’t do two men’s work for the sake of pleasing you. Why don’t you make a start for yourself, as I did?”

“It would take too long; and besides I don’t know anything about cattle.”

“Yes, it will take years; but you will be learning the business all the while, and by the time you have a herd of your own you will know how to take care of it. I tell you there’s something back of this,” said George, to himself, as Ned jumped up and walked into the house, shaking his head and muttering to himself. “His offer to go into partnership with me is only a blind. He has another object in view, and I wish I knew what it is.”

“There’s only one thing about this business, and you can bet high on that, my fine lad,” thought Ned, as he disappeared in the house. “You shan’t treat me with contempt if everybody else does. I’ll show you who is boss here.”

George was certain that he had not heard the last of the matter, and in this he was not mistaken. When Ned had been gone about five minutes Uncle John came out, and before he had said a dozen words George knew just what he had to expect.

“I have concluded to reduce expenses about eighty dollars a month by discharging two herdsmen,” said Uncle John.

“All right, sir,” replied George cheerfully, “eighty dollars are worth saving; but do you think that those who are left will be able to do the work?”

“O, yes. Of course I intend that the places of those I discharge shall be supplied by others.”

“Then I don’t see how you are going to save anything. Besides, what’s the use of sending away good men and hiring others whom you don’t know anything about?”

“I don’t intend to hire any others. I want you and Zeke to take their places.”

“Oh! I thought that was what you were trying to get at,” said George, to himself. “Ned means to rule or ruin, but he shall do neither. Zeke and I can’t take their places,” he said, aloud. “We have all we can do now.”

“I will tell you how I intend to arrange matters,” said Uncle John, and George thought he looked and acted as though he did not much like the business he had set out to perform. “I am going to bring your herd in and distribute it among the others. You two can take care of more than three hundred cattle.”

“But I don’t want my herd broken up. I earned it without help; it belongs to me individually, and I am going to keep it. Zeke belongs to me, too; and while he is in my employ he shan’t herd cattle for anybody else.”

“Why, George!” exclaimed Uncle John, who seemed to be very much astonished at the emphasis the boy threw into his words. “I never knew you to be so disobedient before.”

“You will find me so every time you try to trample on me,” declared George, boldly. “I don’t know why you should want to take my herd away from me, but I do know there’s not a man on the place who would help you do it. Ah! I forgot you,” thought George, as his eye fell upon the Mexican cook, who just then crossed the yard, walking slowly and carrying his head on one side as if he were trying to overhear what passed between Uncle John and his nephew. “I believe that you are mean enough to do anything, Master Philip!”

“I intend that you shall obey me,” replied Uncle John, “and if you will not do it willingly, you must do it unwillingly. I shall discharge Zeke at once.”

“I don’t see how you can do that,” thought George, as Uncle John turned on his heel and walked into the house, “for you don’t pay him his wages. I don’t see how you are going to take my cattle away from me either, for the first thing will be to find them, and what would Zeke and I be doing while you were trying to drive them away? I should call it robbery, and I wouldn’t submit to it.”

The emphatic manner in which the boy nodded his head as he said this, and the look of determination that settled on his face would have surprised Uncle John if he could have seen them. The boy was resolved to hold fast to his property and to stubbornly resist any attempt that might be made to deprive him of it. It would be an act of gross injustice to take his earnings away from him, and George found it hard to believe that his uncle could think seriously of such a thing.

“If he tries it, it will only be in keeping with other mean things he has done since he has been here,” said George. “He and Ned are coming down on me harder and harder every month, and I should like to know what they mean by it.”

George seemed to put a little more energy into his work as he turned these matters over in his mind, and when at last the bridle was finished he threw it upon the porch, put the awl and what was left of the waxed-end ‘carefully away in a box that lay beside him on the ground, and taking the box in his hand started toward a little shed which stood a short distance in the rear of the house.

As he drew near to the shed, two animals he had left there a little while before greeted him, each after his own fashion. One was Bonaparte (called Bony, for short) George’s pack mule, and the other was Ranger, his favorite riding nag. These animals, which were among the best of their kind, had been the boy’s almost constant companions, ever since he returned from school and settled down to the business of herding cattle. Bony was small and clean-limbed, sleek as a mole and treacherous as mules generally are. He took unbounded delight in knocking over everything and everybody that came within reach of his hind feet, and when he felt in the humor for doing it, he could kick himself out from under the pack-saddle with the greatest ease. Ranger, on the other hand, did not know how to kick or bite, but he understood the business of cattle-herding, and would answer his master’s whistle as promptly as a well-trained dog. Nothing which his strength or agility could overcome would keep him from George’s side when he heard that whistle. He would jump a fence or swim a river to obey it. When in camp George never confined the animal with a lasso unless it was near the full of the moon and raids were expected from the Mexicans or Indians, for Ranger never thought of straying away. He was as black as midnight, very fleet and enduring, and George had almost as much affection for him as he would have had for a brother, for he was the last gift he had ever received from his father. The animals seemed to be ready for a journey, for Bony carried a loaded pack-saddle on his back, and Ranger was saddled but not bridled.

Upon reaching the shed George whistled the mule and led him toward the house, and Ranger, without waiting for the command, followed at his heels. He stopped at the porch, and after fastening the mule’s halter to the horn of the saddle that Ranger wore, he disappeared in the house. When he came out again he carried in his hands a bundle, a rifle and a small leather haversack. The bundle contained his overcoat, gloves, rubber-poncho and blankets; and in the haversack he carried the ammunition for his rifle—a new model Winchester, holding in its magazine sixteen cartridges, all of which could be discharged in as many seconds. He slung the rifle and haversack over his shoulders, tied the bundle behind his saddle and was just slipping the mended bridle over his horse’s head when Ned came out.

“Well, you are off for your last trip, are you?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, I am off for camp again, but not for the last time, I hope,” returned George, although he felt like making a very different answer. “One must do something to earn his bread and butter, you know, and life in camp suits me better than staying in the house doing nothing.”

“What have you got in that pack-saddle?” asked Ned.

“Provisions.”

“You needn’t have troubled yourself to lay in such a supply, for you won’t need them all.”

“Won’t I? Why not?”

Ned made no reply in words. He only smiled and shook his head as if he meant to convey the impression that he could tell something wonderful if he felt like it, and George, who was by this time in the saddle, touched his horse with his spurs and galloped away. He did not say anything more, for he was angry and afraid that he might utter some words that he would be sorry for. He thought he knew what his cousin meant by his nods and his smiles, and told himself that Ned was destined to be as badly disappointed as Uncle John was if he imagined that he and Zeke would surrender their herd of cattle to him any sooner than they would to a band of raiding Mexicans. It made George almost beside himself to dwell upon this subject, so he dismissed it altogether from his mind, and tried to think about pleasanter things.

That day’s ride was a hard one, and George, who was accustomed to such things, grew tired long before it was ended. The course he followed led him through the wildest portion of the country where farms and ranches were few and far between. Now and then he saw a horseman or two who would gallop to meet him, as they met every trader, and ask for the news; but George had little to tell that was of interest, and these interviewers did not long delay him. He made a short halt for dinner and in the afternoon travelled with increased speed, reaching the grove, toward which he had all the day been directing his course, and where he intended to spend the night, just as the sun was sinking out of sight behind the distant swells.

It was in this grove that George had expected to find Zeke, who, when his employer went after supplies, always brought his cattle as close to the settlements as he could find pasture for them, and so save time. George found the camp the herdsman had occupied while the cattle were feeding in the vicinity, but it was deserted, and had been for three or four days; consequently Zeke and his herd must be a long way from there, and George had nothing to do but make himself comfortable for the night and start in pursuit the next morning.

As soon as the boy had relieved Ranger of his saddle and Bony of the heavy load he had so patiently carried all the day, he turned the animals loose to graze, and started a fire in front of the dilapidated brush shanty Zeke had recently occupied. Upon the fire were placed a camp-kettle and frying-pan, one filled with water taken from the brook that ran close by, and the other with slices of bacon. Supper was fairly under way in a few minutes, and while he was waiting for the fire to cook it, George busied himself in repairing the cabin.

It was while he was thus engaged that he accidentally discovered something for which he had been looking ever since he reached the grove, and that was a letter from Zeke. It was written on a piece of bark and fastened to a tree in plain sight, but somehow George had managed to overlook it. The letter was made up of rough characters which had been rudely traced on the bark by the point of the herdsman’s hunting-knife. The first was an Indian’s arrow—that was drawn so plainly that anybody could have told what it was—and it pointed toward something that looked like a whale with an unusually large head which was surmounted by a pair of horns. It was certainly intended to represent a fish with horns and the only one of the species in that country that George knew anything about was a catfish.

The next two characters might have been taken for almost anything, except the objects that George knew they were intended to represent, namely, a couple of water-falls. The next looked like a front view of a man’s face, but one side of it was flat, while the other was round. This was meant for the moon in its first quarter. Under the moon were four short, straight lines, headed by a cross like the sign of multiplication; and these were intended to represent the days of the week, the cross standing for Sunday.

Zeke, who had lived in the mountains and on the prairie all his life, did not know one letter from another, but he had left behind him a communication that George read as easily as you can read this printed page. If he had given it a free translation, it would have read something like this:

“I have gone toward Catfish Falls. It is near the time of the full moon. I left camp on Thursday.”

After writing this much, Zeke did just as many a school-boy does—he added a postscript, containing the only item of information that was really worth knowing. It made George open his eyes, too. It consisted of drawings of a pair of moccasins, a fire with a thick smoke arising from it, and several horses’ feet. It meant that there were Indians in the neighborhood; that they were hostile Apaches (George knew that by the shape of the moccasins), and that Zeke had seen the smoke of their fires and the tracks made by their horses.

George, who was accustomed to sudden surprises and always expecting them, did not seem to be at all disturbed by this very unpleasant piece of news. Although he had never had any experience with raiders, he was brave and self-reliant, knew just what to do in any emergency that might arise while he was on the plains, and felt abundantly able to take care of himself. He ran his eye over the letter and postscript once more, to make sure that he had read them aright, and then walked back to his fire and sat down. He did not spend any more time in repairing the cabin, for he knew now that he should not occupy it that night. When his supper was cooked, he ate it with great deliberation; after which he put out his fire and returned to the pack-saddle all the articles he had taken out of it. There was a goodly supply of bacon and coffee left, and this George intended should serve him for his next morning’s breakfast.

“I may be out of reach of wood and water by the time I grow hungry,” thought he, as he buckled the pack-saddle and made it ready for Bony’s back. “I can’t stop here to-night, for the timber is by no means a safe place to camp when there are Indians about. I wish Zeke had told me which way they were going when he saw them, for I don’t want to run right in among them before I know it!”

As soon as Bony’s burden was adjusted and Ranger had been saddled and bridled, George mounted and rode rapidly away from the grove, holding a straight course for Catfish Falls, but making no effort to find Zeke’s trail. In fact, he did not want to find it, and if he had stumbled upon it accidentally, he would have ridden away from it with all haste. The vicinity of that trail was as dangerous a place as the grove he had just left. A band of raiders might strike it at any time, and follow it up for the purpose of capturing the herd, and George, if he chanced to be in the way, would run the risk of being captured, too.

The boy rode rapidly as long as he could distinguish objects about him, and when the darkness had shut him out from the view of any skulking Indian or Mexican, who might chance to be watching him from a distance, he slackened his pace and turned off at right angles with the course he had been pursuing. He rode about a mile in this direction, and then went into camp, staking out his horse and mule, and lying down to sleep, with his poncho for a bed, his saddle for a pillow and his hair lasso for a protection from the visitors of which his cousin Ned stood so much in fear, the rattlers. He slept soundly, too, relying upon Ranger and Bony to arouse him, in case any one approached his camp, and awoke at the first peep, of day, refreshed and invigorated. A couple of hard biscuits, added to the coffee and bacon he had saved from his last night’s supper, furnished him with as good a breakfast as he cared for, and when it had been disposed of, George was ready to begin his day’s journey.

The boy spent one more night alone on the prairie, and on the afternoon of the second day found Zeke’s camp. As he emerged from a belt of post-oaks, through which he had been riding for the last hour, he saw a small herd of cattle feeding on the prairie, and was welcomed by a shrill neigh, which came from the direction of a fire that was burning in the edge of the timber a short distance away. Bony answered the greeting with a long-drawn bray, and Ranger, breaking into a gallop, carried his rider into the camp, where he was met by a tall, broad-shouldered man, who arose from his blanket as he approached. This was Zeke. What his other name was George did not know; in fact, he did not believe that Zeke knew it himself.

If a stranger had judged Zeke by his appearance, he would have put him down as anything but an agreeable or safe companion. He was rough and uncouth in person and manners, and as bronzed and weather-beaten as any old salt. His hair, which fell down upon his shoulders, and the luxuriant whiskers and mustache that almost concealed his face, were as white as snow, and bore evidence to the fact that he carried the weight of many years on his shoulders; but his form was as erect as an Indian’s, and his step as firm and quick as it had been in the days of his youth. He looked like one possessed of immense physical power, as indeed he was; and those who had seen him in moments of danger, knew that he had the courage to back up his strength. He was as faithful as a man could be, and ready to do and dare anything in defence of his young employer. George had selected him from among the numerous herdsmen employed on his father’s ranche, and they had been almost inseparable companions ever since.

“I am glad to see you, Zeke,” said the boy, as he swung himself out of the saddle, and placed his hand in the broad palm that was extended toward him, “for, to tell the truth, I have felt afraid ever since I found your letter down there in the grove. I can’t help believing that something is going to happen. Have you seen anything more of the Indians?”

“No,” replied Zeke. “They went t’wards the settlements.”

“That’s bad for the settlers, but good for us. We’re safe,” said George, drawing a long breath.

“Not by no means, we hain’t safe. Them Apaches must come back, mustn’t they?”

George hadn’t thought of that. Of course, the Indians must come back, if they intended to return to their own country, and George did not like to think of what would happen, if he and Zeke and their herd of cattle should chance to cross their path. They _did_ cross the path of a band of raiders—some who were looking for them and knew just where to find them,—and before he was many days older, George was the hero of one or two startling adventures, and also gained some items of information, from various sources, that almost overwhelmed him with wonder and amazement!