Chapter 7

RUBE CARTER'S VISITOR

"Hullo!"

Rube Carter was studying the architect's plan of Kiddie's woodland cabin. The portable sections of the building were all precisely numbered; but they were nevertheless perplexing, and he wanted, above all things, to avoid mistakes.

Usually when in doubt he could apply for an explanation to Kiddie himself, but on this particular day Kiddie was absent on duty with the Pony Express, and Rube had to puzzle out the difficulty unhelped. He had one of the elevation plans spread out in front of him on the working bench, and was trying to ascertain the exact position of a window casement, when a moving shadow crossed the sheet of paper.

He had not heard any one approaching. The only sounds he had been conscious of were the mumbling of his pet bear cub lying beside him chained to a log, busily licking the inside of an empty honey jar, and the regular strokes of the woodman's axe as Abe Harum worked at the felling of a pine tree some distance away. The shadow came from behind him and stopped on the sunlit expanse of paper.

Rube turned sharply round and looked up at the intruder.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "Where did you blow in from, I'd like ter know? An' what 're you doin' here, anyway? You aware as you're trespassin'?"

He stood confronting a tall, handsome young Indian, who was dressed in fringed buckskins with a red shirt, and a close-fitting cap of beaver fur. There was a finely-plaited leather belt about his waist, from which was suspended a holster containing a heavy revolver. His moccasins, of white deerskin, were gaily decorated with an intricate design in beads and coloured silks and little bits of looking-glass. They were so dainty, it seemed almost that their wearer wanted to draw special attention to his feet. Rube, however, stared inquisitively into the stranger's ruddy brown face, noticing how closely together his piercing black eyes were set and how sharp and thin was his nose. He was an unusually handsome person.

"Injuns ain't supposed ter come out from their reservations," the boy continued. "Anyhow, you've got no business trespassin' on this yer property. You'd best quit. You're not lost, I suppose? You knows your way home?"

"Ugh!" the Indian grunted, taking a step nearer and glancing curiously at the plan.

"Dessay you've got no savee fer what I'm tellin' you," Rube went on, signing a dismissal, "but I can't help that. You gotter quit, see? Go away. Make yerself scarce. Vamoose."

"Oh, I quite understand," said the Indian, speaking, to Rube's surprise, in very good English. "Your words are clear as the sunlight. It is only their meaning that I do not seize. You speak of trespass. I am not a trespasser. For long, long years--many generations--my people have had their hunting grounds, have put up their lodges, and lived and died in these same forest glades. They have trapped the beaver in this same creek, taken fish from this same lake, and followed the buffalo on yonder prairie. Who shall stop me if I lay my line of traps where my people so long ago laid theirs?"

Rube shrugged his shoulders.

"I ain't figurin' ter discuss ancient hist'ry with you, mister," he said. "I'm not denyin' that Redskins hunted on these yer lands centuries 'fore the white man happened along. But that ain't got nothin' t' do wi' you an' me to-day. You're trespassin' on private property, an' you gotter quit, see? An' if you've bin layin' traps around you kin just lift 'em an' take 'em along with you. This yer forest, that thar lake, an' all the land as far's you kin see belongs ter Lord St. Olave. And he don't allow no trespassers mouchin' around."

"Lord St. Olave?" The Indian pronounced the name with peculiar distinctness. "Otherwise Kiddie," he added, resting a foot on the log, but carefully avoiding the bear cub. "I have heard of him."

"Yes, an' seen him, too," rejoined Rube.

"Seen him? When?" questioned the Indian.

"Why," answered Rube, "you saw him pretty plain, I guess, the time he dropped his lariat over your arms in One Tree Gulch. I suppose you thinks I don't know you, eh? You're Broken Feather; that's who you are. Broken Feather, the boss chief of the Injun village over thar. An' now, what you want? What you doin' around here? Spyin' out the lie o' the land fer future raids?"

"Surely I am at liberty to take interest in a neighbour's building operations," returned the chief. He leant closer over the working bench and gazed down at the architect's plan with renewed curiosity. "This, I suppose, is the front entrance," he said.

He touched the paper at a particular part of the design, but quickly drew his arm back. Rube heard him draw a deep breath, as if he were in pain.

"Say, what's up?" the boy asked. "You took bad in th' inside?"

Instead of answering, Broken Feather turned sharply round. Abe Harum was approaching, followed at some distance by Rube Carter's mother, who carried a basket of food for the workers.

The Indian waited coolly, taking out a tobacco bag and a packet of cigarette papers. Rube thought it curious that he did not make a cigarette, but hesitatingly returned the material to his pocket, as if on deliberation he had decided not to smoke.

"I see you got a visitor, Rube," said Abe, as he strode up. "How do, Broken Feather! You still coveting that Arab mare?--wantin' to buy her, since you couldn't steal her? Well, she ain't for sale."

"I was hoping to see Lord St. Olave," announced the chief. "I come to pay a friendly call upon him. Why not?"

"Friendly?" Abe stared at him in amazement. "Say, you've got some nerve t' come right here an' talk like that, mister. Lord St. Olave ain't anyways likely t' accept friendly calls from the likes o' you. Thar's too much bad blood 'tween you an' him fer that. Anyhow, he's not at home, an' won't be for a long while. So thar's no use your hangin' around."

"Won't be for a long while," Broken Feather repeated. Then with a look of cunning he added: "It will be a longer while than you think."

As he went away, treading very silently, he looked round and spoke in his own tongue, which neither Abe nor Rube could understand. He disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. When he was out of sight, Mee-Mee went up to Abe Harum.

"You no savvy what he say," she said. "I savvy heap. He say Kiddie never, never come back. He say he catch Kiddie on trail, kill him, take him scalp."

"I don't notion he came here ter say that, though," said Rube.

"What d'you reckon he come for?" asked Abe.

"Dunno," said Rube. "But I got a idea. Mother," he turned to Mee-Mee, "jus' you hustle back t' the homestead an' let the big dog loose, will yer?"

"What in thunder d'you want the dog for?" questioned Abe.

"I didn't think of it till he'd gone," returned Rube. "But jus' after you come along, he took out his tobacco pouch ter make a cigarette, but didn't make one. Before that, he stretched out his hand ter touch this yer plan, an' drew his arm back as if the paper'd burnt him. Now why? Ain't it plain? His arm was sore; he couldn't roll a cigarette. When he stretched out his hand it hurt him. It was his left hand, Abe. Kiddie made out that the man as fired that poisoned arrow was bitten in the left arm when the hound attacked him. See?"

"Yes, but what about the hob-nailed boots?" asked Abe. "I noticed that Broken Feather's wearin' moccasins. And uncommonly gay ones they are."

"Nobody c'd help noticin' 'em," argued Rube. "That's what he wanted, in case we'd heard about the boot-tracks. Ain't he just cute, puttin' us off the scent thataway?"

"That don't explain why he should come prowlin' around here," pursued Abe. "What did he want here, anyway? What's your idea?"

"This," said Rube. "Broken Feather calculated he wouldn't find Kiddie here to-day. He knew that Kiddie was ridin' with the Express. That was his chance--ter come here while Kiddie was away and ter prowl around in search of that hound--meanin' ter shoot her at sight with that heavy six-shooter that he carried. That was his errand, sure as mud."

"If that's so," resumed Abe Harum, "why do you want the hound let loose? She'll get on his track. She'll go up ter him where he's most likely lyin' in hiding. Then he'll put a bullet inter her. You'd best ha' kept her chained up, sure."

Rube shook his head.

"Broken Feather's too cunnin' ter do her any harm now that he knows he's been seen. He didn't want t' be seen. He didn't expect t' be. He happened upon me quite sudden, when he was sneakin' round ter git past where you was busy fellin' that tree. I'd seen his shadder 'fore he knew I was thar at the bench. No, Abe, he won't hurt the dog. I've a notion he's gone right away."

"Leavin' no proof that he's the man that tried ter kill Kiddie," added Abe.

"Wait till the hound comes along," said Rube; "then we shall have proof. Just wait."

When at length the deerhound came limping eagerly towards them from among the trees, her nose was lowered to the ground and her tail slashing to and fro. Rube called her, but she went on sniffing the grass, until she got on to Broken Feather's track. Then she bounded forward in pursuit of him. Rube Carter followed her down to the creek, where she stopped.

"Checked!" muttered Rube. "He's too clever for us. Not a bit o' use trying ter pick up his scent in runnin' water, Sheila. Never mind, you've given proof that he's the man that dealt you the cut on the shoulder."

Rube was eager to tell Kiddie of his discovery, and he sat up that night with Abe Harum, waiting for Kiddie to ride along the trail and change ponies at Birkenshaw's station.

Towards two o'clock in the morning, when the eastern bound Express was due, Abe got ready the relay pony, and led it down to the trail. Rube accompanied him. The night was very dark, a thin rain was falling, and they took shelter under the trees. Abe presently struck a match, to see his watch.

"It's time," he said. "D'ye hear him comin'?"

"No," Rube answered. "Mebbe your ticker's a bit fast."

"It's exactly right," Abe assured him. "An' Kiddie's four minutes behind time. 'Tain't like Kiddie t' be late. Dessay his relay wasn't ready at Three Crossings. Keep yer ears open. Wind's comin' this way. We ought t' ha' heard him long ago."

Abe was at first merely interested in the fact of Kiddie being slightly behind schedule time. Then he became impatient, then anxious, and finally seriously alarmed.

"Suthin's happened," he declared. "Never knew Kiddie t' be late like this. Suthin's sure happened."