Part 8

"Old Blue Jay he jist seemed to savey what was wanted of him, an' swam 'long without any fuss. When Jackson gits out close to the millin' steers he begin to holler an' shoot, an' he called to the fellers in the boat to come back an' try to stop 'em. Now, you all know what a risky thing it is to go near a steer a-swimmin' in the water, for he's sure to try to climb up on you. Jackson knowed this, but he swam Blue Jay right slap-dab inter the bunch an' tried to scatter 'em an' stop 'em from millin'.

"Just how it happened we couldn't tell; but first thing we seen Jackson was right in the middle of the millin' critters, an' in a minute they had crowded pore old Blue Jay under, an' all we seen of Jackson was his hands went up an' then he was lost in the whirlin' mass of horns that was goin' round and round. A man had no chance at all to swim, 'cause their hoofs kep' him under all the time, an' they was packed so close a feller couldn't come up between 'em, anyway. The boys in the boat tried to do something, but 'twan't no use, fer he never come up, an' when they got too close one big steer throwed his head over the side of the boat an' purty nigh upset 'em, so they had to keep away to save theirselves. But they kep' up a-shootin' an' a-hollerin' 'till the leaders finally struck out for shore, an' in a few minutes the whole herd was strung out for the opposite side an' sooner than I kin tell it they was all standin' on dry land, an' not a single one missin'.

"Meantime the boys in the boat had watched everywhere for pore Jackson's body, but they never got sight of it, though they went 'most down to the mouth of the box cañon. Thar was lots of big trees an' drift a-runnin', an' we guessed his body had been caught in the branches of a tree an' carried down with it. Pore old Blue Jay come floating past 'em, an' they tried to catch him, but the current was so swift they couldn't do it. All they wanted was to get Jackson's silver-mounted bridle off'n him, 'cause 'twas easy 'nuff to see that the pony was quite dead.

"Well, the rest of us crossed in the big ferry-boat an' rounded up the steers, which was grazin' up the cañon on the other side, an' moved 'em out a couple of miles to camp. Shorty, bein' the oldest hand in the outfit, took charge, an' sent two of us back to the ferry, to try an' see ef Jackson's body could be found, but the feller what runs the ferry said 'tain't no use lookin' fer him, 'cause the swift current would carry him miles and miles down the cañon without ever lodgin' anywhere. So we went back, an' Shorty gave it up an' decided to push the herd on next day. We was a blue ole crowd that night around the campfire, I tell you. All the boys liked Jackson, an' besides, they was a-thinkin' of his wife an' two kids what was a-waitin' for him at the headquarter ranch up in Utah.

"Shorty sent a letter from the ferry settlement to the old man, a-tellin' him what had happened, an' we come along up with the cattle, arrivin' safely at the ranch without any more misfortunes."

"An' didn't they never find Jackson's body, Colly?" queried the Kid.

"Wal," said Colly, "that's a singular thing, too. When we gets back to the ranch the old man he was orful cut up about it, an' hated to think that the body wasn't found. He'd been down in the Grand Cañon the summer afore with a lot of fellers, an' he said he believed he could find it 'bout a hundred miles below the ferry, 'cause thar were a place down thar in the cañon whar the walls widened out fer some twenty miles, an' thar was quite a valley with grassy meadows an' trees. So he takes one of the boys an' a pack outfit an' goes off down thar. They had to leave everything on top of the cañon an' climb down a-foot an' pack their stuff on their backs. The walls was six thousand feet high thar, an' they had a hard time gettin' down. Course, it was jist a scratch, but I'm blest if after four or five days' hunt they didn't find it lodged in a pile of drift along the river. 'Twas easy 'enuff to tell Jackson's body, fer he'd had two fingers of his left hand shot off in a fight once; so they takes it off to a place in the valley whar it was safe from flood, an' buries it as well as they could, an' next year, he went back an' packed the remains out of the cañon an' took them clean to the ranch an' buried 'em jist as if it was his own brother. I tell you, the boys was ready to swear by old man Saunders after that."

Colorado's story was finished, and as it was about ten-thirty the second guard-men began putting on overcoats and heavy gloves preparatory to two hours and a half of watching the herd.

The stars were shining clear and bright, the bells of the horse-herd came softly over the prairie, making a tuneful chime on the frosty night air, and as I untied the rope that bound my roll of bedding and kicked it out on the ground, I could not keep from thinking of poor Jackson's death and wondering if the morrow held a like fate in store for any of us.

THE TENDERFOOT FROM YALE

By permission _American Forestry Magazine_.

"The trouble with this here forest service business nowadays is, that they're sendin' out, from the effete and luxurious East, a lot of half-baked kids, what never seen a mountain in all their lives, don't know whether beans is picked from trees or made in a factory at Battle Creek, an' generally ain't got savvy enough to find their way home after dark.

"Now here's this kid we've drawed in the last deal; nice enough boy, I reckon, but who's goin' to play nursey to him up in these here hills?" The speaker glared at his companion as if defying him to meet his charges against the newcomer and his kind.

"But he's got eddication, Jack," replied his listener, "an' that's what counts in these days. We got into the service in them good old days when it was a case of ability to ride a pitchin' bronc, rope a maverick, chase sheep herders off the earth, shoot the eyes out of a wildcat at forty yards an' all them things. Nowadays they picks 'em out by their brand of learnin' an' not by their high-heeled boots."

"Howsomever," he continued, "there's some of them that makes good in spite of their eddicational handicap. Over on the Sierra last fall we was all a-settin' in camp one Sunday afternoon when the phone rings like they was trying to wake the dead with it. The old man gits up to answer it. When he says, sort of startled-like, 'Fire, where?' we all pricks up our ears. 'Twas a mighty dry time an' every one was a-prayin' for rain, for we'd been fightin' fire for the last month and was all in.

"We had a fire lookout station up on top of a high peak an' a man, with the best glasses money could buy, a-sittin' there who could see all over the range for fifty miles.

"Say, people got so they was afraid to make a campfire anywheres in them hills, an' the rangers swore they had to go behind a tree to light their pipes, lest he'd see the smoke an' send in a fire call.

"'Shut-eye,' said the old man, meaning the lookout, 'Shut-eye says there's a big smoke a-comin' out of the cañon below Gold Gulch to the left of Greyback Peak, an' I reckon we'd better be a-movin' that way.'

"It didn't take us long to saddle up, slap a pack onto a couple of mules, an' hit the trail. 'Twas a good ten-mile over a rough country, an' it was mighty nigh dark afore we gets to where we could see smoke a-boiling out of the cañon over a ridge ahead of us.

"We was all old-timers at the work, 'ceptin' a young feller fresh from the Yale Forestry School, what had come out for a sort of post-graduate course in forestry, an' some of them boys was seein' to it he got it all right.

"He had all the fixin's them fellers bring along with them, fancy ridin' panties, a muley saddle, a wind bed an' a automatic six-pistol, one of them things what, after she once gits to shootin', you jist got to throw her into the creek to stop her goin'.

"'Bout two miles from the ridge where we reckoned we'd git our first view of the fire we meets up with Hank Strong an' his wife. You know, Hank's woman is just about as crazy to go to a fire as a boy to the circus, an' she always comes in mighty handy to start a camp, take care of the boys' horses an' the packs while we're a-workin'.

"Generally she'd make up a big pot of coffee and fetch it out to the line. Once she comes a-ridin' along carryin' a pot full an' a bear skeered her hoss--but that's nothin' to do with this yarn.

"Hank says that there's also a big smoke comin' up from the vicinity of Granite Basin, an' the old man he says some one better go over there an' see what's goin' on. Thar's a chap named Brown a-livin' in the Basin, an' the Super, he's afraid, mebbe so he'd get caught in the fire an' be singed some, the Basin bein' in the allfiredest lot of chapparal brush you ever see.

"This feller Brown, he's a sort of pet of them boys over that a-way, him bein' a lunger an' not able to do much but draw funny pictures for the Sunday supplements. Seems he broke down back East an' comes West to try an' git over it.

"There he sets a-drawin' pictures for them funny papers an' sendin' 'em in regular, while he ses he's jist a-walkin' around to beat the undertaker.

"Nobody else is a-livin' in the basin, there bein' nothin' but a little old cabin, what a bee-man put up once, an' a few hives of bees Brown bought along with the cabin. 'Them bees is jist to teach me habits of industry,' ses Brown, when some of the boys asked him if he calculated to git rich on the output of them hives.

"The old man he reckons he can't spare any of us old hands to go over there, an' so he says to the young tenderfoot: 'Son,' he says, 'do you reckon you can make it over there in the dark and find out what's doin' in Granite Basin an' come back an' let us know?'

"The boy he ses he reckoned he could, only he didn't know the trail all the way. Then Hank's wife she speaks up an' says she can go along as far as the top of the mountain, an' show him the trail down into the basin.

"It sort of hacked the kid to have a woman show him the trail, but the old man said it were the very idee, an' so she an' the boy struck off, leavin' us to take care of the fire ahead.

"There wa'n't but one way into the basin an' that was down a graded trail about two miles long from top to bottom that the bee man had made to git in and out on.

"The lower part of this basin was one great mass of brush, an' as thick as the hair on a dog's back, so you couldn't git through it only where the brush had been cut out.

"When they gits to the top an' could see over the basin there wa'n't any doubt but there was a fire all right an' it was mighty plain that if Brown wa'n't already out of there it was time he was startin'.

"Hank's wife were a-dyin' to go down with him, but the kid he ses, 'This here's my job, please,' and bluffed her out.

"'You look out you don't get cut off on the trail,' she warns him, 'the way that fire's a-eatin' along the side of the basin, it's a-goin' to reach the trail inside of an hour, an' there ain't no other way out 'ceptin' a foot path what goes up the side of the basin back of the cabin, but it's more like a ladder than a trail an' you can't take your hoss there a-tall.'

"Down into the basin goes the boy, while instead of goin' back to the outfit the woman stopped there on a little point of rock where she could look all over the basin an' waited to see what'd happen.

"Brown slep' out under a big ole oak-tree, an' as he gits near the cabin the kid he lets out a yell or two to wake him an' finds Brown settin' up in bed sort of half-dazed, what with the yellin' an' onnatural brightness of the skies all abouts.

"Inside of five minutes they was a-ridin' for the trail up the mountain with Brown a-settin' behind on the kid's horse. But it were too late. When they reached the foot of the trail they could see where 'bout half way up the whole blamed mountain was afire. Nothin' could pass through it an' live, so there wa'n't nothin' to do but go back an' try to get out on the foot trail.

"Brown he begs the kid to go an' leave him an' save hisself. 'I'm only a worn-out shell, anyhow,' he ses, 'an' it's jist a question of time till it's all over for me an' I cash in, but you got something to live for ahead of you.'

"But the kid wouldn't stand for it.

"'Don't you talk to me 'bout leavin' you here like a rat in a trap,' ses he, 'we'll make it up that trail all right; jist you hang onto me and we'll make the hoss pack us as far as he can go, an' then we'll take it afoot. If it comes to a showdown I can carry you easy enough.'

"So they rides the hoss up the trail till where it runs into a cliff 'bout twenty feet high. Here thar was a ladder to git up the cliff, an' the kid he strips off the saddle, takes his water bag, an' turns his hoss to shift fer hisself. Time they gits up that ladder pore Brown he were all in an' had to lie down on the ground a-coughin' fit to kill hisself.

"This trail was jist a foot trail cut through the chapparal, an' the smoke an' heat was already a-rollin' down onto 'em where they was like a blast from a furnace. The kid he wets their handkerchiefs from his water bag an' they each tied 'em about their faces to sort of protect 'em a little.

"The boy, he looks mighty anxiouslike at them big high walls of flames a-comin' down toward 'em, an' fairly forced Brown to git on his back 'pick-a-back' like you'd take a little kid, an' started slowly up the trail.

"Foot by foot he climbed to'rd the top. Sometimes the smoke got so thick they had to lie down a minute clost to the ground to git their breath, sometimes the wind dropped big blazin' brands onto 'em an' set their clothes afire, an' he'd have to stop an' rub it out with his hands.

"Every time he took a look up to'rds the top, he'd see the fire a-comin' closter an' closter to the trail. Pore Brown he tried to help him some by walkin', but between the excitement an' the smoke gittin' into his lungs, it were too much for him, an' he dropped down helpless as a newborn baby.

"The kid, he takes a survey of things an', little as he knowed 'bout fires in the chapparal, he seen mighty plain, that they were at the critical pint, an' if they didn't git past the next hundred feet mighty soon, the fire would cut 'em off, an' it would be good-bye gay world to 'em both.

"Then he hears a moan from Brown an', lookin' round, sees him lyin' flat on the ground with one hand clapped over his mouth, an' tricklin' between his fingers was a stream of blood. Didn't take him but a second to know it were a hemorrhage; beats all what them fellers do learn at them colleges, don't it?

"Brown were a-workin' away with one hand at the little pocket in his shirt an', in his eagerness an' excitement, the button wouldn't come open. The boy jumped to his side, tore the button loose, an' pulled from the pocket a little tobacco sack with something in it. Brown he holds out one hand palm up, an' nodded to the boy to open the sack, which he did, an' then poured out into his hand a little pile of common table salt. You know them lunger-fellers most of 'em carries a little sack of salt agin' jist such emergencies. Brown he throwed his head back an' swallowed every grain of it an', bimeby, the blood stopped running so hard. He struggled to his feet, then waved his hand to'rd the top an', with a beseechin' look in his eyes, tried to git the kid to savvy that he was to go on an' leave him to die.

"But the boy he wa'n't made of that sort of stuff. He's jist about skeered to death at the sight of the blood, but he pulls hisself together, grabs Brown in his arms agin, an' grits his teeth for another fight for their lives.

"Finally, he comes to a place where, about ten feet ahead, the fire was clean acrost the trail. He puts Brown down for a minute, pulls off his coat, lays it on the ground, an' pours over it what water was left in his water bag. Then he wraps Brown's head an' shoulders in the coat an', grabbing him up in his arms, agin makes a last dash through the smoke an' fire.

"Seems like he hears a woman's voice above the roar of the fire an' he sort of wonders is he gittin' a little loco with it all. Next he knows he's a-drawin' in big gulps of air that ain't full of smoke, an' there's a woman a-walkin' longside of him, steadyin' him as he staggers under his load an' a-rubbin' out, with a wet gunny sack, the places where his an' Brown's clothes are a-smokin'.

"It all appears as a horrible dream to him, an' fust thing he knows, he don't know nothin', for he's gone an' keeled over in a dead faint. Don't laugh, you fool; didn't you ever work at a fire till it seemed as if your lungs was a-goin' to bust an' your heart was a-beatin' like a cock patridge on a log?

"Then he gits a quart or more of cold water slap in the face, opens his eyes, an' there's Hank's wife a-standin' over him. Clost by was Brown, alive an' apparently uninjured. She knowed if he got through a-tall he's bound to come out right about there and was a-watchin' for him.

"When we comes along 'bout three hours later, we finds the boy and the woman hard at work, back-firin' along the old stage road an' the fire pretty well under control on that side.

"Say, that kid were a sight to look at. He ain't got no more eyebrows or lashes than a rabbit, an' that there curly mop of his was singed an' scorched like the rats had been a chawin' onto it."

"And Brown?" asked Jack.

"Oh, Brown, why he come through all right. Saw a lot of his funny pictures in the Sunday supplement last week. 'Peared like the fire done him good."

DUMMY

By permission _National Wool Growers' Magazine_

"Take him, Bob; take him, boy." The woman pointed to a coyote skulking in the sage brush a hundred yards from the camp wagon beside which she stood. The dog raced toward the animal which turned and stopped, a nasty snarl coming from its lips, teeth bared, every hair of its mane erect. Almost as large as a full grown wolf it outweighed the dog by many pounds.

Surprised at the coyote's hostile attitude the Airedale stopped for a moment, then advanced cautiously, realizing that this coyote differed somewhat from those he had met before.

Instantly the coyote flew at the dog, burying its keen teeth deep in his left leg, leaping quickly back to avoid a clinch, its jaws snapping like castanets. The dog, though taken by surprise, fought with all the fury of his breed, but being only a pup was manifestly overmatched. Realizing the dangerous character of the coyote, the woman seized the camp axe standing at the front wheel of the wagon and ran to the aid of her protector.

The coyote tore loose from the dog's grip and jumped at her as she came nearer. She swung the axe as the animal raised in the air, missed its head by six inches, and, before she could gather herself for another blow, it sank its fangs deep into her bare arm. Encouraged by her presence the dog fastened himself to the animal's hindquarters, but shaking him loose it lunged at her again. She stood her ground, thrusting the axe at the brute in an endeavor to keep it at bay. Meantime the door to the camp wagon opened, a boy about fifteen jumped to the ground, in his hand a heavy automatic pistol. As the coyote sprang at the woman's body he thrust the weapon under her arm almost in the animal's face, and the shot that followed blew half its ugly head away.

As the beast sank to the ground the woman dropped the axe, ran to the wagon, picked up a rope hobble that lay on the tongue, tied it around her arm above the wound and, with a short piece of stick, twisted the improvised tourniquet until it sank deep into the white flesh. The boy, the while uttering those strange inarticulate sounds of the deaf and dumb, wrote a few words upon the slate that hung from his neck by a leather thong and handed it to the woman. "The signal--shoot the signal," she read.

She seized the automatic the boy had used, raised it above her head, fired two quick shots, waited a moment, and fired two more. As she listened there came through the still cold air an answer, sharp and staccato as the spark from a wireless.

Then, and not until then, did the woman relax and sink to the ground as if dead.

The physical disabilities of the boy had given him a keenness and comprehension far beyond his years. He clambered into the wagon, drew from its scabbard a heavy rifle, jumped to the ground and repeated the signal three times. Could his ears have served him he would have heard the answering shots, this time much nearer.

No rider in a Wild West relay race ever quit his pony with greater speed than did Jim Stanley as he reached his camp, where with one quick glance he realized what had happened. As he dropped beside his wife she opened her eyes, grasped his hand and struggled to rise. The boy ran to the wagon returning quickly with a small box, the well known red cross on its black shining side proving it to be a "first aid kit." The woman smiled faintly. Away back in the mountains the forest ranger's wife had once showed her the box the government furnished all its rangers, and when the lambs were shipped in August she coaxed Stanley to bring one back. He rather laughed at the idea, but to please her, bought one and, with a woman's foresight, it had always been kept in the camp wagon.

The prevalence of rabies among the coyotes was the one live topic in every sheep and cattle camp all over the range country and, realizing the serious nature of the wound, the man took the box from the boy, opened it and seized the booklet which told briefly what to do in such an emergency.

The pressure of the tourniquet was lessened, causing the wound to bleed freely, a most valuable aid to its cleansing, and in a few minutes it had been well washed with hot water, flooded with a strong solution of carbolic acid and bound tightly with one of the bandages from the box.

In the meantime, the man had decided on his course. At a sign from him the boy mounted the horse Stanley had ridden into camp and rode rapidly off across the range. While he was gone, Stanley outlined his plans to his wife. With good luck they could intercept the auto stage, that passed down the road every day, at a point some thirty miles distant. From there it was seventy-five miles to town which they would reach that night in time to catch the midnight train to the nearest Pasteur institute.

"But the sheep, Jim?" and the woman looked anxiously out on the range. "We can't leave them all alone, you better let me make the ride by myself and you stay here, for I can get through all right."

Stanley shook his head. "Not for all the sheep in the world would I let you go alone." He kissed her cheeks.

"But Jim," she pleaded, "it's too much to risk and I'll make it without a bit of trouble."

The boy was just turning the point of a little hill near camp driving before him the two horses hobbled out the night before. Stanley pointed to him. "Dummy can turn the trick all right enough, he's the best herder in this whole range for his age, and he'll get 'em through if any one can. He's only a boy, but he has a lot of good horse-sense and if the weather holds out he'll work the herd from here to the winter range and not lose a sheep."

"But we'll take the team with us; how can he move camp?" and she glanced at the big roomy camp wagon.

"That saddle pony of mine will carry all the grub and bedding he'll need and the wagon can stand right here till some of us can get back and haul it away."