CHAPTER XXXVIII.

FAREWELL TO THE HILLS.

“I say, perfessor, what in creation brung that thar brother of yours out to this country, and throwed him into the company of such a varmint as that Lish?” asked Big Thompson, as Oscar joined him at the woodpile the next morning, where he stood taking an observation of the weather.

“Oh, he came out here to make his fortune; and, like a good many others who have tried it, he spent all his money, and had to take up with the first thing that came in his way.”

With this introduction, Oscar went on to tell as much of Tom’s history as he was willing the guide should know. He went more into the particulars of the matter than he would have done under almost any other circumstances, for he saw very plainly that his companion was not at all pleased to have Tom there.

He very naturally supposed that anyone who could willingly associate with such a fellow as the wolfer must of necessity be as bad and worthless as he was, and Oscar’s first task was to free his mind from this impression. His next was to awaken sympathy for the unfortunate Tom, and in both these efforts he succeeded beyond his expectations.

He had the gratification of seeing that, after his conversation with him, Big Thompson was as friendly toward Tom as he was toward himself.

“He is not going home with me,” said Oscar in conclusion. “He came out here with a good deal of money in his pocket, and I don’t blame him for wanting to stay until that money is all replaced. When we get to the fort I am going to see what I can do for him.”

Oscar felt better after this talk with his guide, and urged him to hurry up the breakfast, as he was impatient to see that fine hunting dog at work.

He made all sorts of sport of the shaggy, ill-looking little fellow, who must have understood some of his disparaging remarks, for he promptly and fiercely resented every attempt that Oscar made to scrape an acquaintance with him. Big Thompson only grinned and nodded his head, as if to say, “Wait and see,” and so confident was he of success during the coming hunt that he told Tom to follow about a mile in their rear with the mule, and come up to them when he heard them shoot.

Breakfast over, the two hunters set out on foot, Big Thompson carrying his dog under his arm; and, after three hours’ rapid walking through the willows that lined the banks of the brook, they came within sight of the grove at the upper end of the valley. When they had approached within a quarter of a mile of it, the boy’s heart bounded with hope, for he saw a large elk—the very one he wanted most—walk out of the timber, take a look about him, and then walk back again.

The guide now took the lead, moving with noiseless steps, and Oscar followed close behind.

They approached within less than two hundred yards of the grove without alarming the game, and there they halted. It was evident that a number of elk were browsing in the grove, for the bushes could be heard crashing in every direction.

“Now, then,” whispered the guide, lifting the dog in the air, so that he could look over the thicket behind which they had crept for concealment, “do you hear ’em in thar? If yer sartin ye do, go in and fetch ’em out.”

He placed the dog upon the ground, and the little animal was off like a shot. He ran with surprising swiftness across the intervening space, and disappeared in the grove, which presently began to echo with his shrill bark.

This was followed by an increased commotion in the bushes, and Oscar’s first thought was that the insignificant little beast was driving the elk away; but Big Thompson must have had a different opinion, for just then he laid his hand on the boy’s arm, and said, in a very low tone:

“He’s found ’em. Get yer we’pon ready, kase he’ll fetch ’em out in plain sight afore long.”

And so it proved. The lordly elk, finding themselves pursued by so small an animal—the like of which they had never seen before—stopped and stared at him with great curiosity; and finally, becoming annoyed by his constant yelping, they began to show their displeasure by stamping their fore feet on the ground and making short dashes at him.

As fast as they advanced, the dog retreated in the direction of the willows in which the hunters were concealed; and a few minutes later he came pell-mell out of the bushes, closely pursued by one of the does.

Then Oscar saw, for the first time, what the dog’s tactics were. As soon as the doe stopped, he wheeled about and began barking at her again, keeping just far enough away to be out of reach of her dangerous hoofs, and close enough to annoy her.

The rest of the herd came out, one after the other—there must have been twenty-five or thirty of them in all—and the last one that appeared was the big elk.

He took up a position between the doe and his companions; and, after making one or two unsuccessful efforts to strike him with his hoofs, stood still and shook his horns at him. The animals were all so much interested in Pink and his movements that they did not seem to think of anything else.

“What do ye think of that mis’able leetle cur dorg now, perfessor?” whispered the guide, as Oscar cocked his rifle and raised it slowly and cautiously to his shoulder. “Take all the time ye want, and don’t shoot till yer hands is stiddy and ye kin git a fair squint. If they don’t wind us, Pink’ll fetch ’em right into—— I say, ye done it, didn’t ye?”

While the guide was uttering these words of caution and advice, Oscar’s rifle spoke; and the big elk, pierced through the spine, fell to his knees and rolled over dead.

The rest of the herd fled in the greatest confusion; and Pink, alarmed by the noise of the hoofs, and believing, no doubt, that they were about to charge him in a body, took to his heels and made all haste to get into the willows; but, finding that he was not pursued, he quickly mustered up courage sufficient to run back to the prostrate elk, which he was the first of the party to examine.

“I’ve got him at last, thanks to you, Thompson,” said Oscar, as he leaned on his rifle and looked down at the fallen monarch. “In all my collection there is but one specimen that I value more highly than this one, and that is the grizzly. Pink, you’re a brick, and I’ll never make sport of you again.”

The dog evidently did not appreciate the compliment, or else he did not put any faith in the promise; for, when Oscar attempted to lay his hand on his head, the little animal backed away and growled savagely at him.

Tom presently came up with the mule, and, in two hours more, the new specimen had been carried to the cabin and Oscar was hard at work upon it.

This was Oscar’s last notable exploit among the foot-hills. Of course the sport did not end with the shooting of the monarch elk, for there were still many animals in the valley that were not represented in his collection, and Oscar’s efforts to secure them were not always unattended by danger.

He kept on adding to his specimens, and now and then he did something in a quiet way that made him feel good for a week.

One of these achievements was the bagging of the wolverine which had so often robbed his traps. The animal was fairly outdone in cunning, and knocked over when he did not know that there was an enemy near him.

The rest of the winter was passed in much the same way as were the days whose incidents we have so minutely described. The hunters devoted a good deal of their time to trapping, and their pile of skins grew larger every day.

The traditional January thaw came at last, and set the eaves to dropping and the brook to running for a few days; and then Jack Frost reasserted his power, and shut everything up tight again.

Many a hard storm roared through the valley after that, but the weather gradually grew warmer, the snow melted slowly away, and finally the grass began to appear in the sunniest places, and the drifts to look as though the wind had scattered dust over them.

It was no longer necessary to cut down trees for the pony and mule to feed upon. They preferred the withered grass to the innutritious buds and twigs of the cottonwood, and the change in their diet soon began to make a change in their appearance and spirits.

Spring was coming, but so slowly that Oscar grew tired of waiting for it. It seemed as though the deep drifts in the gorge would never melt away; and when they did, a roaring torrent, which showed no indications of drying up, took their place. The grass in the valley was seen before the gorge was passable.

The day of their deliverance was close at hand, however, and one bright morning the guide aroused the slumbering boys by shouting out the order to “catch up.”

This meant to cook and eat the breakfast, saddle the pony, and hitch the mule to the wagon, which had for days been loaded and ready for the start.

These duties consumed but little of their time, for all three worked as if they were in a great hurry.

In less than an hour the wagon, with Tom and the guide on the seat, was on its way down the valley, while Oscar lingered behind for a moment to make sure that nothing had been forgotten.

It was not without a feeling of sadness that he took his last look about the cabin in which he had spent so many happy hours.

The journey to the fort was safely and quickly accomplished.

They found Ike Barker in his dug-out, and the greeting he extended to them was cordial, indeed.

He kept Oscar busy until midnight relating the incidents of his life in the foot-hills; but there were some things that happened there which he did not hear from the boy’s lips, for his modesty compelled him to leave them out.

He heard them from the lips of Big Thompson, who finished the story after Oscar had gone to sleep. The ranchman was delighted at what the guide told him, and took his own way to show it.

“Mr. Barker,” said Oscar the next morning at breakfast, “I am greatly indebted to you for your kindness, and I am sorry that I can return you nothing but my hearty thanks. There are your mule and wagon, and if——”

“Don’t want ’em!” exclaimed the ranchman. “I’ve got better. Take ’em up to the post an’ sell ’em for what you can get. Look here, professor,” he added hastily, seeing that the boy was about to speak, “I know I don’t live like one of the royal blood, but I’ve got money for all that; and, if you think you are in danger of running short of funds, say the word and I’ll lend you all you want. You saved Thompson’s life, and whipped Lish the Wolfer in a fair fight; and that shows that you are a boy after my own heart.”

Oscar, who was greatly surprised at this kind offer, could only stammer out his thanks and reply that he did not stand in any need of pecuniary assistance.

“Then perhaps I can help you in another way,” continued the ranchman, who was bent on showing his regard for Oscar. “I can give your brother something to do. I have been unfortunate myself, and I know how it seems to have a helping hand extended in time of trouble. Tom, how would you like to herd sheep?”

“I don’t know. I never tried it. But I am willing to do anything that will bring me an honest living.”

“That’s the sort of spirit I like. I’ll give you forty dollars a month and board, and a pony to ride. Yes or no?”

Tom said “Yes,” of course; and, after a short consultation, it was decided that he should go to the post to sell his furs and see his brother off, and then come back to the ranch on foot, and assume his duties as sheep-herder.

Oscar afterward had a private interview with the ranchman, and left him with the feeling that Tom could not have fallen into better hands.

Oscar spent but two days at the fort—pleasant days they were, too, and everybody seemed glad to see him—for he was impatient to be on his way home.

Their furs, and the mule and wagon, were disposed of without the least trouble; and, out of the money he received, Tom gave Oscar two hundred dollars to be handed to Mr. Smith.

It wasn’t much, Tom said, but still it would show the grocer that he intended to make all the amends in his power.

Tom and the guide assisted him to pack his specimens, which were put into boxes and addressed to himself at Yarmouth, and placed in the freight wagon that was to convey them to the nearest railroad station.

There was one thing that Oscar could not take back with him, greatly to his disappointment, and that was the fawn he had captured with the lasso.

These little animals never live long in confinement, especially if they have been driven hard previous to their capture; and it had died during his absence.

Lieutenant Warwick had seen to it that the skin was carefully preserved; but, as it had been taken off in the same manner that a butcher would remove the hide from a slaughtered ox, and was afterward tanned with the hair on, it was not of much value as a specimen. But then, somebody could make a rug of it, and so it was packed up to be taken to Eaton.

At last, when everything was ready for the start, and the farewells had all been said, Tom set out for Ike Barker’s ranch, and Oscar stepped into the stage-coach.

His heart was by no means as light as he had supposed it would be, for the pleasure he anticipated in once more shaking hands with his friends in Eaton was marred by the sorrow he felt at parting from those with whom he had so long been associated.

But one thing was certain: the last few months of his life had not been wasted. He had earned money enough to lift the mortgage from the roof that sheltered his mother, and he had been able to assist Tom in his extremity. The latter was on the right track now, and Oscar fervently hoped that he would allow no temptations to switch him off.

Sam Hynes, warned by a telegram which Oscar sent from Albany, met the returned hunter at the depot, and stuck to him night and day during the week he spent in Eaton, where everybody made a lion of him.

His mother, of course, was overjoyed to meet him, and listened with a beating heart to what he had to say in regard to Tom, who, during the rest of his life on the plains, was the regular recipient of something that did much to sustain and encourage him in his efforts to reform—a mother’s letters.

That week passed all too quickly for Oscar, who, at the end of it, was once more obliged to tear himself away from home and go to work.

He had months of it before him, too, for the specimens he had secured were all to be stuffed and mounted. He was almost overwhelmed by the attentions he received on every hand.

It was not long before everybody in the city knew who he was and what he had done; at least it seemed so, for everybody stared at him on the streets, and Oscar finally began to wish that he was back in the foot-hills, out of sight.

The committee were more than pleased with his success, and with the appearance of his specimens; and the first year he spent in their employ was only the beginning of a long and profitable engagement with them.

THE END.

THE FAMOUS CASTLEMON BOOKS.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Retained anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Camp in the Foot-Hills, by Harry Castlemon