Chapter 6

DONALD'S FIRST ADVENTURE ON THE RANGE

After Donald went to bed that night Mr. Clark and Sandy had a long talk and the next morning when Donald came to breakfast the first question his father asked was:

"How would you like to start for the range with Sandy, son, when the permits come?"

"Oh, father! Will you really let me? I have wanted so much to go! I am a good walker, you know, and I am used to camping. Besides, I should like to be with Sandy," he added shyly.

"I am convinced that you could be with no better young fellow in the world, Don, than to be with Sandy McCulloch," replied Mr. Clark warmly. "Yes, I am going to let you go. I want you to help Sandy, however, all that you can. You must not be an idler and make extra trouble. You must take hold and do part of the work if you go. Do not think," he added kindly, "that I consider you a lazy lad, for you are far from it. You have been a great help on the ranch since you came. I have not been ignorant of many thoughtful things that you have been doing to help. I simply wish to remind you that on the range Sandy will have all he can do. In the midst of your pleasure do not forget your obligation to be useful. If you keep your eyes open you will see things that you can do, just as you have seen them here. You will have a thoroughly good time on the range, and I am glad to have you go. A little later I may want you to come back to the ranch to help me. You will be willing to do that, won't you?"

"Of course, father, I'll come whenever you send for me!" was the instant response. "But what are you going to do while I am gone? Can't you come too?"

"I'm afraid not. I do not see how I can leave things here just now. Provisions must be portioned out and sent to the central camps. Then there are many repairs to be made and I must attend to those. I wish, also, to look over the books while I am here. You see I have plenty to do. When I get my work done I may ride up into the hills and join you and Sandy."

"I wish you would," answered Donald. Then he added thoughtfully: "Father, if I stayed and helped you, could you get away any sooner?"

The older man smiled at the boy.

"That is generous of you, Donald boy. I appreciate it. No, I do not see how you could help me by remaining. You go with Sandy and when I need you I will send for you. In the meantime Thornton and I will get on very well here."

"Thornton! Isn't he going to the range with one of the new herds?"

"Not at present. There is a great deal of work to be done here. I prefer to keep him to help me."

"I wish you would have somebody else to help you and let Thornton take the herd, father."

"I think he is better here."

"Very well. You know best," declared Donald. "Shall you really feel all right if I go with Sandy?"

"Yes, indeed. I want you to learn every phase of ranch life that you can. Then if anything ever decided you to take up wool-growing as a business you would come to it with a knowledge I never had. It would be far more interesting on that account. If, on the other hand, you decided on some other work in life you at least would have learned something of one of the great industries of our country and would be a broader-minded citizen in consequence."

"I am sure I should, father. Why, ever since I have seen how big America is I am lots prouder that I am an American."

His father smiled at his enthusiasm, then added gently:

"Yes, but size is not everything. It is what a country is doing, or trying to do, to better the conditions of her people that makes her truly great. You know some of the things that are done to make life happy, healthful, and comfortable for those who live in our cities. Now go out on the range. Look about you. See all that thoughtful, far-seeing men are doing to protect our forests, hillsides, streams; see how our government is entering into the life of those who live not in cities but on farms and ranches. You will find our country is doing much on the range beside merely issuing permits for us to graze there."

"What sort of things?"

"Sandy knows; he'll show you. In spite of the fact that he was born a Scotchman he is as good an American as I know. He appreciates the benefits of this wonderful land enough to desire to be a helpful, law-abiding citizen. He does not accept all the advantages America offers without giving something in return, you see."

"Sandy is too proud to take everything for nothing, father."

"He is also too honest, son. Now go and get your camping traps together. I expect by afternoon to have a telegram that will answer in place of permits until they can be mailed to us. As soon as they come you and Sandy can start off; and in case they do not come to-day I can send them after you by a mounted messenger. So I think you'd better set out anyway. Wear your tramping shoes and carry your sleeping-bag. You better ask Sandy if there is anything else he wants you to take."

Donald needed no second bidding.

He was in the highest of spirits.

An hour later and he had said good-bye to his father and Thornton, and was on his way to the range with Sandy McCulloch. At their backs a band of about two thousand sheep ambled along, the four dogs, Robin, Prince Charlie, Colin, and Hector, dashing in and out among them to keep the stragglers well in the path.

The trail Sandy was following led across the open fields and ascending gradually, made for the chain of low hills faintly outlined in the far-away blue haze. Beyond these hills loomed more distant mountains, their tops capped with snow. These mountains, Sandy told Donald, were the foot-hills of the Rockies.

It was quite evident that Sandy was now in his element. He swung along with slow but steady gait, carrying his pack easily and swinging his staff. His eye was alert for every movement of the flock. Now he would turn and draw some straying creature into place by putting his crook around one of its back legs. Sometimes he would motion the dogs to drive the herd along faster.

To an eastern-bred lad who had lived all his life in a city the scene was wonderfully novel. The great blue stretch of sky seemed endless. How still the country was! Had it not been for the muffled tramp of hoofs, the low bleating of the herd, the flat-toned note of the sheep-bells, there would not have been a sound. The quiet of the day cast its spell everywhere. Sandy, who was usually chary enough of his words, preserved even a stricter silence. Although his lips were parted with a contented smile, only once did he venture to break the quiet and that was when he softly hummed a bar or two of "There Were Hundred Pipers"--a favorite song of his.

At last Donald, who was bubbling over with questions, could bear it no longer.

"Are you always so quiet, Sandy, when you go to the range?" he asked.

The Scotchman roused himself.

"Why, laddie, I was almost forgetting you were here! Aye, being with a flock is a quiet life. You have nobody to talk to on the range--nobody except the dogs; so you fall into the way of thinking a heap and saying but little. I like it. Some herders, though, find it a hard sort of existence. Many a man has sat alone day after day on the range, watching the sheep work their way in and out of the flock until in his sleep he could picture that sea of gray and white moving, moving, moving! It was always before him, sleeping or waking. It is a bad thing for a shepherd to get into that state of mind. We call it getting locoed."

"What does that mean?"

"You must know that on the hills grows a weed called loco-weed. Sometimes the sheep find and eat it, and it makes them dull and stupid--you know how you feel when you take gas to have your teeth pulled. Yes? Well, it's like that. We never let the herd get it if we can help it, and if they do we drive them away from it. They will go right back again, too, and eat more if you do not watch them. That's what loco-weed is."

"And the shepherds?"

"When a man gets dull and stupid by being alone so much, and sees sheep all the time--even when his eyes are shut--the best thing he can do is to leave the range. Some folks can stand being alone, others can't. Why, I have known of herders being alone until they actually wouldn't talk--they couldn't. They didn't want to speak or be spoken to and were ready to shoot any one who came upon them on the range and disturbed them. Once I knew of a herder leaving a ranch because the boss said good-morning to him. He complained that things were getting too sociable."

"I should think the herders would like to see people when they are alone so much."

"Aye. Wouldn't you! But no. In Wyoming there is a law that no herder shall be sent out alone to tend flocks; men must go in pairs. More than that they must have little traveling libraries of a few books. The reason for that is to prevent them from sitting with their eyes fixed vacantly on the moving sheep all the time. It is a good law. Some time, likely, they will have it in all the states."

"I mean to tell father about it. We could do that at our ranch easily," said Donald. "Do you get lonely on the range, Sandy?"

"Nay, nay, laddie. It is many a year that I have been alone on the hills. I love it. There is always plenty to do. Sometimes I play tunes on my harmonica. Again I'll spend weeks carving flowers and figures on a staff. Then I have my dogs, and they are rare company. I sleep a good part of the day, you know, and watch the flock at night."

"But I should think you would sleep at night."

"I couldn't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because there is more danger to the sheep at night. It is then that the wild creatures steal down and attack the herds."

"Wild creatures?"

"Bears, bob-cats, cougars, and coyotes."

"On the range!" cried Donald.

"Where else?"

"But I never thought of such animals being on the range!" murmured the boy.

Sandy flashed him a smile.

"You're no in a city park here, laddie," he observed emphatically. "There are all sorts of prowling creatures abroad at night. They are not after us--never fear. It is the poor, helpless sheep they are after."

"Do you suppose, Sandy, that I shall see a bear?" asked Donald, his eyes sparkling.

"Verra likely. For your sake I hope you may; for the sake of the herd I hope not. I have seen many on the range and have shot not a few. Down at the ranch I have a long chain made of bears' claws."

Donald's eyes opened wider and wider.

"I'd like to see a bear," cried he. "Just see him, you know--not have him hurt the sheep."

"Mayhap you'll get your wish."

Thus--now talking, now lapsing into big, silent pauses, Donald and Sandy jogged on. At sundown they stopped for the night near a water-hole and here the flock was refreshed by a draught from a clear mountain stream. Then Sandy unpacked his saucepans, built a fire, and fried bacon which he laid--smoking hot--between two slices of bread. Was ever a meal so delicious, Donald wondered! Supper finished, the little portable tent was set up, more wood heaped on the fire, and the camp pitched for the night. Donald was tired out. After the sheep were bedded down around them, he crept only too gladly into his sleeping-bag and was soon oblivious of the range, the herd, and even Sandy himself.

* * * * *

When he awoke it was with a sense of being cramped within a small space. He opened his eyes. It took him a few moments to collect his wits and remember where he was. Ah, yes! Here was the little low tent over his head, and just outside blinked the embers of the fire where he and Sandy had cooked their supper.

He sat up softly and peered out into the night.

The country was flooded with moonlight in the brilliancy of which the ridges of the far-off hills stood out clearly; even the pool in the midst of the pasture caught the radiance and gleamed like a mirror. But amid all the beauty a subtle feeling of solitude oppressed him. It seemed as if he was the only being in the whole world.

Further out he leaned.

Then he started suddenly.

All that great sea of human creatures that had surrounded him when he went to sleep had vanished!

Not a sheep was to be seen.

Thoroughly alarmed, he turned.

"Sandy!" he called. "Sandy!"

There was no reply.

With growing apprehension he thrust out his hand in the direction where the herder had been lying.

The chill of the cold earth met his touch.

Terrified he sprang to his feet and bent down in the darkness.

There was no one with him in the tent! Sandy and the herd were gone!

For a while Donald stood very still. He was really alone, then--alone, miles from the home ranch, and not knowing the way back again! This was his first thought. The next was of Sandy.

All that Thornton had hinted flashed into his mind. Sandy was not to be trusted, Thornton had told his father. If they placed any dependence on the young Scotchman they would some time regret it.

Had Sandy deceived him?

What possible object could he have, Donald asked himself, in so quietly departing with the sheep and leaving him behind?

At least he had left the tent.

Had he taken the food and rifles with him?

With beating heart Donald scrambled for his match-box and made a light.

No, there was the knapsack of provisions, the saucepan, the coffee-pot! In the corner, too, stood his own rifle. But Sandy's rifle was missing.

Donald reflected a moment.

Sandy must be coming back. Ah, that was it! But where had he gone? Why should he rise up in the middle of the night, take the flock and dogs, and steal off in this noiseless fashion? The boy could not solve the enigma.

For the present, at least, there was nothing to be done. He glanced at his watch. It was three o'clock. He turned into his sleeping-bag again, having first taken the precaution to put his rifle within easy reach. Yet try as he would he could not sleep. His eyes stared, broad awake, at the shadowy dome of the tent. He wished it was day.

As he lay there straining his ears for the cadence of approaching herd-bells he was conscious of a muffled sound--a dull, soft footfall, as if some one was loitering stealthily about the tent. He heard it again. Then he could distinctly hear a sniffing at the corner of the tent near which the provisions lay.

Donald's heart leaped to his throat.

He could feel the blood pounding under his ears.

Who was coming so near with that velvety tread?

Noiselessly he wriggled out of his sleeping-bag and stood behind the flap of the tent, rifle in hand. Then he heard the unmistakable panting of some heavy creature--some creature so close to him that he could detect the rhythm of every breath it drew. Shaking in every limb he stole a look outside. Just beside the opening of his shelter he could see, clearly defined in the moonlight, a thick, dark shadow outlined on the grass. It was cast by some beast that was halting near the doorway.

In another second it would be upon him.

The boy caught his breath.

There was no time to think.

Raising his rifle, he fired at the great dark mass. Again he fired!

Had he struck the mark?

Another instant would tell.

The creature would either roll over wounded, or would spring upon him.

He jammed back the trigger of his rifle. The tremor that had swept over him at first now left his hand. His arm was perfectly steady, his blood swinging in quick throbs through his body. He fired a third time.

There was a heavy thud, the rolling of a black mass on the ground, a gasp, a growl! Then all was quiet.

Still Donald dared not take any chances. He poured another round of shot into his victim. It did not move.

Then cautiously he crept outside, his rifle tight in his grasp.

There on the ground a shaggy object lay motionless.

He went nearer.

Then he gave a shout of astonishment.

It was a bear!

He had shot a bear--he, Donald Clark, alone and unaided, had really shot a bear! What a story to tell his father; and Sandy, too; and the fellows at home!

Then, for the first time, he was conscious of a trembling in his arms. His knees felt strangely weak. Now that the excitement was over he realized that he wanted to sit down. His rifle slipped from his fingers and he dropped to the turf. There he rested in a dazed sort of way and reviewed the tragedy. Suppose he had not been awake? Suppose the bear had come into the tent while he lay there asleep and unarmed? In his heart he felt very grateful for his escape.

Then there followed a disquieting thought--suppose there were other bears! He had often read of their coming in groups of fives and sixes. It was no time for him to sit limply on the ground. He caught up his rifle and recharged its empty chambers. Then before the tent door he sat until sunrise, anxiously scanning the dim pasture-land and the distant rocky fastnesses. It seemed as if the day would never come.

Presently across the intervale he caught the faint tinkle of herd-bells. Over the brim of rolling green just ahead of him came the flock, Sandy leading them, and the collies nipping at their heels. The herder strode rapidly forward, waving his sombrero as he came. Donald ran to meet him.

"Are you safe and sound, laddie?" called Sandy when he got within shouting distance. "I have had a thousand minds about you--whether I ought not to have waked you, tired as you were, and taken you with me; or whether it was better to let you sleep. You see when the full moon rose the sheep set out grazing. It's a trick they have. Many a time they have done it; when they once set out no power on earth will stop them. So the dogs and I had to go along too. I reckoned you would sleep until we got back. The herd went farther, though, than I thought they would. I had great trouble rounding them up."

As he talked they neared the camp where Sandy's keen eye took in at a glance every detail of the scene before him. Then he looked sharply at Donald. Under the thick tan the boy could see him pale. His lips became livid.

"Donald, lad, you are not hurt?" he cried, motioning to the bear that lay stretched on the grass.

"No, Sandy, not a bit. Truly I'm not. See! Isn't he a big one?"

"He is many a size too big for a boy like you to be fighting alone. I was a blind idiot to leave you behind me. Thank the good Lord you got off without a scratch. When I think of what might have come to you----! The next time I'll no go grazing without you, Don. But who would have thought of a bear venturing into these lowlands! He must have been very hungry."

Later Donald had to relate every part of his adventure, and they skinned the black bear and spread his hide out in the sun.

"His coat is thicker than that of most bears at this season of the year. It will make a bonny rug for your father's office, Don. When the camp-tender comes we will send it back by him to the home ranch. Thornton can get it cured for you at Glen City and it will be a sightly present for your father. You are a son worth having!"

"I want to be, Sandy."

"Dinna bother your head. I've seen full a dozen lads worse than you!" was the grim reply.