Rube shook his head decisively.

"No," he answered. "I'm just more puzzled than ever. Can't straighten it out nohow. Can't think who it could be, or why he did it. Thar's only one thing t' be said, Kiddie, an' that's this: the man as tried ter take your life was either a Injun wearin' white man's boots, or else a white man usin' a Injun's bow an' arrow. Beyond that, I'm makin' up my mind ter look out fer a individual—red or white—goin' around with his left arm in a sling."

"Don't hold too tight t' th' idea that it was in the arm he was bitten—" Kiddie cautioned. "Sheila might have seized on any other part of his anatomy. My own notion is that the hound herself will spot him sooner'n you or I could do."

"Thar's a lot in that notion," Rube acknowledged. "Guess I'll keep my eye on the hound all the time. An' when I sees her bristles rise an' her teeth showin' an' hears a growl rumblin' up from her throat, I shall sure know that the skunk ain't a far way off."



CHAPTER VII

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."



CHAPTER VIII

KIDDIE'S LUCK

"Say, now, d'you expect me t' ride a spick an' span, over-fed, highly decorated critter like that? My! I ain't entered for a horse show, Cully. I want a pony that can run without thinkin' of takin' prizes on points. And a dandy saddle with fancy stitchin' and finery don't help any in gettin' the mails through on time. What's the matter with the regulation Express pony—the piebald cayuse that you gave me on the last trip? That was a critter that knew how ter go, that was. What's the matter with her?"

"Gone sick," Cully answered, watching Kiddie's quick fingers unbuckling the mail bags from the saddle from which he had just dismounted. "Went sick only a hour ago. Guess she figured it was Jim Thurston's turn ter ride her. If she'd ha' known it was you an' not Jim, you may bet your socks she wouldn't ha' gone sick. But you'll find her substitute O.K. An' if anybody kin ride him, you sure can. Steve Tracy was sayin' only this mornin' as you kin git more pace an' bring yer pony in fresher 'n any rider along the hull Salt Lake Trail; an' I just guess Steve was right. Say, what's the matter wi' the saddle? Ain't you satisfied? Don't it fit the critter proper?"

Kiddie was in the act of mounting. He turned to Cully with a light laugh.

"Fits him like a glove," he answered. "I was only figuring that it's a bit too ornamental for its present purpose. I see the girth has been broken and mended—mended with a doubtful piece of string. Why wasn't it sent to the saddler t' be properly fixed up? I've half a notion ter chuck it right away and ride bare-backed. But there ain't time to fool around now. So long, Cully."

Almost before he had leapt astride and slipped his feet into the stirrups, the pony was off with a drumming of hoofs along the grassy trail, needing no urging by spur or voice, and Kiddie was so well accustomed to riding at the full gallop that, after he had thrice forded the winding creek of Three Crossings, he could with ease take out the little paper bag of biscuits and fruit that had been handed to him, and munch his evening meal.

It was rough riding over the Rattlesnake Mountains, where often the indistinct trail led him through dark and narrow defiles, or along the brink of dangerous precipices, where the ground was of loose stones, perilously insecure. The mountain torrents, swollen by recent rains, had to be crossed unhesitatingly, and without the help of bridges. But all these dangers and difficulties were familiar to him, and he passed through them unconcerned.

Once when he was riding at fullest speed through the wide valley of White Eagle Gulch, he was forced to turn aside to avoid a great straggling herd of buffaloes. He noticed that the ponderous animals were breathing heavily, and that their flanks were moist with perspiration. Those at the head of the moving herd were strong and virile, and in good condition; those towards the rear were thin and scraggy, and many of these were a long distance in the rear.

"Seems they've been having a stampede," Kiddie reflected. "The weak ones lagged behind. Looks as if they'd been chased."

Amongst the stragglers was a magnificent bull, striding slowly but proudly alone. Blood was dripping from a wound in its nearer side, and deep in the wound was an arrow, buried almost to the feathers.

"Been chased by a band of Redskins," Kiddie assured himself. And he began to look out for further signs of the possible presence of Indians.

A mile or so farther on he came upon a buffalo lying dead, but there were no other signs for many miles until he was crossing a stretch of prairie, where he saw the remains of several buffaloes that had been flayed and cut up. Nothing but the stripped bones was left.

Shortly afterwards he crossed the trail of the hunters, and he estimated that the band consisted of about fifty Indians. They had gone off with their loads of buffalo meat and hides towards the foothills, in a direction at right angles to his own.

Clearly the Redskins were not out to interfere with the Pony Express. Nevertheless, Kiddie continued to keep a watchful eye on both sides of the trail as he galloped along, and also to observe the behaviour of his mount and of the wild birds.

It was the pony that gave him the first intimation of danger, by a sudden lifting of the head and restless twitching of the erect ears. This might well have been occasioned by the near neighbourhood of some beast of prey—a lynx, a wolf, or even an ordinary coyote.

By itself, it meant little, but it was enough to make Kiddie attentive, even though he had assured himself that the Indians, or, at all events, the main body of them, had gone home to their reservation beyond the Rattlesnake Mountains. There were other signs, however.

The gorge through which he was riding was thickly wooded with willows and larch trees, and far in advance of him he saw that the birds had been disturbed. They were in agitated flight over the tree-tops. Above the thudding of his pony's hoofs he heard the raucous squawk of a jay—the most alert of sentinels. It was not at his own approach that the birds were alarmed, but something which was happening nearer to them in the woodland glades.

Kiddie was not more concerned than usual; he was not even suspicious of coming danger, nor did he alter by so much as an inch his seat in the saddle or tighten his grip on the bridle reins.

At the mouth of the gorge, however, he suddenly became apprehensive that some human enemy was lurking in ambush. He remembered the incident of the poisoned arrow. His pony had changed its stride to a less measured gallop, bounding forward at an increased pace, with head lowered, muzzle outstretched and ears thrown back.

Kiddie leant over the pony's fluttering mane, searchingly glancing from side to side and in front of him. He was going at racing speed, but his practical eyes were alert to observe every tiny sign, and none escaped him.

He could see nothing but the trees and rocks as he flashed past them; nothing to cause him serious alarm. It seemed to him that if there had been any hidden danger he had already gone beyond it. But there might still be some unsuspected peril at the far side of the projecting cliff where, as he knew, the trail made an abrupt turn.

He shifted his feet in the stirrups to secure a firmer grip of the irons. As he did so, the pony suddenly swerved. At the same instant the string with which the girth had been improperly mended broke. The whole saddle moved ominously from its true place on the animal's back.

Kiddie preserved his balanced seat only for a few difficult moments. His left foot lost its sure hold in the stirrup, and presently slipped out of it altogether. The pressure of his right foot on the other stirrup caused the saddle to move still farther. Now that the girth straps were flying loose there was nothing but the rider's weight to hold it on the pony's back.

It was at this awkward moment of personal insecurity that he became aware that many galloping horses were close behind him. He did not need to look back over his shoulder to learn that he was being hotly pursued by a band of mounted Indians.

They had been lying in wait for him, well hidden among the screening trees and brushwood. They had let him gallop past, but now they had broken cover and were racing after him with menacing yells and savage cries.

They had lost some moments in getting free from the bush, and he was already well ahead of them; but their mounts had been rested, while his own pony was panting heavily, and wet with perspiration after an unbroken gallop of a dozen miles.

The Redskins gained upon him little by little.

At the turn of the trail he ventured to glance quickly round. In that quick glance he saw that there were at least six of them, led by a warrior wearing an ample war bonnet. They were therefore not members of the buffalo-hunting party, but were on the war-path.

He saw that they were armed with guns and tomahawks, not bows and arrows, and he took confidence from this circumstance, knowing that the Indian is a poor marksman with firearms when mounted, and that none could do him harm with the tomahawk unless within arm's reach of him.

Had his saddle been secure, he would have had little anxiety, but it was slipping farther and farther back. He wondered if he might get free from it altogether, and, dropping it to the ground, continue his ride bare-backed.

Then he remembered that the two mail bags were buckled to the saddle, and that it was his duty to safeguard them with his life.

He tried to ease the thing forward, and at the same time to raise it and save it from shifting perilously to the pony's right side. He believed he could manage it with an adroit upward movement of his right foot, and he made the hazardous attempt, but, unfortunately, in bending his ankle, he pushed his foot just a thought too far, and his boot went clean through the steel loop of the stirrup, high heel and spur included.

This would have been an awkward predicament in any circumstance, even if the saddle band remained unbroken, and the saddle itself firmly in position. It would have been almost impossible for him without help to get the projecting spur and the heel of the boot back again through the stirrup. But now, when the Indians were in close pursuit, only a few lengths behind him, yelling their exultant cries, holding their weapons ready, what was he to do?

Of one thing he was certain; the saddle was bound very soon to fall from the pony's back, and he must as surely go with it, possibly to be trampled to death under the hoofs of the Indians' horses.

He prepared himself for the inevitable fall, designing to fling himself off where there were no rocks to strike against, but only earth and sage grass.

First he made sure that the bridle rein was free, and that nothing would catch upon the saddle when he should drag it after him with his entangled foot.

The foremost Indian was but a couple of lengths behind him when he pulled at the left rein, threw the bridle forward, and flung himself bodily to the ground.

The pony swerved to the left in obedience, and Kiddie escaped its hind hoofs. He fell flat on his back, with his legs and feet in the air. The heavy saddle followed him, sliding down over the pony's hocks, and it was the saddle that got the worst of it when the Redskins galloped past.

Kiddie, indeed, received no injury from the madly pounding hoofs. But his back was badly bruised; he was not sure that one or two of his ribs were not broken; and his right ankle was certainly sprained.

It was evident that the Indians had not expected him to be thrown, for they raced past him, and several moments went by before they could swing round.

In those moments Kiddie rolled painfully over on to his knees and elbows. There was no time for him to cut the stirrup strap, or to attempt to get his hurt foot free. All that he could do was to be ready to defend the two precious satchels containing the mails.

Moving himself forward a few inches, so that he could stretch out his right leg and rest his weight on his left knee and elbow, he drew his revolver and levelled it.

He could not now see the Indians. They were hidden beyond a screen of trees and rock. But he heard them as they checked their wild onrush and turned to ride back and do their worst. He was quite ready for them; he had six bullets in his gun, and none should be wasted.

Suddenly amid the confused clatter of hoofs there came to him the sharp, unmistakable crackle of rifle and pistol shots. Then the Indians rushed into sight, galloping in hot haste.

Kiddie fired at two of them, and was shifting his aim to a third, when he realized that they were in flight—that they were being pursued by a horseman who had newly come upon the scene, and who was firing at them with his six-shooter.

Only now did Kiddie reflect that in the ordinary course of his eastward bound trip he would have met the westward going Express rider just at about this same place.

"Alf! Alf Kearney!" he shouted.

The Expressman pulled up short. He had already emptied his revolver, and the Redskins were continuing their flight.

"Frizzle me if it ain't Kiddie of the Camp!" cried Kearney, dismounting and standing with his hands on his knees, staring at the fallen Expressman. "Say, now, are you hurt bad, pardner? I seen your riderless pony hustlin' along with that crowd of yellin' Injuns at its heels. I guessed suthin' had sure happened t' yer, though it ain't a regulation Express pony. Where 're you hurt? You're in luck if you ain't killed right out."



"I'm in sure luck by your happening along," responded Kiddie, trying with difficulty to move. "Say, if you c'n rip open that boot and disentangle my sprained foot from that rotten saddle, I shall be obliged. Then I reckon I c'n lie here while you ride along the trail with your mails and send help, see?"

Alf Kearney demurred to the suggestion, but at once proceeded to liberate Kiddie's foot, first cutting the stirrup-strap and then ripping open the stout leather boot.

"Couldn't you manage ter mount behind me?" he questioned. "My pony's fit ter carry us both, I guess. Like as not, Broken Feather and his gang'll come back. You ain't anyways safe lyin' here, rain comin' on; an' the sooner a doctor sees you the better."

"Broken Feather?" Kiddie repeated. "If that's the rustler wearin' the war-bonnet and ridin' a piebald broncho, then he ain't liable ter come back—not with my bullet in him. I didn't catch sight of his face—didn't savee it was Broken Feather. No, Alf, thank you, I ain't able ter mount. Leave me right here, hustle along with the Express, and send help from your first relay station."

The long, weary night that followed was very dark, and the two men sent along the trail to give help searched in vain for Kiddie in the driving rain. They had brought a buckboard cart with them in which to carry him home to Sweetwater Bridge.

They searched for hours, but even when they discovered some rain-washed hoof prints it was too dark for them to follow the tracks. It was not until daybreak that they found Kiddie asleep under his blanket, with the saddle for a pillow and his arms, with their red shirt sleeves, folded over his chest.

He awoke when they whistled. They ran up to him, afterwards bringing along the buckboard, into which they tenderly lifted him. The jolting of the cart was painful to him, but when at length they arrived at Birkenshaw's camp he declared that he wasn't at all badly hurt.

"Just leave me alone, boys," he said, "I don't want you ter make any fuss over me. There's nothing serious the matter—a few bruises, a sprained ankle, a kinder gen'ral shakin' up; that's all. I shall be ready to go with the Express again before Jim Thurston, even now."

"No occasion ter worry any 'bout the Express, Kiddie," said Abe Harum, massaging the injured ankle with embrocation. "I'm notionin' ter take a spell at it myself fer a while, a kinder change for me, see?—good as a holiday. Besides, thar's two individuals I'm anxious ter meet. One of 'em's the rooster as palmed off that rotten saddle on you. The other's Broken Feather. You'd a legitimate chance of puttin' his light out, Kiddie. Nobody e'd have blamed you any if you'd aimed at a vital section of his anatomy; but you let him off with little more'n a scratch. And that ambush was all planned. Rube here's just hungerin' an' thirstin' ter tell you all about Broken Feather's friendly call along at your woodland cabin while he knew you was absent. Ain't that so, Rube?"

"Yes," Rube answered, coming forward to Kiddie's side.

Rube then told the whole story of Broken Feather's surreptitious visit to the forest clearing, of the discovery that it was he who shot the poisoned arrow and of his threat that Kiddie would never come back.

"So you see, Kiddie," supplemented Abe Harum, "the skunk meant ter do you in. When he quitted the clearin', 'fore the hound struck his trail, he went right away ter put his rascally plan into operation. He an' his braves lay in wait for you ter gallop along. As I remarked before, it's a pity you didn't plant that bullet of yours where it would sure be fatal. It's your way, I know. You'd sooner cripple than kill. You show mercy even to a Injun—even to your deadliest enemy. An' Broken Feather's your enemy. You're what's called hereditary enemies, if I knows the meaning of the term."

"That's so, Abe," said Kiddie. "His father, Eye-of-the-Moon, shot my mother dead. It was Eye-of-the-Moon who killed my father, Buckskin Jack, in the Custer fight. On the other hand, it was my maternal grandfather, Spotted Tail, who killed Eye-of-the-Moon in their duel on horseback that I've so often told you about. And now it seems Broken Feather and I are at enmity."

"Yes," put in Gideon Birkenshaw, "but I ain't figgerin' as Broken Feather's takin' heredity inter consideration; not a whole lot. He don't keer a brass button who his father killed, or who killed his father. 'Cordin' ter Redskin reckonin' they've all gone on the long trail to the Happy Huntin' Grounds, an' they're no longer objec's in the scen'ry. Broken Feather's got his own pussonal reasons fer enmity agin your lordship. He knows as you're a long sight cleverer'n he is as an all-round scout; he's some afraid o' your cleverness. He knows you're wealthy; he covets your wealth. He knows you're honest; an' the one pusson as a rogue most dislikes is the man who acts allus on the straight. Moreover, Kiddie, you've already got the better of Broken Feather on several occasions, an' he ain't liable ter forget it."

"Gee!" exclaimed Rube Carter. "Never know'd th' Old Man make sich a long an' logical oration in me life before!"

"You've got yer own remedy, however," resumed Gideon. "It's agin th' law fer Injuns ter come outer their reservations, same as Broken Feather an' his braves have been doin' lately. The hull thing 'ld be stopped if you'd only appeal t' th' law fer pertection."

"But suppose I don't approve of the Indians being herded like sheep in fenced reservations?" Kiddie objected. "Suppose I'm of opinion that in a free land like this all men should be equally free, Redskin and Paleface alike? No, Gid, I ain't figuring to appeal to the law. If I need any protection against a man such as Broken Feather, I'll do the business on my own, and a gun, a fleet horse, and my own common sense are good enough for me, without the interference of the law."



CHAPTER IX

KIDDIE'S "SELFISHNESS"

Kiddie's fall had been violent, and might easily have been fatal; but it had been neither sudden nor unexpected, while his experience with bucking bronchos, and his great skill as a horseman, had helped him to avoid serious physical injury.

He was bruised, he was shaken; but no bones were broken, and his worst injury was his sprained ankle. This gave him acute pain and inconvenience for many days, requiring care and rest.

Naturally he fretted under the forced inactivity; he became impatient, and when at length he could limp from his room to the veranda, he wanted to mount a horse and ride along to the forest clearing to superintend the building of his cabin.

"There's no need fer you ter go an' see things," Rube Carter insisted. "Jus' you have a good rest until you're quite well. Everything's goin' on famous. We've gotten the roof on, an' we're now fixin' up your bedroom, so's you kin occupy it while the rest of the shanty's bein' finished."

"Yes," pursued Kiddie. "But I want to be there right now. I'm hankerin' badly to see how it looks, ter judge what it'll be like when all the work's done and we've got the fixings in—the books and pictures and all that. I'm envying you terrible, Rube, being there every day and watching the thing grow. I'm envying you being able to see the wild critters while I'm kept a prisoner here on account of a fool saddle that was broken and mended with rotten string. I guess you've seen heaps of things this morning—new birds, new insects, new beasts, and wild flowers that you couldn't put a name to, eh?"

"Dunno 'bout that," said Rube. "Dunno as I saw anythin' as I hadn't seen before."

"Ah, you've got a heap to learn yet, Rube," Kiddie rejoined. "Why, when I'm out and about there's never a day, never an hour, hardly a minute, but I see something new, learn something fresh in woodcraft and scoutcraft. You don't go along with your eyes shut and your ears and nostrils closed, do you? What did you see early this mornin', for example, when you went across the grass patch, the dew still lying?"

"Say, now, how d'you know I saw anythin'?" Rube asked. "You was in bed."

"Yes, but I could see you from my pillow. You went aside from the straight trail."

"That's so," acknowledged Rube. "I was tryin' ter foller a track in the dew—some biggish animal, I guess; but thar wasn't no footmarks—not in the long grass—an' the track didn't lead to nothin'—only a root of dandelion with the leaves chewed off."

"Perhaps you went the wrong way," suggested Kiddie. "Was the track lighter than the rest of the grass, or darker?"

"Um! Now you puzzle me," demurred Rube. "I ain't just sure; but I guess it was darker. Yes, it was sure darker. Why? What's that gotter do with it?"

"Why? Well, a scout would sure know that grass blades bent towards him look dark; bent away from him, light. If the trail of your biggish animal this morning was darker than the grass, then you didn't follow him, you were going away from him all the time. He was probably a stoat on the track of a jack-rabbit. If you'd followed the other way, you might have seen where that stoat chased his victim into its burrow, and you might have seen where he came out again alone, after his feed underground. There's a heap of information in a track, Rube, altogether independent of plain footprints."

Rube rested his chin in his hands, listening.

"Suppose a bicycle or an automobile car had gone along a dusty or a muddy trail," continued Kiddie, "and you wanted to know which way it was travelling, what 'ld you do ter discover? You'd look at the rut the wheel had made. You'd see that the loose dust or the wet mud feathered out from it in the direction in which the wheel was going. No need ter search for footprints. It's the same with drops of blood from a wound, drops of water splashed from a jug or a bucket—any drippin' liquid; the drops splash forward in the direction in which the person splashing them was movin', the splashes being longer or shorter according to the person's pace. If you aim at being a capable scout—a good tracker—don't study the obvious things alone: look as well at the smaller signs, which often tell you more. And wherever you are, whatever you're doing, keep your senses busy—your sight, your hearing, your senses of smell and touch. At the present moment my senses tell me there's a mosquito in this yer veranda: I c'n hear the critter humming away back of me. I know that we're goin' to have bacon and eggs for dinner; I c'n smell them bein' fried. The kitchen's some warm; your mother has opened the window; I c'n feel the draught from it."

In the days of Kiddie's convalescence, Rube learnt many a lesson in scoutcraft; lessons which he hastened to put into practice. It was afterwards, however, when Kiddie was well, and they could go camping out together in the wilds, that he learnt most. In the meantime, there was the work of building the woodland cabin to attend to.

He had at first intended that the cabin should be constructed by his own hands alone, of rough, unhewn timber; that it should contain only one room, and that of the simplest. It was to be merely a trapper's log hut in the forest, and he was to live as a simple trapper, quite alone, forgetting that he was a wealthy English nobleman.

But gradually his ideals had developed, and he had decided to make the place comfortable and convenient as well as simple and solitary—to make it, as it were, his headquarters, where he could store his trophies of the chase and keep his guns and books and pictures.

If he wished to go away on hunting trips, he could leave the cabin in safety, and take his pony and his tent and knapsack and live as a lone trapper in the woods, moving from place to place, always having a home to come back to if he wished. What he had always to fight against was an inclination towards luxury and labour-saving convenience. He had bought a patent camp cooking-stove in New York. It was capable of cooking anything, from a sirloin to a savoury. But when he unpacked it he saw how incongruous such a thing was with the domestic economy of a shanty in the forest.

"What does a plain trapper want with fancy fixings like this, anyway?" he asked himself. "If he's hankerin' after delicacies an' dainty cookery, he'd best quit right back to London. My food's goin' ter be frizzled over an open wood fire, and that dinky, high-class kitchen range is goin' right away to the bottom of Sweetwater Pond."

He allowed himself to stain the outer planks of the dwelling, but not to use any decorative paints which an ordinary trapper or an Indian could not procure. A garden, with flowers as well as vegetables, and creepers for the veranda, he considered necessaries, just as frames for pictures, shelves for his books, racks for his guns, and cupboards for his crockery were necessary.

There were three rooms in the cabin—a large living-room, which was also kitchen, a workroom, and a bedroom; and they were all three very simply furnished. Not far behind the cabin were the sheds and outhouses, the stables, cow-house, and barns; and down at the lakeside was a boathouse, in which to keep his canoes and fishing materials.

This was the secluded home which Lord St. Olave was making for himself, in preference to a grand house in London and a great mansion on his vast estate in Norfolk, with innumerable servants to wait upon him, and crowds of fashionable friends to enjoy his hospitality. He was realizing his wish to abandon the social whirl of London and to return to his native wilds. But he was not yet wholly satisfied with his choice.

He entered the living-room one afternoon looking weary and untidy, and flung himself into an easy-chair, giving a curt nod of greeting to Gideon Birkenshaw, who had strolled down from the homestead to have tea with him.

"Tired, Kiddie?" Gideon inquired. "Bin workin' too hard?"

"No," returned Kiddie, "I ain't tired. I'm never tired."

"Ankle still hurtin' you some, mebbe?" pursued Gideon.

"Ankle's gettin' along all right," Kiddie assured him. "Guess it'll soon be's well's ever. Shall we have tea? Rube'll get it ready."

Gideon did not respond to the invitation.

"Buildin's progressin' all s'rene," he observed. "I like this yer room. It's real homesome; and the view fr'm your front windows and the veranda's real elegant. Time you gets a collection o' choice flowers in your door-yard, you'll have 'bout the most desirable residence in the hull state of Wyoming. Ain't you satisfied? What's the matter?"

"I'm just some worr'ed, Gid," Kiddie answered, flinging a leg over the arm of his chair.

"My!" exclaimed Gideon. "What in creation 've you gotter worry about?"

"Just the cabin," Kiddie answered dreamily. "Just the cabin and my living in it all lonesome; enjoyin' it—enjoyin' it too much. It's just what I've wanted. Everything's all as I planned. But I've bin thinkin', Gideon; thinking hard."

"That ain't a new experience fer you, Kiddie," said Gid. "You was allus' a deep thinker. Guess it's the Injun blood in you assertin' itself. An' what's the matter wi' the cabin ter make you meditate an' worry?"

"Why," Kiddie responded slowly, keeping his Western manner of speech, as was usual with him when addressing Gideon Birkenshaw, "I've come to the conclusion as it ain't just right an' proper o' me ter live here with everything I most covet in the shape of personal comfort—a cosy home in beautiful scenery, with the perfumed pine trees all around, the woodland solitude, where I c'n study the wild critters, beasts an' birds an' insects; the creek an' the lake, where I c'n paddle an' fish; my time all my own, with no slavish duties, no tasks, no responsibilities. An' it's all selfish, Gid, real mean an' selfish."

"Selfish, Kiddie?" Gideon screwed up his eyes in wonder.

"Yes. It ain't anyways right for a man ter live for himself alone, shirkin' his duties ter humanity. What did I do this mornin' that was any good whatever to anybody in th' world but myself? I went out 'fore sunrise, when the blue mist was hangin' round the mountain tops an' in among the trees. It was like a fairy dream. I listened t' th' orchestra of the birds—the woodthrush, the veery, the scarlet tanager an' the rest of the thrillin' songsters—and the music was more delicious 'n any opera I've heard in London an' Paris. I wasted a full hour watchin' a fool centipede that had gotten himself tangled in a spider's web—watched th' manoeuvres of that spider for a full hour, I did."

"I allow you learnt suthin', too, since the spider was at home," interrupted Gid. "Them critters has wonderful skill in tactics. I'm figurin' as that hour wasn't a whole lot wasted, Kiddie."

"It was wasted in selfish enjoyment, selfish gratification," Kiddie insisted.

"Git!" exclaimed Gideon. "You dunno what selfishness means, Kiddie, an' you couldn't be selfish if you tried. You's allus doin' suthin' unselfish. Here's you comin' back to this yer camp an' the Sweetwater district, an' right straight away you starts helpin' other folks, pertectin' their homes from hostile Injuns, makin' their lives smoother an' safer. Is it selfish ter do what you've already done? What about your takin' Jim Thurston's place in th' Express, riskin' yer life, an' precious near losin' it? Was that a act of selfishness?"

"It was my fault that Jim was hurt. I couldn't do otherwise than take his place."

"You wouldn't ha' done it if you'd bin selfish. You'd ha' let somebody else carry on the job," argued Gideon. "You's allus thinkin' of others; doin' 'em good turns, givin' 'em pleasure. You've given me a gold timepiece, you've given Isa a hoss, you've given us new guns all round. Thar's not a housewife along the trail as hasn't gotten suthin' as you brought her from England—cloth for a frock, trimmin' fer a hat, a box of scented soap, a machine fer mincin' meat. An' the children—the boys an' gels—what about them, eh? You brought 'em toys an' dolls an' pictur' books, whips, boxes of paints, needlecases with scissors an' thimble all complete. You've filled their little hearts with a joy they never knowed afore. Selfish! Great snakes!"

"Tea's ready," announced Rube Carter, breaking in upon the conversation. "I've opened a new tin o' peaches, and thar's cream."

In spite of Kiddie's efforts to be homely and unassuming, Gideon Birkenshaw was not always entirely at his ease in his presence. The old man recognized that his own upbringing and education had been sadly deficient and that his roughness of speech and manners became painfully obvious in comparison with Kiddie's unvarying courtesy and refinement.

"Kiddie," he said now, as they sat at tea, "thar's a many things in you, I notice, as makes you a whole lot different from what you was in th' old days, 'fore you made the surprisin' discovery that you was a aristocratic nobleman. In a heap o' ways you's the same Kiddie. Nothin' c'n alter your natur' or wipe away th' effects of your early trainin' as a frontier scout. You've lost none o' your skill an' cleverness, but added suthin' to them that makes you inches taller an' bigger'n you was. I guess it's the things you acquired in England as makes you diff'rent. Rubbin' shoulders with them high-class friends o' yours over thar has kinder wore off the rough corners."

"'Twas high time I quitted, perhaps," mused Kiddie. "If I'd stopped over there any longer, I guess there wouldn't have been any corners left to know me by. I should have been worn round as a pebble, exactly like all other pebbles without character and individuality."

"Thar you are!" nodded Gideon, "'without character an' individuality,' says you, as if you'd lifted the phrase outer a printed book. You wouldn't ha' used sich choice an' dainty langwidge 'fore you went away. Your speech has growed more c'rrect, more elegant, same as your dress."

"My dress, Gid? What's the matter with my dress?"

"Oh, yes," pursued Gideon. "You wears buckskins an' flannels an' a frontier hat; you goes about with your shirt-sleeves rolled up an' a scarf 'stead of a stiff starched collar; but you takes care that thar's allus elegant underclothin' nex' yer skin. You've gotten surprisin' clean habits, too: washes yourself three or four times a day, allus shaves yerself mornin's an' oils an' brushes yer hair. You don't go ter bed wi' yer boots and breeches on; you sleeps in a dinky suit o' pyjamas with stripes on 'em, an' braid, an' fancy buttons. I ain't complain'n' none, mind you. I gotter tremendous admiration fer all these yer signs of gentlemanhood. Only they makes me feel ter'ble humble, Kiddie. I feel 's if I oughter be sayin' 'sir' or 'your lordship' all the time."

"I'm glad you never commit such an outrageous mistake, Gid," said Kiddie, helping himself to preserved peaches with the spoon especially provided for them. Rube had just used his own spoon for the same purpose.

"An' thar's another thing—your manners at table," went on Gideon. "You're that dainty in your ways of eatin' an' drinkin', you make me feel like a brute animal 'stead of a well-brought-up human. Allus uses yer fork, you do; never shovels th' food inter yer mouth with a knife; never touches a bone wi' yer fingers. Seems ter me, Kiddie, if you was livin' on a desert island, same's that chap Robi'son Crusoe, you'd still show a example of perlite table manners t' the poll parrot an' the nanny goat."

Kiddie smiled in amusement.

"Well, well, Gid," he said, "you just wait until Rube an' I come back from our camp in the forest. I shall have dropped all the objectionable politeness by then. We shall take no forks or plates, but will tear our food with our teeth. We will sleep in our boots under blankets of balsam branches, and forget the comforts of pyjamas and hot shaving water. We're going to live like a pair of primitive savages, talkin' in the sign language, killin' an' cookin' our own food, takin' with us nothin' that you c'd buy in a city emporium, except, of course, our guns and huntin' knives. An' even then we shall be a heap better off than Robinson Crusoe, for, although he had his shot gun an' the fixin's he'd gotten from the wreck, yet he had ter build his own boat, while we shall have our birch bark canoe, and I guess the things we shall carry in the canoe an' in our pockets and haversacks 'll give us an enormous advantage over the shipwrecked mariner."

"An' when d'you purpose startin' on this yer outlandish trip, abandonin' the delights o' civilization?" Gideon inquired. "It's the fust I've heard of it. You ain't bin makin' no preparations. When d'you reckon on startin'?"

Kiddie glanced aside at Rube.

"As soon's Rube's ready," he announced.

"Why, I bin ready fer days an' days," said Rube. "I ain't thought o' nothin' else ever since yer told me it was goin' ter happen!"

"What about the weather prospects?" Kiddie asked.

"Weather's all right," answered Rube. "I've had me eye on it a lot. It's plumb sure t' be fine. Birds are flyin' high; flowers ain't got much scent in 'em; the sheep are grazin' with their heads to the wind; cattle are quiet. Mother's clothes line's saggin' betwixt the poles; spiders' webs are slack, too, an' thar's crowds of 'em on every bush. This mornin', when I looked out, great white mountains of cloud were banked up in th' sky. 'Fore I'd dressed an' got out, the clouds had melted clean away. All them signs mean fair weather, I reckon."

"That's so," agreed Kiddie, "especially the spiders' webs an' the quickly meltin' clouds. Guess we may's well start right now."

"Some sudden, ain't it?" said Gideon in surprise.

"No advantage in delay," returned Kiddie, rising from his seat and signing to Rube to begin at once. He went methodically about the cabin collecting things—a sack of potatoes, a bag of flour, some tins of milk, supplies of lard, salt, onions, rice, bacon, tinned fruit, and eggs, tea, cocoa, sugar, and butter, with various cooking utensils, his medicine chest, a hurricane lamp, candles, and a can of oil. Rube had made out a long list of their requirements, and busied himself collecting them.

"How many blankets?" he inquired.

"None," Kiddie answered. "Two ground sheets an' our sleepin' bags 'll be enough. An' we'll take the Indian teepee. It's better 'n a canvas tent. Shift all these fixin's inter the garden, an' then we'll start puttin' back everything we c'n do without. What d'you want the books for? You'll have no time fer readin'; we'll talk instead. You c'n do without a lookin' glass. Put tin dippers in place of the china cups an' saucers. Where's the fryin'-pan? Don't ferget soap an' towels."

In the garden he rejected a surprising number of things which Rube had thought necessary. He reduced the equipment to the smallest possible bulk. Nevertheless, he forgot nothing that was essential and included nothing which did not afterwards prove indispensable. The whole outfit occupied only a small space in the canoe.

They were carrying the bundles down to the lakeside when Rube, who was leading, stopped and looked back. Kiddie had come to a halt, and, still with the wigwam poles over his shoulder, was staring curiously at the ground at his feet.

"You passed by without noticin' that, Rube," he said, when the boy went back to him. What he was staring at was the stub of a cigarette. "It wasn't lyin' there when I went along here this mornin', I guess. You c'n see by the ash that it hasn't been here long. Less'n an hour, I'd say. Who dropped it, I wonder? There ain't anybody in this yer camp smokes cigarettes."

He searched for footprints, but could discover none; a newly-broken twig was all the sign that he could see. He glanced around among the trees, but there was no visible movement, and a whip-poor-will was singing undisturbed from a high bough of a balsam tree close at hand.

"No occasion ter worry about a trifle like that," he remarked, as he went on in the direction of the lake. "All the same, I'm some curious."

He did not look back while carrying the long teepee poles through the narrow ways between the closely-growing trees. Had he done so, even the sureness and quickness of his eyesight might still have missed the cleverly hidden form of Broken Feather, who lay at full length in the midst of an elder bush, stealthily watching him.



CHAPTER X

THE GUARDIAN OF THE HONEYCOMB

"And we're really goin' ter make a start right now?" questioned Rube, as he watched Kiddie packing their fishing gear on top of the rest of their equipment in the canoe. "We shall not get very far if you're notionin' ter make camp 'fore dark."

"All the better," said Kiddie. "If we find we've forgotten anything, there'll be the less distance for us to come back for it, see?"

"Thar's nothin' as you're liable ter have forgot," observed Rube, confident in Kiddie's forethought. "Seems ter me you must have had a schedule of the things already fixed up in your head. Anyhow, I don't reckon as we shall have any occasion t' come back—unless it's for the big dog. Why ain't we takin' Sheila along of us, Kiddie? Wouldn't she have been useful?"

"In some ways, yes; in others, no," Kiddie answered decisively. "I'm leaving her to mount guard up at the homestead and down at the cabin. She'll be better fed here at home, and she won't be running wild. If we took her along with us, she'd sure be foolin' around among our traps, scarin' the wild critters away from 'em; and I ain't in favour of keepin' her on the chain. Besides, I don't calculate on your havin' a hound ter help you in trackin' and scoutin'. You must learn to do it all on your own. Ready? In you get, then, while I shove her off."

Kiddie himself took the paddle. The water was extremely calm, and as the canoe rippled out from the shore, every tree and bush and boulder was clearly reflected in the glassy surface.

"No," he said, after a long spell of silence, reverting to Rube's remark. "Thar's no advantage in going far this evening. We've made a start; that's the great thing. I ain't greatly in favour of a long-prepared programme, or of doin' things accordin' ter plan, like an ordinary tourist. Guess we'll make camp back of that point that juts out in front of us. But 'fore we land, we got ter catch a fish or two for supper. That's why we packed the rods an' lines on top of the outfit. May as well begin right away. Be careful how you move. Don't stand; crawl."

Rube got the two rods ready, while Kiddie paddled onward for a couple of miles. Here and there the calm surface was dimpled by rising fish.

They drifted slowly into the shadows of the trees. Rube was the first to cast his fly, and the first also to make a strike, but it was a catfish that he caught, and, gently removing the hook, he threw it back.

Kiddie caught a small trout, and then a larger one. Both Rube and he were expert fishers, and between them they soon had enough for a good supper.

They entered a sheltered bay, into which flowed a little creek of pure, sparkling water, overshadowed by great, low-branching cotton-woods and tall, feathery silver spruce trees.

"No use in goin' far up the creek," said Kiddie, letting his paddle drag. "What d'ye say to here?"

"Right," agreed Rube. "Thar's a nice level bit o' ground, middle of them four cotton-woods. We couldn't do better."

They beached the canoe, and while Kiddie began to unload her, Rube went about collecting twigs and fir cones and as much dry wood as he could find to start a cooking fire. He built a fireplace of stones from beside the stream, lined it with dry grass and light twigs, and soon had a crackling blaze going from which to kindle the larger billets of wood broken up with his axe.

By the time he had cleaned the fish a glowing red fire was ready. Like a wise trapper, he put aside the offal to serve as bait for the traps. Thoroughly drying the cleaned trout, he soused them in flour, and laid them gently into the frying-pan of boiling lard. Then he gave himself time to cut bread and brew a dipper of tea.

Kiddie paid no regard to the cooking, excepting occasionally to sniff at the odorous air that came to him from the frying-pan. He knew that supper would be quite ready before he had finished his own work of unloading the canoe and setting up the teepee.

In this latter work he needed no help. There were no tent-pegs to drive into the hard ground. He had only to erect the tall poles in pyramid shape, and then enclose them in the buffalo-skin cover, lacing the latter together down to the door flap.

It looked extremely Indian when it was up, even to the smoke-grime round about the vent and the picture-writing in many colours that decorated the outer surface. The two trappers themselves looked Indian also, in their fur caps, fringed buckskins, and moccasins. Kiddie had even stuck a pair of white eagle feathers in his cap, and his tunic was richly decorated with silk thread-work and coloured beads.

When he moved away from the wigwam, Rube saw him go up to a gnarled old cedar tree and stand looking at it curiously. He seemed to be peculiarly interested in the rugged trunk. Presently he took a piece of white chalk from his belt pouch and made a mark upon the tree.

"Guess you've got some p'ticlar reason fer blazin' that thar old tree," said Rube, as Kiddie strode towards the fire; "I ain't just able ter make it out, unless you're figgerin' t' have the tree cut down for timber. It's your own property, of course. You goin' ter have it felled?"

"No, the tree's not comin' down," explained Kiddie, seating himself on his rolled-up sleeping bag within easy reach of the food. "Go an' have a squint at where I chalked the mark. Guess you'll soon understand."

Rube strode to the tree, walked round it, and then stood for a while, with his thumbs in his belt, opposite the chalk mark.

"Yes," he nodded wisely, when he returned. "We oughter git a considerable store of honey in the mornin' when we smoke them bees out. Thar's a rare procession of 'em goin' in at that little hole. Tree's hollow. Dunno why th' critters don't go in by the big doorway on the far side. Takin' a short cut, I expect. Else they goes in one way an' out th' other."

"That's it," said Kiddie. "Say, these trout are just top-notch. You've cooked 'em to a turn. I haven't tasted better since I was in Russia. They keep 'em alive in big tanks in the hotels in Moscow. You c'n choose your breakfast while it's swimmin' round; so it's served fresh. Keep the scraps all together. We'll bait the traps with 'em, presently, soon's we've washed up an' covered the fire. I notice you've made it in a good place—not too near the trees. But we've still got to be some careful. This yer ground's thick with pine needles and cones, that might easily catch alight if a breeze came along. Best dig a trench round it an' fill it with water."

They washed their pans and plates in the creek, and then got out their snares and traps.

Rube laid the snares in rabbit runs, and set some beaver traps in the creek, while Kiddie, with his greater skill, laid spring traps for the larger animals of prey in places where there were signs that large animals had recently been hunting and killing.

He was particularly attentive to one special steel trap, which he carefully baited with fish and set close beside the gnawed remains of a rabbit, still fresh and blood-stained. He examined the surrounding ground, and discovered the spot where the rabbit had been killed. Light tufts of fur lay about, and in their midst were the deep scratches of large claws, as far apart as a man's expanded finger-tips.

"Guess there's a lynx been prowlin' around here lately," he said to Rube, who was taking a practical lesson in the laying of traps. "That fish bait 'll sure tempt him. Anything more need doin'? What about that trench?"

"I've done it," Rube answered. "Thar ain't nothin' else, except t' get our beds ready."

"Mine's going t' be in the open," Kiddie decided. "Your's 'll be in the teepee. Keep a candle and matches and your moccasins within reach, case you've got ter get up in the dark. May as well plant your six-shooter under your knees, too. Thar's where I allus keep mine. It's a good habit, anyway. Don't reckon you'll need it, unless the coyotes come nosing around. Take a good sleep. No occasion ter get movin' about 'fore six o'clock."

Before they turned in for the night, the moon had risen over the jagged mountain tops, casting a glittering path of silver across the lake. On the farther side of the water they could see the black openings of many canyons and yawning chasms that invited exploration.

The deep murmur of a distant torrent came to them. The hoarse croaking of frogs and the chirping of crickets were mingled with the hooting of owls and the nearer hum of mosquitoes. Bats and moths were flitting on silent wings among the trees, and there was a rustle of dry leaves, as unseen animals of the night moved in the undergrowth.

Rube was up and moving about the camp at sunrise, and he had stirred up the smouldering fire and put a kettle and a dipper of water to boil before Kiddie crawled out of his sleeping bag. Kiddie's first occupation was to launch the canoe.

"Fetch the towels and come along," he said. "We'll get t' the deep water for our swim. You won't be anyways afraid, will you?"

"Not when you're near ter keep an eye on me," returned Rube, with confidence. "Course you'll help me t' git back inter the canoe. 'Tain't the same's mountin' a pony."

"Well, no," smiled Kiddie. "You'll mount over her head or her tail. She'll roll over, sure, if you try ter get astride her by the middle."

Rube paddled out into the lake until he was told to stop. He shipped his paddle, and looked round in time to see Kiddie's beautiful muscular figure poised ready to dive from the high peak.

With an adroit movement, Kiddie leapt into the air and, turning, cut the water as cleanly as an arrow, making very little splash. Rube waited so long for him to reappear that it seemed almost that some accident had happened to him. But at length he came up in a quite unexpected place, swimming back to the canoe at a pace that was astonishing. Thereafter he devoted himself to giving lessons to Rube in swimming and diving and re-entering the frail canoe.

"Quite enough for one morning," he said, before Rube had been in the water nearly as long as he wished. "We'll get back to camp now and have a cracker and a drink of hot tea. Then we'll visit the traps, and you c'n get breakfast ready while I shave. I guess we may's well have eggs and bacon, eh?"

"Might have some o' that thar honey as well," suggested Rube.

"All right," Kiddie agreed. "But you'll be havin' the bees foolin' around while we're at breakfast, if you're not careful. What you goin' ter smoke 'em out with?"

"Sulphur," Rube answered promptly. "I got a chunk in me pocket; been usin' it t' put in my bear cub's drinkin' water."

Rube was in more haste than he need have been to disturb the bees. Kiddie, while waiting for his shaving water to heat, was making a toasting fork of a stick with a forked end for cooking the bacon. He had seen Rube carry away a flat slab of stone with crushed sulphur on it, and had watched Rube lighting the sulphur and shoving the slab within the hollow of the tree, as he might shove a dish into an oven.

Suddenly there was a cry of alarm.

"Kiddie! Kiddie! Quick! Come here!"

Kiddie ran to the tree, still with his knife and the forked stick in his hands.

"Keep back!" Rube cautioned him. "It's a rattler—a huge one—far in among the roots. Listen!"

Kiddie heard the unmistakable crackling sound. He went nearer, holding his pronged stick in front of him. He peeped into the hollow of the tree, and through the blue fumes of the burning sulphur he saw the snake's thick black body with its brown geometrical markings gliding and twisting round the exposed roots.

While he watched, the repulsive head, with its sinister, beady eyes and busily darting tongue, came out, rising slowly as it came. The wide mouth opened, and Kiddie could see the two protruding poison fangs outside the ordinary teeth. He stepped backward as the snake's neck and body began to curve in readiness to strike.

"Seems he don't intend us ter get that honeycomb, Rube," he said calmly.

"Do keep back, Kiddie!" pleaded Rube. "Them fangs 'ld go clean through your moccasins or your buckskins. What you gonner do—shoot him?"

"Ain't got my gun," Kiddie answered. "It's in my belt alongside my tunic. Fetch it, if you like; may as well."

Rube ran back to where Kiddie had slept, and returned with the loaded revolver. He was astonished and alarmed at what he now saw. The rattlesnake had come wholly out from the tree, and Kiddie stood directly over it with his right foot planted across the thicker part of its writhing body, and the toasting fork, held firmly in his left hand, gripping the reptile by the neck. The snake's mouth was wide open—it seemed almost to be snarling angrily; the long body was wriggling, and all the time came the ominous rattling sound from the ringed tail.

"Get round by the back of me, and give me the gun in my right hand," ordered Kiddie. "Don't be scared. I've got him, sure; he ain't goin' ter wriggle away."



Rube passed the revolver and watched. He expected Kiddie to discharge the weapon close to the rattlesnake's head. To his surprise, Kiddie removed his right foot, drew away the forked stick, and stepped back a couple of paces. The snake, now at unhindered liberty, raised its head several inches from the ground and coiled round, with jaws wide open, ready to strike. Kiddie then pressed his trigger, and the bullet, entering between the two poison fangs, came out at the back of the serpent's skull.

"Say, what in thunder did you let it go loose for?" questioned Rube. "It might have escaped! It might have bitten you!"

"Which means that you figure I might have missed my aim?" said Kiddie. "Not very complimentary to my shootin'. Why did I let it go loose? Well, I jest notioned it would be some cowardly ter shoot while I held the brute that way. Beside, I didn't want ter shatter the skull too much. Biggest rattler I've seen—seven feet long if it's an inch, and worth preservin'. Say, those bees look like givin' us trouble. Best hustle through with breakfast, and then get along to the traps. The honey c'n wait. That sulphur of yours is goin' ter do the trick."

They went together to make the round of the traps, first going some way up the creek to the willows where Rube had set his beaver traps in the midst of a colony of these busy animals. Rube was in hope that every trap would be filled; but there were only two beavers—one of them quite young and small, the other, a large male in prime condition.

"Best let it go, as it ain't hurt any," Kiddie advised, liberating the smaller one. "You c'n take the bigger chap and we'll cook the tail. Where did you set your snares?"

"In amongst the scrub, thar," Rube pointed.

There was a fine jack-rabbit in the first snare they came to. Rube gave the animal a sharp knock on the back of the head, killing it instantly.

"Guess we'll have this yer feller for dinner," he said; "stewed with plenty of onions an' some taters."

"You see," observed Kiddie, "we're already beginnin' ter be self-supportin'. Fish, meat, honey—there wasn't any occasion t' bring a butcher's shop along with us. We c'd even make our own bread at a pinch. I'm plannin' ter make a fruit pudding. Thar's a bush 'most breakin' down with its weight of ripe and juicy thimbleberries, back of the old cedar tree. Bees have been at 'em."

The next snare they visited was empty. In another a woodgrouse was caught, and in yet another a fox cub. Kiddie's steel traps were set farther away. He went first to the one about which he had been so particular.

"Gee!" he exclaimed. "It's sprung! Bait's taken. Remains of that rabbit have been eaten, too!"

"Lynx is a cunnin' critter," said Rube. "You gotter wear two pairs o' moccasins t' git level with a lynx."

"I ain't just sure that it was a lynx," mused Kiddie, searching the ground for signs. "You never happened on a jet-black lynx around here, did you, Rube?"

"Nope," Rube answered. "They's allus the same tawny colour. Why d'you ask?"

Kiddie looked down at the tight shut jaws of the gin.

"Thar's a tuft of black fur in the teeth of the trap," he pointed out. "An' look at them claw marks! Guess that critter's some bigger'n a lynx. May's well stay another night in this camp an' try ter git the critter, eh?"

"Dunno 'bout that," Rube demurred. "Might be a whole fam'ly o' rattlers lyin' around. 'Tain't just healthy."

"Guess that rattlesnake we killed had done with family life a long while ago," said Kiddie. "Anyhow, I'm curious to know what critter it was that sprang this trap."

"Mebbe he shoved his nose inter one of the others," suggested Rube.

Kiddie led the way unerringly among the forest trees. His traps had all been visited by wild animals. Two of them had been sprung ineffectually; in others he found a raccoon, a cross-fox, a musk-rat and an otter. One had been dragged away, and was found some hours afterwards with part of a fox's tail between the teeth.

Rube Carter rather prided himself on his skill in cooking, and he was particularly anxious to make a good rabbit stew. Kiddie helped him only so far as to skin and dismember the rabbit and peel the onions. He was himself a capable camp cook, but he did not wish to interfere with Rube's personal satisfaction in doing the work.

"Say, Kiddie," said Rube, when he had fixed the saucepan firmly in the fire; "if we ain't goin' ter quit this yer pitch 'fore ter-morrow, you'd best sleep to-night along o' me in the wigwam. That rattlesnake wasn't many yards away from you, an' if you'd bin bit I dunno what I should ha' done. Thar ain't no good in hangin' around after that lynx, whatever its colour. Why shouldn't we quit?"

"Where would you go, Rube?" Kiddie inquired.

Rube looked out across the lake.

"I got a idea of paddlin' across an' makin' camp in one of them canyons," he said.

"Tut!" objected Kiddie. "You want to do some exploring, eh? Want ter get into some lonesome place where nobody has ever been before? What's the matter with this forest? I reckon we're the first civilized humans that have ever spent a night in it. Prowl around in it; search in whatever direction you like, you'll find no sign of any sort that a human being has been here in front of us to leave his mark on a tree, to drop a button or a chip of crockery, or to lift a stone from the bed of the creek. It's all as Nature meant it to be, centuries and centuries ago. Growth and the weather alone have changed things."

"All right," nodded Rube; "so long's you're satisfied, so am I. Suppose we get at that honey 'fore the bees come back."

The sulphur fumes still lingered in the hollow tree, and scores of bees had fallen stupefied among the roots. Rube, being the smaller, entered the hollow and looked up.

"Thar's pounds an' pounds of honeycomb here, Kiddie," he called out; "but I can't reach it without somethin' ter stand on, an' we shall need that biscuit tin ter hold it."

Kiddie fetched the biscuit tin, and a spar of firewood, and stood by while Rube handed out to him the dripping combs of honey.

"Thar's heaps more, higher up," said Rube, standing on tip-toes and reaching upward.

Then somehow his foot slipped, the decayed substance of the tree crumbled under his weight. He screamed in terror as he fell in a heap at Kiddie's feet, followed by a shower of dust and strange, dry rottenness that was mingled with the syrup from the honeycombs.

"What is it?" cried Kiddie. "What made you scream? Another rattler?"

"No." Rube shivered. "That!" And he turned over and pointed with an agitated finger at a human skull and a heap of crumbled bones. "It's a man's skeleton. And you notioned as nobody 'd ever set foot in this forest before!"



CHAPTER XI

LESSONS IN TRACKING

"Queer!" ejaculated Rube, standing up and contemplating the gruesome remnants of the skeleton. "Mortal queer it is. Can't make it out. How'd he come ter be fixed up thataway in the middle of the tree, dyin' thar all lonesome, like a poor critter caught in a trap? How'd it happen, Kiddie?"

He appeared to expect Kiddie to tell him off-hand exactly how the thing had occurred.

"Dunno," returned Kiddie, with a grave headshake. "It's a mystery. I'm trying t' think it out. What way was he fixed?"

"Can't just say," Rube answered slowly. "Inside the tree's like a chimney. You c'n see daylight if yer looks up, as I did. I couldn't see that it was a man—a skeleton. Thar was a mass of honeycomb an' wax below what was left of his feet. I reached up an' seized hold o' somethin'. Guess it was one of the poor chap's legs. I was pullin' at it, an' pullin', when my foot slipped, an' the whole concern came down on top o' me, crumblin' into dust. How d'you reckon he got thar? Kin y'u explain?"

"Seems to me," said Kiddie, after a long pause, "that there are three possible explanations. First, that he was killed by some enemy and shoved in there out of sight: which ain't at all likely, since it would have been much easier to fling the body into the lake, and quite as safe from discovery to leave it lying here in the forest glade. Second, that he was escaping from some other Redskins, or even from some dangerous wild animal, and went into the hollow tree for safety."

"Climbin' too high, an' gettin' fixed so as he couldn't wriggle out again either up or down?" suggested Rube.

"Exactly," nodded Kiddie. "But, if that was the way of it, why didn't his pursuers get on his tracks and find him? I'm not of opinion that he had any pursuers, either animal or Indian. I believe he was just a lone scout—a trapper, maybe, but a lonesome wanderer, anyway—and that he was taking shelter from a storm. Perhaps he knew of that hollow tree: perhaps he came upon it by chance. It was a convenient shelter in either case. That's my third point."

"An' a reasonable one," commented Rube. "But it don't account fer how he came t' be fixed in so high above the ground. If he was only shelterin', why didn't he walk out again when the storm was through?"

"I'm supposin' it was a snowstorm, or else a fierce blizzard," Kiddie went on. "As the snow got deeper an' deeper, it would block up the hole that he entered by, and he'd work his way higher an' higher to get at the purer air. Maybe he'd wait till the storm was over, and then the snow might have been so deep that he'd think it easier to climb higher still and escape that way rather than attempt to go back feet foremost and burrow a passage through the drift. And then he got so wedged in that there was no movin' and no means of escape either way, and he just had to stay there and die a lingerin' death."

"Yes," said Rube. "I guess that's th' explanation of the whole thing. Wonder where he come from. Pity thar's none of his clothes left: no gun, or knife, or watch, or pocket-book ter tell us who he was, an' all that."

"He wouldn't be carryin' a gun or a watch," observed Kiddie, "and Injuns ain't in the habit of keepin' pocket diaries."

"Injuns?" repeated Rube questioningly. "D'you reckon this yer chap was a Injun, then?"

"Certainly," Kiddie answered, "an Injun, young an' tall."

"H'm!" murmured Rube, not satisfied. "You just guessin' all that, Kiddie, or have you figured it out?"

"I've figured it out," returned Kiddie. "Look at his thigh bone—the only bone that's left intact. It's longer'n mine, an' I ain't a pigmy. Must have been taller'n I am. Look at the teeth: they're not an old man's teeth. There ain't a speck of decay on 'em, they're not worn down any, an' they're well separate one from another, not crushed together like an old man's. Must sure have been young."

"Yes," said Rube, "but all that don't prove he was Injun. White men c'n be tall; white men c'n have good teeth. How d'you make out he was Injun?"

"By the shape of his skull for one thing," explained Kiddie—"the square jaw, the high cheek bones, the slopin' forehead. But more'n all I argue he was Injun because I calculate he was fixed tight in the tree, and was well on the way to bein' a naked skeleton long before any white man opened his eyes on the Rocky Mountains—yes, even perhaps before the Pilgrim Fathers landed in New England. That's why he didn't carry a gun. He didn't know there was such a thing as a gun, or a watch either."

"Git!" exclaimed Rube incredulously. "D'you expect me ter swaller a tall yarn like that? Why, the tree couldn't have bin more'n a seedlin' all them years ago!"

"Well," returned Kiddie. "I'm not prepared to declare that it was hollow, the same's it is now, in the time of the Pilgrim Fathers. But it was already an old tree. I guess it was an old tree even before Christopher Columbus discovered America. What's the girth of it, anyhow? Measure the girth of it, just above the base."

Rube made the tour of the forest veteran, estimating its circumference with outstretched arms.

"I reckon it's just over twenty-four feet," he announced, "allowing for the part that's missin' from th' open gap."

"Say eight feet in diameter," nodded Kiddie. "And it's one of the slowest growin' of all forest trees. I calculate that every inch of diameter represents at the very least ten years of growth. Eight feet equal ninety-six inches; an' that means nine hundred and sixty years. So you see the tree was quite a hundred years old at the time when William the Conqueror was King of England."

"Methuselah!" exclaimed Rube. "Then I ain't denyin' that it may have bin gettin' some ancient an' holler-hearted time of the Pilgrims. But even yet you ain't solved th' problem of just how long this yer trapper's bin dead."

"There's no way of tellin'," said Kiddie, "except by the condition of the bones. They crumble to dust at a touch, and as the protection of the tree was liable to preserve them rather than to hasten their decay, you wouldn't be a whole lot out if you argued, as I did at first, that he was dead before ever a white man set eyes on the Rocky Mountains."

"Guess thar's no occasion fer Sheriff Blagg ter hold an inquest, then," observed Rube, glancing round at the tin of honey. "Say, Kiddie, you gonner eat any o' that stuff—after where it come from?"

"Why not?" questioned Kiddie. "It's good, wholesome honey. We'll store it away in the teepee, where the bees an' flies can't get foolin' around it. That rabbit stew goin' along all right, d'ye think? See if it's seasoned enough. Onions are beginnin' ter flavour the woodland air, eh? Good thing we ain't goin' t' a fashionable West-end party this evenin'. I'd a heap rather smell of onions right here. Prefer bein' here in any case. You've never bin to a party, Rube; never seen me togged out in evenin' dress, wearin' a swallow-tailed coat an' a white bow an' patent leather pumps. But thar's a heap o' things you've never seen. You've never seen a locomotive engine, or a steamship, or a Gothic cathedral, or a Japanese cherry orchard in blossom; don't know what it means ter walk along an English lane, past cottages covered with roses. Thar's London an' Paris, thar's th' Atlantic Ocean an' the lone coral islands of the Pacific. Thar's pictures an' books an' theatres. Oh, thar's a whole world of interestin' things you've never seen!"

"Makes me feel ter'ble ignorant," Rube regretted ruefully. "I dunno nothin' o' what's beyond th' mountains that I see ev'ry mornin' from Birkenshaw's Camp. Don't know nothin'; can't do nothin'. I'm just as useless as I'm ignorant."

Kiddie put his arm affectionately round the boy's shoulders as they moved together towards the campfire.

"Not useless, Rube; not ignorant," he said, speaking now in his character of Lord St. Olave. "You know things that thousands of well-educated English and American boys do not know; you can do things which millions of clever boys are incapable of doing. I won't make you blush by telling you just what I think of you. I'll only say you're learning more and more every day, and that every day you're proving yourself to be a better and a better scout."

He left Rube occupied with the cooking and went off to bring together the animals that had been trapped.

"What d'yer say ter tryin' your hand at gettin' the pelts off en these critters?" he asked, when he returned and had placed the animals side by side. "It's best done while they're fresh."

"You're thinkin' of preservin' 'em, then?" questioned Rube.

"I'm thinkin' of mounting 'em," Kiddie answered, "but mainly for practice. I took lessons when I was in London, from the people who preserve animals for the British Museum, an' picked up a heap of wrinkles. I want ter show you how it's done."

"How d'you reckon you're goin' ter get the skin off that rattlesnake?" Rube was anxious to know.

"Well," said Kiddie, "'tain't just as easy an' simple as drawin' off your glove; but it's on the same principle."

They were engaged during the afternoon with the work of securing the skins and cleaning them. The carcases were cut up for use as bait for the traps, the traps being plentifully baited and very carefully set for the larger animals. Kiddie was again most particular in laying the gin for the same animal that had visited it and perplexed him on the previous night.

"Guess that'll sure get him, whatever he is," said Rube.

He looked round for a response in agreement with his comment, but Kiddie was not there.

"Which way've you gone, Kiddie?" he called.

But there was no answer.

Rube stood listening, but heard no sound. He called louder; there was still no answer.

Now, Rube knew Kiddie well enough to be assured that there was some special meaning in this sudden disappearance. It was not a mere playful fancy. Kiddie had gone away intentionally, making no sound, leaving no sign. Clearly he wanted to test Rube's skill in tracking.

Rube remained standing where he was, but his eyes were alertly searching around amongst the shrubs and trees and along the ground for some mark or sign that might tell him in which direction Kiddie had gone. He knew that success in following him depended entirely upon his true start, and that a false beginning would only land him in difficulties, if not in his being actually lost.

Rube knew also that Kiddie would not play him any childish pranks, but would give him fair play all through, even helping him by leaving some "scent" in his trail—not handfuls of torn-up paper, as in an English schoolboys' game of fox and hounds, nor by so obvious a method as that of blazing the trees. It would be a test in which every faculty of the searcher's scoutcraft would be brought into active exercise.

Sniffing the warm air, listening keenly, looking with sharp scrutiny over every foot of the ground from where Kiddie had stood behind him, Rube at length fixed his gaze upon a tuft of grass where some of the blades had been bent over as by the tread of a moccasined foot. He went closer to it and saw that some of the frail blades were fractured. Now he had his starting point. He did not rush forward, but carefully estimated the probable direction, listening the while.

Presently there came to him the harsh cry of a jay, which told him of Kiddie's whereabouts, or at least of the line of Kiddie's course through the forest solitudes.

And now he went on in pursuit, picking up the faintly-indicated tracks one by one; often going far astray on a false scent and needing to return on his own back trail to the point where he had gone off the line that had been so cunningly laid for his guidance or his confusion; but always coming upon some new clue that lured him on and on.

Many times he stood still in serious perplexity. Everything around him was wild and unfamiliar, with no slightest trace or sign, either new or old, of human presence.

He might easily have allowed himself to be alarmed at the utter loneliness, and afraid lest he should lose himself. But he knew all the time that if he should be lost, Kiddie would come out in search of him and quickly find him.

In his moments of deepest despair, however, he always discovered some obvious sign which he had previously overlooked, and at last he perceived that he had been led round in an exact triangle, for through the green meshes of the trees he caught a glimpse of the lake and a thin blue column of fire-smoke, and then in the surrounding silence he heard Kiddie's well-known voice singing a snatch of a Scots ballad—

"Late, late in the gloaming, Kilmeny cam' hame."

"Hullo, Rube; got back inter camp, eh? Been wanderin' about the forest all on your own, have you? I've waited for you; got tea ready, you see—all but boilin' th' eggs. Guessed you'd relish a couple of eggs."

Kiddie did not turn to look at Rube as he spoke. He was reclining between the teepee and the fire with his open note-book on his knee and a blacklead pencil in his fingers. Beside him was a newly-cut birch stick with part of the bark whittled off.

"Yes," Rube responded, halting near him and standing looking him up and down in curious examination. "Yes, I allow I'm some hungry. Say, your moccasins are wet. Spilt some of the tea-water on 'em? Pity ter spoil a nice pair of moccasins by wettin' 'em. You ain't written much with that pencil. The point's still sharp since you sharpened it after dinner."