CHAPTER XI
THE SHEEP HERDER'S CABIN
When, in the delirium of fever, Jim Barlow strayed from his room at SanLeon, the one idea in his mind was that the mountains called him. Onedistant peak, in especial, seemed imbued with life, using human speechand gesture--warning him to come, and come at once, lest some terriblething befall him. He must obey! He must--he must!
He set off at a run, his bare feet unconsciously seeking the smoothdriveway of the home-piece, and following it at breakneck speed till itended in the road below the mesa. There the rougher going hindered himsomewhat, but not greatly, and he kept to the highway till it reached ariver and a bridge.
Beyond the bridge the road divided into three forks, the northern oneascending steadily toward the peak to which his fancy still fixed itselfand he struck off upon this. How long he travelled he did not know,though his unnatural strength due to his fever must have lasted forhours. Gradually, that fierce, inward excitement that drove him on gaveplace to a sudden weariness, and he dropped like a stone on the spotwhere it overcame him.
As the morning rose, clear and bright, a company of horsemen, riding insingle file toward a distant pass, came upon a prostrate, nearly nakedfigure lying in their path. The horsemen were Ute Indians, and like manyof their white brothers, were prospecting for gold. All sorts ofprecious metals were to be found in these Rocky mountains, and weretheir own rightful inheritance. They were peaceably inclined to shareand share alike with the pale faces. For years there had been friendshipbetween them and the red men had learned many things from the white. Notthe least had been this craving for gold; and where once they would havetoiled only in the chase, to shoot and kill the game with which themountains abounded, they now longed for the glittering stones hiddenwithin them.
But they were in no haste. The gold was hidden--it would keep, and theyhad ridden all night long. So, at sight of poor Jim, lying motionless,they dismounted and discussed him.
"He is dead," said the foremost, in his own tongue which, of course, thelad would not have understood, even if he had heard.
Another stooped down and turned the boy's face upward. It was scratchedwith the underbrush through which he had made his way and the lightgarments he wore were in shreds. His feet were swollen and bruised andthe bandages had been torn from his arm.
"Not dead. Might as well be. Heap bad," said another Indian, gravelyshaking his head.
There were four in the party and one of them filled a cup at a nearbyspring and dashed the water over the lad's face. His fit of exhaustionwas about over, anyway, and the shock of the ice-cold water revived him,so that he opened his eyes and looked into the dark face bent above him.
But there was no intelligence in this look and presently his lidsdrooped and he was once more oblivious to all about him.
The Indians held a consultation. Three were for going on, after they hadbreakfasted, and leaving the vagrant to his fate. One was for givinghelp and, being the leader of the party as well as a red-skinned "GoodSamaritan," his counsel prevailed.
When they resumed the trail, Jim Barlow was carried with them, very muchlike a sack of meal across a saddle bow. But carried--not left to die.
When he again opened his eyes, and this time with consciousness in them,he was in a small shanty, rude in the extreme; and his bed a pile ofhemlock boughs spread with a woollen blanket. He lay for some timetrying to think where he was and what had happened to him, and idlywatching the bent figure of a man sitting just outside the doorway ofthe hut. The man was smoking and a little boy was playing in the sand athis feet.
Jim couldn't see anything interesting in these two strangers nor in thecabin itself and, with a feeling of great weakness, closed his eyes oncemore, and for many hours of sound, refreshing sleep. When for the thirdtime he awoke his senses had returned and only the weakness remained. Hetried to speak and after several efforts succeeded in asking, audibly:
"Where am I?"
At sound of his voice the man outside rose and came to the boy, noddinghis head in satisfaction but in silence.
"Where--am--I?" asked Jim, again.
The man shook his head. By his appearance he was Mexican, but he wore anIndian costume of buckskin, once gaily decorated and fringed but nowworn and very dirty. His straight black hair hung low over his foreheadand his hands looked as if they had never seen water. His face was notugly, neither was it kind; and he seemed more stolid than stupid.
"Where--am--I? Who are you?" again demanded Jim, trying to get up, butinstantly sinking back from utter weakness.
There was no answer; but, after a long contemplation of his guest, theMexican crossed to a little stove, wherein a few sticks were burning.From a rusty coffee pot which stood upon it, he poured some liquid intoa tin cup and brought it to the lad.
Jim tried to sit up and take the cup into his own hand but he could not;so, with unexpected gentleness, the man slipped his arm under hispatient's shoulders and raised him to a half-sitting posture. Then heheld the cup to Jim's lips, who drank eagerly, the muddy coffee seeminglike nectar to his dry, parched throat.
The drink refreshed him but he was still too weak to rise, or even careto do so. Dozing and waking, wondering a little over his situation yetmostly indifferent to everything, the hours passed.
Jim's interest was next aroused by the man's dressing of his arm. He didthis with real skill, removing the big leaves of some healing plant,with which it had been bound, and replacing these with fresh ones,confining them in place by long strips of split reeds.
The soft, cool leaves were wonderfully comforting and with the easing ofthe pain serious thoughts came. To the injured lad everything now seemeda blank from the evening meal at San Leon, after his arrival there,until now. Why he had left that ranch and why he had come to this queerplace he could not imagine; but the picture of the beautiful,mission-like house was distinct, and of Dorothy walking across its lawnbeside him.
Dorothy! It seemed a long time since he had seen her or heard her sweetvoice chide him for his misdoings. Why--now he remembered--he hadn'tsaid good-night to Dorothy, his first faithful friend. But it isneedless to follow the gropings of Jim's mind back to the realization ofhis present situation. Yet the first and strongest feeling whichpossessed him was that he must tell Dorothy where he was. Dolly was sucha hand to worry, silly Dolly! And she was his best, earliest friend.
The Mexican brought him his breakfast of bacon and corn bread, withanother cup of that coffee which always stood upon the stove. A childcame with the man and gazed at Jim with solemn, wondering eyes.
Jim returned the stare with interest. This was the first small Indian hehad ever seen and to judge by the little fellow's face he might havebeen an old, old man--he was so grave and dignified.
"How are you, sonny?" said Jim.
The midget simply blinked.
"Can't you talk, kid?" again questioned the stranger, holding out hishand.
The little boy did not answer, save by placing his own chubby, extremelydirty hand on Jim's extended palm.
"Good. You're friendly, if you are dumb. Sort of needs washin', don'tit? Water. Can you bring me some water? I'm thirsty."
The child walked to a big tank, or half-barrel, outside the door anddipped the tin coffee cup within it. But he was too short to reach thelow supply and giving himself an extra hitch upwards, over the edge, thebetter to obtain the draught, he lost his balance and fell in headfirst.
Jim's low bed commanded a view of this and he started to rescue theyoungster, but the man was before him. He treated the accident as if itwere an ordinary occurrence, pulling the child out by the seat of hisleather breeches, shaking him as one might a wet puppy, and setting himon his feet without a word. Indeed, words seemed the most preciouscommodity in that queer shanty, so rarely were they used. But thefather, if such he were, himself filled the cup with the stale water andgave it to the child, who carried it to Jim as calmly as if no troublehad attended his getting it.
"Thank you, boy. What's your name?"
"Name--Jose," said the man answering for him. He pronounced it "Ho-say,"and Jim was pleased. Knowing that he might meet people who spokeSpanish, in this trip west, the studious lad had brought a Spanishgrammar along with him on the train and had glanced into it whenever hehad a chance. Of course, he could not speak it himself, nor understandit well, nor was the dialect here in use very much like the correctlanguage of the grammar.
"Jose, where is this place?"
The child stared. Then suddenly went out of doors and returned with ababy lamb in his arms. He plumped this down upon Jim's breast and smiledfor the first time. The lamb was his latest, greatest treasure and, inhis childish sympathy, he offered it to the "hurted man." With his goodarm, Jim made the little animal more comfortable, while Jose vanishedwithout again. This time he returned with a fine basket of Indianworkmanship, and this was filled in part by glittering stones and inpart by flowers. All these he deposited on the bed beside the lamb, andfolded his arms behind him in profound satisfaction. He had done hisvery best. He had given the sick one all his things. If that didn't curehim it would be no further business of Jose's.
The man of the house had now seated himself beside the stove. He placedan earthen pan beside him on the clay floor and laid a bundle of rushesbeside it. Also, he took down from a peg in the wall an unfinishedbasket, and reseating himself, proceeded to weave upon it. He used onlythe finest of splits, torn from the reeds, almost like thread in theirdelicacy and he worked very slowly. From time to time he held the basketfrom him, studying its appearance with half-closed eyes, as an artiststudies a picture. Frequently, he lifted the coffee pot to his lips anddrank from its spout.
Jim watched him in silent admiration of his deftness with the weavingand in disgust at his use of the coffee pot--thinking he would want nomore draughts from it himself. All the time his mind grew clearer and hebegan to form plans for telling Dorothy where he was--though he didn'tknow that, himself; but, at least, of letting her know he was alive. Shewould have to guess at the rest and she would surely trust him to comeback when he could.
When the weaver looked up again Jim beckoned him to approach. Ratherreluctantly, he did so. For his own part he was getting tired of thishelpless lad, left in his hut by White Feather, his Ute brother-in-law.If Moon Face were living, the Ute maiden who had been his wife andlittle Jose's mother, it wouldn't have mattered. To her would havefallen the care. Nothing had gone right with him, Alaric, the sheepherder, since Moon Face fell ill and died, though he went often to thatfar place in the forest where her body had been secretly buried in thecrevice of a great rock. Moon Face had left him for a few days' visit toa camp of her relatives and there had taken the small-pox and died,despite the fact that she had been treated by the wisest medicine menand immersed in the sweat-box, the Indian cure for all ills. If he hadbeen near enough to such a thing, or had had energy enough to prepare itup here at his home, Alaric would promptly have subjected poor Jim tosimilar treatment.
As it was, the isolation of Alaric's hut and his laziness saved thewanderer from this. Now, as he obeyed the boy's summons, he was broodingover his misfortunes and was more grim even than usual.
"Well, young man?"
Jim was surprised. The man had been so silent, hitherto, that heimagined they two had no language in common.
"So you speak English! That makes it easy. I want to send a message tothe place I--I left. Will you take it?"
Alaric shook his head, firmly declining.
"Don't get ugly. If you won't go, will you send somebody?"
The Mexican pretended that his English did not go so far as this. Heobstinately would not understand.
Then followed a long argument which greatly wearied Jim and simplyfailed of its object. At last, he named "San Leon" and Alaric'sexpression brightened. That was the place where there was plenty ofmoney and the sheep herder loved money. He had been there. It was notfar away, by a road he knew, yet he did not care to go there again,himself. There had been a transaction of horses that wasn't pleasant toremember. Old Lem Hunt had accused him of being a thief, once on atime, when some thoroughbreds had been missing from the San Leoncorrals, and Alaric had had hard work to prove his innocence. He hadbeen obliged to prove it because, in Colorado, men were still sometimesinclined to take justice in their own hands and not wait for the law todo it for them.
The truth was that the sheep herder had not, personally, taken a singlesteed from San Leon. He had merely "assisted" some of his Indian friendsto do so. He had even carefully kept all knowledge of the affair fromthe ears of his brother-in-law, White Feather; a man who indeed lovedfine horseflesh, as all the Utes did, but preferred to increase hisherds by legitimate trading.
The other Indians, whom Alaric had "assisted," had paid their assistantin honest gold--he wouldn't take any other sort of payment--and therehad been more gold changing hands in order to secure the real thieves.And because he loved the gold Alaric had thus assisted both sides andreceived double pay. Also, he had left an unsavory memory of himself atSan Leon as well as offended his Ute relatives; and White Feather notonly prevented harm being done to his Mexican brother-in-law, but alsoused the occasion to make Alaric subject to himself. Thus it was that hehad made the sheep herder take in the sick lad he had found on the trailand swear to be kind to him.
"San Lean? _Si_.... _En verdad_. Well, senor?"
If this injured, half-naked youth had hailed from that rich man's ranchit might be worth while to hearken to what he wished.
"I want to tell a girl there that I am not dead. I want to send justthat message, till I can go there myself. Do this for me and Iwill--will pay you--when I can."
Alaric considered. From present appearances there seemed small chance ofJim's ever paying anybody for any service. Yet--there was White Featherto please and there was possible payment at San Leon. He noddedacquiescence.
"Then get me somethin' to write on!" begged Jim, vastly excited by thischance to set himself right with his friends.
He might as well have asked for the moon. Writing was not anaccomplishment of Alaric's and he had never owned a scrap of paper fitfor such use. Yet the longer he pondered the matter the more willing theman became. Finally, he took Jose upon his knee, and, emphasizing eachword of instruction by a stern forefinger and a threat of fearfulpunishment for disobedience, he instilled into the little fellow's mindthe fact that he was to go to San Leon ranch; to find there a prettygirl in a white dress; a girl with big brown eyes and dark curly hair. Agirl who was always laughing and who always wore a red bow on her head.He, Alaric, would go with his son as far as the cypress hedge,bordering the west side of the lake. There he would wait for the childto do his errand and return, and would himself be out of sight of thatold sharpshooter, whom he feared.
He had another inspiration--of generosity and greed commingled. Thatlamb of Jose's. He could afford to give that away because it wasn't hisown, nor even really the little one's. It belonged to the rich ranchowner whose sheep he herded, up here on the lonely mountain. The girlfor whom this sick boy wished a message might like the lamb and give thepapoose money for it. Money would be far better for Jose than any pet.
After this course of silent reasoning, Alaric bestirred himself toaction. He had often had to make his "mark" upon some paper ofagreement, the nearest to writing that he could come. He understood thatJim wished to make his own now. So, selecting a bit of glittering stonethat was fairly smooth, he handed it to the lad, and afterward crushedthe stem of a plant which exuded a red juice. With this other sharppointed bit of stone dipped in this juice, anybody might make as many"marks" as he chose upon the flat stone.
Jim was quick to understand the suggestion but real writing was out ofthe question. The best he could accomplish was that D which was in hispeculiar hand. By signs, more than words, Alaric expressed the wholematter; and Jim eagerly caught at the suggestion. The lamb would be apretty gift for Dorothy and would tell her better than words that heremembered her and was safe. Only--the little animal was like everythi
ngelse seen in this cabin--so dirty! He couldn't send it to dainty Dorothyin such condition. In a few words he explained to the shepherd his ideasabout it and was amused by the infinite contempt shown on Alaric's face.
However, he made short work of that matter. He was now impatient to beoff, the sooner to get that possible payment of gold; and rememberedthat White Feather had commanded him to serve the sick stranger to thebest of his ability. With a flippant gesture he seized the lamb andcarried it to the tank outside the door; and sousing it up and down tillits dusty fleece was white and itself nearly drowned, he threw it onJim's bed to dry.
Jose found his voice and jabbered in a mixture of Spanish and Indian,expressing his pity for his pet; then brought handfuls of grass andleaves to rub it with. This vigorous attention, in which Jim used hisown sound arm, soon restored the lambkin to a beauty that surprised themall. More grass and flowers were put in the bottom of the basket withthe marked stone, the lamb upon this cushion, and the cover fastened on.
Alaric informed Jim that such a basket was worth a great deal of money.He had learned the art of making such from Moon Face, who had travelledsometimes to the distant railway line and sold them to tourists. It wasso tightly woven it would hold water; and in his pride over hishandiwork the weaver would have poured a dipper of it into the basket toprove his statement.
"No, no! The poor little thing has had more than its share of water!Best save the rest for yourself!" protested Jim, with a feeble attemptat a joke.
Alaric desisted then, hung the dipper back on the tank, seized thebasket in one hand and Jose in the other and strode away. The lastglimpse Jim had of them showed poor little Jose's fat legs being swungalong, touching the ground only now and then, as they utterly failed tokeep up with his father's pace.
Left alone, Jim lay still a long time, idly fingering some bits of rockwhich the child had scattered upon his blanket. He felt very cold; andagain, in another moment, he seemed to be burning up. He thought of thewater in the tank. He was desperately thirsty, his throat growing dry,his lips swelling; and alternately he longed to dip his head in thatbarrel and drink--drink--drink! then shivered with disgust rememberingthe various uses the stale fluid had been put to. Finally, sleep, orunconsciousness, overcame him and for many days he knew no more.
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