CHAPTER V
SHEEP CAMP
If Patty Sinclair had anticipated annoyance from the forced attentionof her tall horseman of the hills, she was disappointed, for neitherat meals, nor during the shopping tour that occupied the whole of thefollowing day, nor yet upon the long homeward drive, did he appear.The return trip was slower and more monotonous even than the journeyto town. The horses crawled along the interminable treeless trail withthe heavily loaded wagon bumping and rattling in the choking cloud ofits own dust.
The expedition had been a disappointing one to Microby. The "pitchershow" did not compare in interest with the never forgotten "circust."There had been no "fight" to break the monotony of purchasingsupplies. And they had encountered no "nortymobiles."
Despite the fact that they had started from town at daylight,darkness overtook them at the canyon and it was with fear andmisgiving that Patty contemplated the devious trail up Monte's Creek.The descent of this trail by daylight had taxed the girl's knowledgeof horsemanship to the limit, and now to attempt its ascent with aheavily loaded wagon in the darkness--Microby Dandeline seemed to readher thoughts.
"We-all cain't git up the crick, I don't reckon," she hazarded, buteven as she spoke there was a flicker of light flashed through thedarkness and, lantern in hand, Watts rose from his comfortable seat ina niche of rock near the fork of the trail and greeted them with hiskindly drawl. "I 'lowed yo' all ort to be 'long d'rec'ly. I'll take'em now, Miss; the trail's kind of roughish like, but ef yo'll jisttake the lantern an' foller 'long ahead I reckon we'll make hit allright. I've druv hit afore in the dark, an' no lantern, neither."Taking turns with the lantern, the girls led the way, and an hour anda half later halted before the door of the Watts cabin, where theybecame the center of an admiring group of young Wattses who munchedtheir candy soberly as they gazed in reverent awe at the homingargonauts.
The three mile walk up the rough trail did wonders for Patty'sstiffened muscles, and it was with a feeling of agreeable surprisethat she rose from her shake-down the following morning with scarcelyan ache or a pain in her body.
"Yer gittin' bruk in to hit," smiled Ma Watts, approvingly, as thegirl sat down to her belated breakfast. But the surprise at her fitcondition was nothing to the surprise of Ma Watts's next words. "Pa,he taken yer stuff on up to the sheep camp. He 'lowed yo'd want to gitsettled like. They taken yer pa's outfit along, too, an' when they gityo' onloaded they're a-goin' to work on the upper pasture fence. WhenPa gits sot on a thing he goes right ahead an' does hit. Some thinkshe's lazy, but hit hain't thet. He's easy goin'--all the Wattseswus--but when they git sot on a thing all kingdom come cain't stop 'ema-doin' hit. Trouble with Pa is he's got sot on settin'." Ma Wattstalked on and on, and at the conclusion of the meal Patty drew a billfrom her purse. But the woman would have none of it. "No siree, we-allhain't a-runnin' no _hotel_. Folks is welcome to come when they likean' stay as long as they want to, an' we're glad to hev 'em. Yercayuse is a-waitin' out yender. The boys saddled him up fer yo'. Comedown an' take pot luck whenever yo're a mind. Microby Dandeline, sheketched up Gee Dot an' went a-taggin' 'long fer to help yo' gitsettled. Ef she gits in the way jist send her home. Foller up thecrick," she called, as Patty mounted her horse. "Yo' cain't miss thesheep camp, hit's about a mild 'bove the upper pasture."
Watts and the boys were just finishing the unloading of her supplieswhen Patty slipped from her horse and surveyed the little cabin withits dark background of pines.
"Hit hain't so big as some," apologized the man, as he climbed intothe wagon and gathered up the reins. "But the chinkin's tol'ble, an'the roof's middlin' tight 'cept a couple places wher' it leaks."
The girl's glance strayed from the little log building to the untidylitter of rusty tin cans and broken bottles that ornamented itsdooryard, and the warped and broken panels of the abandoned corralthat showed upon the weed-choked flat across the creek. Stepping tothe door, she peered into the interior where Microby was industriouslysweeping the musty hay from the bunk with the brand-new broom. Thumbedand torn magazines littered the floor, a few discarded garments hungdejectedly from nails driven into the wall, while from the saggingdoor of the rough board cupboard bulged a miscellaneous collection ofrubbish. A sense of depression obsessed her; _this_ was to be herhome! She sneezed and drew back hastily from the cloud of dust raisedby Microby's broom. As she dabbed at her eyes and nose with a smalland ridiculously inadequate handkerchief, she was conscious of anuncomfortable lump in her throat, and the moisture that dampened thehandkerchief could not all be accredited to the sneeze tears. "What ifI have trouble locating the mine and have to stay here all summer?"she was thinking, and instantly recalling the Watts ranch with its airof shiftless decay, the smelly Watts blankets in the overcrowdedsleeping room, the soggy meals, the tapping of chickens' bills uponthe floor, and the never ending voice of Ma Watts, she smiled. It wasa weak, forced little smile, at first, but it gradually widened into areal smile as her eyes swept the little valley with its long vista ofpine-clad hills that reached upward to the sky, their mighty sides andshoulders gored by innumerable rock-rimmed coulees and ravines.Somewhere amid the silence of those mighty slopes and high-flung peaksher father had found Eldorado--had wrested nature's secret from theguardianship of the everlasting hills. Her heart swelled with thepride of him. She was ashamed of that sudden welling of tears. Thefeeling of depression vanished and her heart throbbed to the lure ofthe land of gold. The two small Wattses had scrambled into thewagon-box.
"Yo' goin' to like hit," announced Watts, noticing the smile. "I'lowed, fust-off yo'----"
"I'm going to _love_ it!" interrupted the girl vehemently. "My fatherloved these hills, and I shall love them. And, as for the cabin! WhenMicroby and I get through with it, it's going to be the dearest littleplace imaginable."
"Hit wus a good sheep camp," admitted Watts, his fingers fumblingjudiciously at his head. "An' they's a heap o' good feed goin' towaste in this yere valley. But ef the cattlemen wants to pay fer whatthey hain't gittin' hit hain't none o' my business, I reckon."
"Why did they drive the sheep out? Surely, there is room for all herein the hills."
"Vil Holland, he claimed they cain't no sheeps stay in the hillcountry. He claims sheeps is like small-poxt. Onct they git a-goin'they spread, an' like's not, the hull country's ruint fer cattlerange."
"It seems that Vil Holland runs this little corner of Montana."
"He kind o' looks after things fer the cattlemen, but the prospectin'sgot into his blood, an' he won't stick to the cattle, only on theround-up, 'til he gits him a grub-stake. He's a good man--Vil is--efit wusn't fer foolin' 'round with the prospectin'."
Instantly, the girl's eyes flashed. "If it wasn't for theprospecting!" she exclaimed, in sudden anger. "My father was aprospector--and there was never a better man lived than he! Why is itthat everyone looks askance at a prospector? You talk like the peopleback home! But, I'll show you all. My father made a strike. He told meof it on his death-bed, and he gave me the map, and the photographsand his samples. Maybe when I locate this mine and begin taking outmore gold every day than most of you ever saw, you won't talk ofpeople 'fooling around' prospecting. I tell you prospectors are thefinest men in the world! They must have imagination, and unendingpatience, and the heart to withstand a thousand disappointments--" Shebroke off suddenly as the soft rattle of bit-chains sounded frombehind her, and whirled to face Vil Holland. The man regarded hergravely, unsmiling. A gauntleted hand raised the Stetson from hishead. As her eyes took in every detail, from the inevitable leatherjug, to the tip of polished buffalo horn, she flushed. How long had hestood there, listening?
The cowpuncher seemed to divine her thoughts. "I just happened along,"he said regarding her with his steady blue eyes. "I couldn't helphearin' what you said about the prospectors. You're right in themain."
"I was speaking of my father. I am Rodney Sinclair's daughter."
The man nodded. "Yes, I know."
Watts rubbed his chin apologetically. "We-al
l thought a right smart o'yo' pa, didn't we, Vil? I didn't aim to rile yo'."
"I know you didn't!" the girl smiled. "And thank you so much forbringing my things up so early." She turned to the cowboy who satregarding the outfit indifferently. "I hope you'll overlook my lack ofhospitality, but really I must get to work and help Microby or she'llhave the whole house cleaned before I get started."
"I saw the team here, an' thought I'd swing down to find out if Wattswas movin' in another sheep outfit."
"I've heard about your driving away the sheep man," returned Patty,with more than a trace of sarcasm in her tone. "I am moving into thiscabin--am taking up my father's work where he left off. I suppose Ishould ask your permission to prospect in the hill country."
"No," replied the man, gravely. "Just help yourself, only don't getlost, an' remember yer dad knew enough to play a lone hand. I must begoin', now. Good day." He turned his horse to see Microby standing inthe doorway. "Hello, Microby Dandeline! House cleanin', eh? I s'pectyou took in the picture show in town?"
"Yes, but circusts is better. I got some yallar ribbon fer my hat, an'a awful lot o' candies."
"My, that's fine! How's ma an' the baby?"
"They stayed hum. The baby'd squall. Pa an' the boys is goin' to mendfence, an' I'm a-goin' to stay yere an' he'p her clean up the sheepcamp."
The cowpuncher turned to Watts. "What's the big hurry about thefences, Watts? You goin' to take over a bunch of stock?"
"Hosses," answered Watts with an important jerk at his scraggly beard."I done rented the upper pasture to a man name o' Schultz over inBlackfoot country. Five dollars a month, I git fer hit, an' fivedollars fer every day er night they's hosses in hit. He done paid twomonths' rent a'ready."
Vil Holland's brows puckered slightly. "Schultz, you say? Over in theBlackfoot country?"
"Yas, he's aimin' to trail hosses from there over into Canady an' hewants some pastures handy."
"Did Schultz see you about it himself?" asked Vil, casually.
"No, Monk Bethune; he come by this way, an' he taken the pasture forSchultz."
Patty noted an almost imperceptible narrowing of the cowpuncher'seyes, an expression, slight as it was, that spoke disapproval. Theman's attitude angered her. Here was poor Watts, about to undertakethe first work he had done in years, judging by the condition of theranch, under stimulus of the few dollars promised him by Bethune, andthis cowboy disapproved. "Are horses under the ban, too?" she askedquickly. "Hasn't Mr. Watts the right to rent his land for a horsepasture?"
The man's answer seemed studiously rude in its direct brevity. "No,horses ain't under the ban. Yes, Watts can rent his land where hewants to. Good day." Before the girl could reply he reined his horseabruptly about, and disappeared in the timber upon the opposite sideof the creek.
"Reckon I better be gittin' 'long, too," said Watts. "Microby'swelcome to stay an' he'p yo'-all git moved in, but please mom, tosee't she gits started fer hum 'fore dark. Hit takes thet ol' pinto'bout a hour to make the trip."
Patty promised, and unsaddling, picketed her horse, and joined thegirl in the dusty interior of the cabin. The musty hay, the discardedgarments, and the two bushels or more of odds and ends with which thepack rats had filled the cupboard made a smudgy, smelly bonfire besidewhich Patty paused with an armful of discarded magazines. "Wouldn'tyou like to take these home?" she asked.
"Which?" inquired Microby, deftly picking a small stick from theground with her bare toes and tossing it into the fire.
"These magazines. There are stories and pictures in them."
"No, I don't want none. We-alls cain't read, 'cept Ma, an' she's got abook--an' a bible, too," she added, with a touch of pride. "Davey, hekin mos' read, an' he kin drawer pitchers, too. Reckon he'll be apreacher when he's grow'd up, like Preacher Christie. He done readouten a book when he babitized us-uns. I don't like to read. Ma, sheaimed to learn me onct, but I'd ruther shuck beans."
"Maybe you didn't keep at it long enough," suggested Patty.
"Yes, we did! We kep' at hit every night fer two nights 'til hit comebedtime. I cain't learn them letters--they's too many diffe'nt ones,an' all mixed up."
Patty smiled, but she did not toss the magazines into the fire.Instead she laid them aside with the resolve that when opportunityafforded, she would carry on the interrupted education.
Microby's literary delinquency in no wise impaired her willingness towork. She had inherited none of her father's predilection towardeternal rest, and all day, side by side with Patty, she scraped, andscoured, and scrubbed, and washed, until the little cabin and itscontents fairly radiated cleanliness. The moving in was great fun forthe mountain girl. Especially the unpacking of the two trunks thatresisted all efforts to lift them until their contents had beenremoved. But at last the work was finished even to the arrangement ofdishes and utensils, the stowing of supplies, and the blowing up ofthe air mattress that replaced the musty hay of the sheep herder. Andas the long shadows of mountains crept slowly across the little valleyand began to climb the opposite slope, Patty stood in the door of hercabin and watched Microby mount the superannuated Indian pony andproceed slowly down the creek, her bare feet swinging awkwardly in theloops of rope that served as stirrups of her dilapidated stock saddle.
When horse and rider disappeared into a grove of cottonwoods, Patty'sgaze returned to her immediate surroundings--her saddle-horsecontentedly snipping grass, the waters of the shallow creek burblingnoisily over the stones, the untidy scattering of tin cans, and theleaning panels of the old sheep corral. She frowned at the panels."I'll just use you for firewood," she muttered. "And that reminds methat I've got to wake up to my responsibility as head of thehousehold--even if the household does only consist of one bay cayuse,named Dan, and a tiny one-room cabin, and two funny littlesquirrel-tailed pack rats, and me." She reached for her brand new ax,and picking her way from stone to stone, crossed the creek, andattacked a sagging panel.
Patty Sinclair was no hot-house flower, and the hand that gripped theax was strong and brown and capable. Back home she had been known tothe society reporters as "an out-door girl," by which it wasunderstood that rather than afternoon auction at henfests, sheaffected tennis, golf, swimming, and cross-country riding. She couldsaddle her own horse, and paddle a canoe for hours on end. Even the axwas no stranger to her hand, for upon rare occasions when her fatherhad returned during the summer months from his everlastingprospecting, he had taken her to camp in the mountains, and there fromthe quiet visionary whom she loved more than he ever knew, she learnedthe ax, and the compass, and a hundred tricks of camp lore that wereto stand her well in hand. Partly inherited, partly acquired throughassociation with her father upon those never-to-be-forgottenpilgrimages to the shrine of nature, her love of the vast solitudesshone from her uplifted eyes as she stood for a moment, ax in hand,and let her gaze travel slowly from the sun-gilded peaks of themountains, down their darkening sides, to the dusk-enshrouded reachesof her valley. "He used to watch the sun go down, and he never weariedat the wonder of it," she breathed, softly. "And then, as the darknessdeepened and the bull-bats came wheeling overhead, and thewhip-poor-wills began calling from the thickets, he would light hispipe, and I would cuddle up close to him, and the firelight would growredder and brighter and the soft warm dark would grow blacker. Thepine trees would lose their shapes and blend into the formless nightand mysterious shadow shapes would dance to the flicker of the littleflames. It was then he would talk of the things he loved; of quartz,and drift, and the mother lode; of storms, and bears, and the scent ofpines; of reeking craters, parched deserts, ice-locked barrens, andthe wind-lashed waters of lakes. 'And some day, little daughter,' hewould say, 'some day you are going with daddy and see all these thingsfor yourself--things whose grandeur you have never dreamed. It won'tbe long, now--I'm on the right track at last--only till I've made mystrike.' Always--'it won't be long now.' Always--'I'm on the righttrack, at last.' Always--'just ahead is the strike'--that lure, thatmocking chimera that saps men's lives!
And now, he is--gone, and I amchasing the chimera." Salt tears stung her eyes and blurred thetimbered slopes. "They said he was a--a ne'er-do-well. He becamealmost a joke--" the words ended in a dry sob, as the bright blade ofthe ax crashed viciously into the rotting panel. A few moments latershe picked up an armful of wood, and retracing her steps, piled itneatly behind the stove. She lighted the fire, fetched a pail of waterfrom the spring, and moved the picketed cayuse to a spot beside thecreek where the grass was green and lush. She had intended aftersupper to study her map and familiarize herself with the two smallphotographs that were pinned to it. But, when the meal was over andthe dishes washed and put away she was too sleepy to do anything butdrop the huge wooden bar that the sheep herder had contrived to insurehimself against a possible night attack from his enemies into itsplace and crawl into her bunk. How good it felt, she thought,sleepily--the yielding air mattress, and the soft, clean blankets,after the straw tick on the floor, and the course sour blankets in theWattses' stuffy room.
Somewhere, way off in the hills, a wolf howled and almost before thesound had died away the girl was asleep.
The Gold Girl Page 5
