CHAPTER X
THE BISHOP OF ALL OUTDOORS
The days slipped into weeks, as Patty Sinclair, carefully andmethodically traced valleys to their sources, and explored innumerablecoulees and ravines that twisted and turned their tortuous lengthsinto the very heart of the hills. Rock ledges without number shescanned, many with deep cracks and fissures, and many without them.But not once did she find a ledge that could by any stretch of theimagination be regarded as the ledge of the photograph. Disheartened,but not discouraged, the girl would return each evening to hersolitary cabin, eat her solitary meal, and throw herself upon her bunkto brood over the apparent hopelessness of her enterprise, or to readfrom the thumbed and tattered magazines of the dispossessed sheepherder. She rode, now, with a sort of dogged persistence. There wasnone of the wild thrill that, during the first days of her search,she experienced each time she topped a new divide, or entered a newvalley.
Three times since she had informed him she would play a lone hand inthe search for her father's strike, Bethune had called at the cabin.And not once had he alluded to the progress of her work. She wasthankful to him for that--she had not forgotten the hurt in herfather's eyes as the taunting questions of the scoffers struck home.Always she had known of the hurt, but now, with the disheartening daysof her own failure heaping themselves upon her, she was beginning tounderstand the reason for the hurt. And, guessing this, Bethunerefrained from questioning, but talked gaily of books, and sunsets,and of life, and love, and the joy of living. A supreme optimist, shethought him, despite the half-veiled cynicism that threaded hissomewhat fatalistic view of life, a cynicism that but added thenecessary _sauce piquante_ to so abandoned an optimism.
Above all, the man was a gentleman. His speech held nothing of theabrupt bluntness of Vil Holland's. He would appear shortly after herearly supper, and was always well upon his way before the latedarkness began to obscure the contours of her little valley. An hour'schat upon the doorstep of the cabin and he was gone--riding down thevalley, singing as he rode some old _chanson_ of his French forebears,with always a pause at the cottonwood grove for a farewell wave of hishat. And Patty would turn from the doorway, and light her lamp, andproceed to enjoy the small present which he never failed to leave inher hand--a box of bon-bons of a kind she had vainly sought for in thelittle town--again, a novel, a woman's novel written by a man whothought he knew--and another time, just a handful of wild flowersgathered in the hills. She ate the candy making it last over severaldays. She read the book from cover to cover as she lay upon her airmattress, tucked snugly between her blankets. And she arranged thewild flowers loosely in a shallow bowl and watered them, and talked tothem, and admired their beauty, and when they were wilted she threwthem out, but she did not gather more flowers to fill the bowl,instead she wiped it dry and returned it to its shelf in thecupboard--and wondered when Bethune would come again. She admitted toherself that he interested--at least, amused her--helped her to throwoff for the moment the spirit of dull depression that had fasteneditself upon her like a tangible thing, bearing down upon her,threatening to crush her with its weight.
Always, during these brief visits, her lurking distrust of himvanished in the frank boyishness of his personality. The incidentsthat had engendered the distrust--the substitution of the name Schultzfor Schmidt in the matter of the horse pasture, his abrupt warningagainst Vil Holland, and his attempt to be admitted into herconfidence as a matter of right, were for the moment forgotten in thespell of his presence--but always during her lonely rides in thehills, the half-formed doubt returned. Pondering the doubt, sherealized that the principal reason for its continued existence was notso much in the incidents that had awakened it, as in the simplequestion asked by Vil Holland: "You say your dad told you all aboutthis partnership business?" And in the "Oh," with which he had greetedthe reply that she had it from the lips of Bethune. With therealization, her dislike for Vil Holland increased. She characterizedhim as a "jug-guzzler," a "swashbuckler," and a "ruffian"--and smiledas she recalled the picturesque figure with the clean-cut, bronzedface. "Oh, I don't know--I hate these hills! Nobody seems sincereexcepting the Wattses, and they're--impossible!"
She had borrowed Watts's team and made a second trip to town forsupplies, and the check that she drew in payment cut her bank accountin half. As before she had offered to take Microby Dandeline, but thegirl declined to go, giving as an excuse that "pitcher shows wasn't asgood as circusts, an' they wasn't no fights, an' she didn't liketowns, nohow."
Upon her return from town Patty stopped at the Thompsons' for dinnerwhere she was accorded a royal welcome by the genial rancher and hiswife, and where also, she met the Reverend Len Christie, the mostpicturesque, and the most un-clerical minister of the gospel she hadever seen. To all appearances the man might have been a cowboy. Heaffected chaps of yellow hair, a dark blue flannel shirt, againstwhich flamed a scarf of brilliant crimson caught together by means ofa vivid green scarab. He wore a roll brimmed Stetson, and carried asix-gun at his belt. A pair of high-heeled boots added a couple ofinches to the six feet two that nature had provided him with, and heshook hands as though he enjoyed shaking hands. "I've heard of you,Miss Sinclair, back in town and have looked forward to meeting you onmy first trip into the hills. How are my friends, the Wattses, thesedays? And that reprobate, Vil Holland?" He did not mention that it wasVil Holland who had spoken of her presence in the hills, nor that thecowboy had also specified that she utterly despised the ground he rodeon.
To her surprise Patty noticed that there was affection rather thandisapprobation in the word reprobate, and she answered a triflestiffly: "The Wattses are all well, I think: but, as for Mr. Holland,I really cannot answer."
The parson appeared not to notice the constraint but turned toThompson: "By the way, Tom, why isn't Vil riding the round-up thisyear? Has he made his strike?"
Thompson grinned: "Naw, Vil ain't made no strike. Facts is, they'sbe'n some considerable horse liftin' goin' on lately, an' thestockmen's payin' Vil wages fer to keep his eye peeled. He's out inthe hills all the time anyhow with his prospectin', an' they figgerthe thieves won't pay no 'tention to him, like if a stranger was tobegin kihootin' 'round out there."
"Have they got a line on 'em at all?"
"Well," considered Thompson. "Not as I know of--exactly. Monk Bethunean' that there Lord Clendennin' is hangin' 'round the hills--that'sabout all I know."
The parson nodded: "I saw Bethune in town the other day. Do you know,Tom, I believe there's a bad Injun."
"Indian!" cried the girl. "Mr. Bethune is not an Indian!"
Thompson laughed: "Yup, that is, he's a breed. They say hisgran'mother was a Cree squaw--daughter of a chief, or somethin'.Anyways, this here Monk, he's a pretty slick article, I guess."
"They're apt to be worse than either the whites or the Indians,"Christie explained. "And this Monk Bethune is an educated man, whichshould make him doubly dangerous. Well, I must be going. I've got toride clear over onto Big Porcupine. I heard that old man Samuelson'svery sick. There's a good man--old Samuelson. Hope he'll pullthrough."
"You bet he's a good man!" assented Thompson, warmly. "He seen BillWinters through, when they tried to prove the murder of Jack Bronsononto him, an' it cost him a thousan' dollars. The districk attorneyhad it in fer Bill, count of him courtin' his gal."
"Yes, and I could tell of a dozen things the old man has done forpeople that nobody but I ever knew about--in some instances even thepeople themselves didn't know." He turned to Patty: "Good-by, MissSinclair. I'm mighty glad to have met you. I knew your father verywell. If you see the Wattses, tell them I shall try and swing aroundthat way on my return." The parson mounted a raw-boned, Roman-nosedpinto, whose vivid calico markings, together with the rider'sbrilliant scarf gave a most unministerial, not to say bizarre effectto the outfit. "So long, Tom," he called.
"So long, Len! If they's anything we can do, let us know. An' be surean' stop in comin' back." Thompson watched the man until he vanishedin a cloud of dust far
out on the trail.
"Best doggone preacher ever was born," he vouchsafed. "He can ride,an' shoot, an' rope, an' everything a man ort to. An' if anyone'ssick! Well, he's worth all the doctors an' nurses in the State ofMontany. He'll make you git well just 'cause he wants you to. An' theyain't nothin' too much trouble--an' they ain't no work too hard forhim to tackle. There ain't no piousness stickin' out on him fer folksto hang their hat on, neither. He'll mix with the boys, an' listen tothe natural cussin' an' swearin' that goes on wherever cattle'shandled, an' enjoy it--but just you let some shorthorn start what youmight call vicious or premeditated cussin'--somethin' special wickedor vile, an' he'll find out there's a parson in the crowd right quick,an' if he don't shut up, chances is, he'll be spittin' out a couple ofteeth. There's one parson can fight, an' the boys know it, an' what'smore they know he _will_ fight--an' they ain't one of 'em thatwouldn't back up his play, neither. An' preach! Why he can tear loosean' make you feel sorry for every mean trick you ever done--not forfear of any punishment after yer dead--but just because it wasn'tplayin' the game. That's him, every time. An' he ain't alwayshollerin' about hell--hearin' him preach you wouldn't hardly know theywas a hell. 'The Bishop of All Outdoors,' they call him--an' they sayhe can go back East an' preach to city folks, an' make 'em set up an'take notice, same as out here. He's be'n offered three times what hegets here to go where he'd have it ten times easier--but he laughs at'em. He sure is one preacher that ain't afraid of work!"
As Watts's team plodded the hot miles of the interminable trailPatty's brain revolved wearily about its problem. "I've made almost acomplete circle of the cabin, and I haven't found the rock ledge withthe crack in it yet--and as for daddy's old map--I've spent _hours_trying to figure out what that jumble of letters and numbers mean,I'll just have to start all over again and keep reaching farther andfarther into the hills on my rides. Mr. Bethune said I might notrecognize the place when I come to it!" she laughed bitterly. "If heknew how that photograph has burned itself into my brain! I can closemy eyes and see that rock wall with its peculiar crack, and therock-strewn valley, and the lone tree--_recognize_ it! I would know itin the dark!"
Her eyes rested upon the various packages of her load of supplies."One more trip to town, and my prospecting is done, at least, until Ican earn some more money. The prices out here are outrageous. It's thefreight, the man told me. Five cents' freight on a penny's worth offood! But what in the world can I do to make money? What can anybodydo to make money in this Godforsaken country? I can't punch cattle,nor herd sheep. I don't see why I had to be a _girl_!" Resentmentagainst her accident of birth cooled, and her mind again took up itsburden of thought. "There is one way," she muttered. "And that is toadmit failure and take Mr. Bethune into partnership. He will advancethe money and help with the work--and, surely there will be enough fortwo. And, I'm not so sure but that--" She broke off shortly and feltthe hot blood rise in a furious blush, as she glanced guiltily abouther--but in all the vast stretch of plain was no human being, and shelaughed aloud at the antics of the prairie dogs that scolded andbarked saucily and then dove precipitously into their holes as a leancoyote trotted diagonally through their "town."
What was it they had said at Thompson's about Mr. Bethune? Despiteherself she had approved the outlandishly dressed preacher with thesmiling blue eyes. He was so big, and so wholesome! "The Bishop of AllOutdoors," Thompson had called him. She liked that--and somehow thename seemed to fit. Looking into those eyes no one could doubt hissincerity--his every word, his every motion spoke unbounded enthusiasmfor his work. What was it he had said? "Do you know, Tom, I believethere's a bad Injun." And Thompson had referred to Bethune as "apretty slick article." Surely, Thompson, whole-souled, generousThompson, would not malign a man. Here were two men whom the girl knewinstinctively she could trust, who stood four-square with the world,and whose opinions must carry weight. And both had spoken withsuspicion of Bethune and both had spoken of Vil Holland as one ofthemselves. "I don't understand it," she muttered. "Everybody seems tobe against Mr. Bethune, and everybody seems to like Vil Holland, inspite of his jug, and his gun, and his boorishness. Maybe it's becauseMr. Bethune's a--a breed," she speculated. "Why, they even hinted thathe's a--a horse-thief. It isn't fair to despise him for his Indianblood. Why should he be made to suffer because his grandmother was anIndian--the daughter of a Cree chief? It sounds interesting andromantic. The people of some of our very best families point withpride to the fact that they are descendants of Pocahontas! Poorfellow, everybody seems down on him--everybody that is, but Ma Wattsand Microby. And, as a matter of fact, he appears to better advantagethan any of them, not excepting the very militant and unorthodox'Bishop of All Outdoors.'"
The result of the girl's cogitations left her exactly where shestarted. She was no nearer the solution of her problem of the hills.And her lurking doubt of Bethune still remained despite the excusesshe invented to account for his unpopularity, nor had her opinion ofVil Holland been altered in the least.
Upon arriving at her cabin she was not at all surprised to find thatit had been thoroughly searched, albeit with less care than thesearcher had been in the habit of bestowing upon the readjustment ofthe various objects of the room exactly as she had left them. Cannedgoods and dishes were disarranged upon their shelves, and the loosesection of floor board beneath her bunk that had evidently served asthe secret _cache_ of the sheep herder, had been fitted clumsily intoits place. The evident boldness, or carelessness of this latestoutrage angered her as no previous search had done. Heretofore eachobject had been returned to its place with painstaking accuracy sothat it had been only through the use of fine-spun cobwebs andcarefully arranged bits of dust that she had been able to verify hersuspicion that the room had really been searched--and there had beentimes when even the dust and the cobwebs had been replaced. Whoeverhad been searching the cabin had proven himself a master of detail,and had at least, paid her the compliment of possessing imagination,and a shrewdness equaling his own. Was it possible that the searcher,emboldened by her repeated failure to spy upon him at his work, hadceased to care whether or not she knew of his visits? The girlrecalled the three weary days she had spent watching from thehillside. And how she had decided to buy a lock for her door, untilthe futility of it had been brought home to her by the discovery thather trunks were being searched along with her other belongings, andtheir locks left in perfect condition. So far, he might well scorn herpuny attempts at discovery. Or, had a new factor entered the game? Hadsomeone of cruder mold undertaken to discover her secret? The thoughtgave her a decided uneasiness. Tired out by her trip, she did notlight the fire, and after disposing of the cold lunch Mrs. Thompsonhad put up for her, affixed the bar, and went to bed, with her six-gunwithin reach of her hand.
For a long time she lay in the darkness, thinking. "The way it wasbefore, I haven't been in any physical danger. Mr. Vil Holland knowsthat if what he is searching for is not here I must carry it on myperson. The obvious way to get it would be to take it away from me. Ofcourse the only way he could do that without my seeing him would be tokill me. He hesitates at murder. Either there are depths of moralturpitude into which he will not descend--or, he fears theconsequences. He has imagination. He assumes that sometime I'll leavethat packet at home--either through carelessness, or because I havelearned its contents by heart and don't need it. In the meantime, inaddition to his patient searching of the cabin, he is taking nochances, and while he waits for the inevitable to happen he isfollowing me so if I do succeed in locating the claim, he can beat meto the register. It's a pretty game--no violence--only patience andbrains. But this other," she shuddered, "there is something positivelybrutal in the crude awkwardness of his work. If he thinks I carry whathe wants with me, would he hesitate at murder? I guess I'll have tocarry that gun again--and I better practice with it, too. If I canonly get rid of this last one, I believe I've got a scheme forcatching the other!" She sat bolt upright in bed. "Oh, if I onlycould! If I could only beat him at his own game--and I believe I
can!"For several minutes she sat thinking rapidly, and as she lay back uponher pillow, she smiled.
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