"Four, five cayuse stop," Simon answered. "Mebbyso four, five, man stop."
"Well, four or five cayuses must have left a trail of some kind. You find it. Follow—catchum. Find where they live—their illahee, where they hang out. You get that?"
Simon nodded and went to his horse. Farwell frowned at the lone moccasin track, and, lifting his eyes, beheld Simon in the act of mounting. Contrary to the custom of white men, the old Indian did so from the off side. Farwell swore suddenly.
"What?" Keeler asked.
"Hey, Simon!" said Farwell. "This man with oleman moccasin—him make track getting on cayuse? Him stand so to get on cayuse. You sure of that?"
Simon nodded. "Ah-ha!" he agreed.
"Then he's a white man," Farwell exclaimed. "This is the track of a right foot, made while he was standing reaching for the stirrup with the left. An Indian always gets on his horse from the wrong side, and puts his right foot in the stirrup first."
"So he does," said Keeler.
"So this fellow is a white man," Farwell concluded triumphantly. "We want a white man with a patched moccasin. You kumtuks, Simon? Injun mount so. White man so—left foot up, right foot down. White man's moccasin, Simon."
"Huh!" Simon grunted gravely. "Mebbyso white man; mebbyso sitkum Siwash."
"Half-breed nothing!" Farwell declared. "Straight white, I tell you. Now get ahead on the trail."
But whatever Simon's skill as a trailer, it availed little. In half a mile the hoofprints merged with many others in a beaten track, and so were lost. Simon halted.
"Halo mamook!" said he, signifying that he had done his possible. The fact was so self-evident that Farwell could not gainsay it.
"That's an easy five for you," he grumbled. "We might as well get back, Keeler. I never took any stock in that old buck, anyway. He's a gold brick, like all the rest of them."
But Simon, when they had gone, kept along the beaten track. And shortly he came to where McCrae had turned the buckboard around. Simon, after examining the tracks, took pains to efface them entirely; after which he ambled on, his usually grave countenance illumined by a grin.
Following the road, peering narrowly at either side, he finally came in sight of Talapus Ranch. Halting, he surveyed the fields.
The ditches of Talapus were once more running rap-full; and Donald McCrae, his son, and half a dozen men were busy with shovels and hoes turning the water down among the young grain in marks already prepared which followed the natural slope of the land; taking care that the little rivulets should be of sufficient strength to run the length of the field, but not so strong as to wash out the soil; adjusting the flow to a nicety with miniature dams of sods and stones.
Old Simon rode slowly along the ditch until he came to where Sandy McCrae was working.
"Hello, Simon!" said the latter carelessly. "How you makin' it this morning? You keeping skookum?"
"Ah-ha!" Simon responded gutturally. "Skookum, you?"
"You bet," Sandy replied. "Hiyu skookum me." He leaned on his shovel for a moment, stretching his young, sinewy body, grinning at the Indian. The latter dismounted, and, stooping down, touched the young man's worn footgear.
"Mamook huyhuy moccasin," said he.
"Swap moccasins?" Sandy repeated. "What for? Yours are new. Chee moccasin, you; oleman moccasin, me. What are you getting at? That's fool talk."
But Simon insisted. "Mamook huyhuy," said he. "Halo mitlite oleman moccasin."
"Why shouldn't I wear my old moccasins?" asked Sandy.
Simon lifted McCrae's right foot and placed his finger on a patch beneath the ball of the great toe. His features expanded in a knowing grin. Sandy McCrae's face suddenly became grave and his mouth grim. His voice, when he spoke, was hard and metallic.
"Quit this sign business and spit it out of you," he ordered. "Mamook kumtuks! Tell me what you mean!"
Simon condescended to a measure of English which he knew well enough, but which he usually disdained on general principles. He pointed back whence he had come.
"Tenas sun (early morning) me stop along camp. Boss tyee man goodandam mad. Him say cultus man mamook raise hiyu hell. Catch hiyu skookum powder—bang! Whoosh! Upshego!" He mimicked Farwell's words and gestures to a nicety. "Him say, s'pose me catch cultus man me catch kwimnum dolla'." He exhibited the five-dollar bill, grinning once more. "Good! Me nanitch 'round me find trail. Boss tyee man see track of oleman moccasin." He pointed to Sandy's right foot.
Young McCrae, his face black as the heart of a storm cloud, said nothing; but his eyes glinted dangerously. The Indian continued:
"Me klatawa kimta on trail. Tyee man him come, too. Bimeby come to hiyu trail, all same road. Me lose trail. Me tell tyee man 'halo mamook.'" He grinned broadly. "Him klatawa back yaka illahee. Me come along alone. See where chik-chik wagon turn around. All right. Me come tell you mamook huyhuy moccasin."
It was very plain to Sandy now. The old Indian had recognized the track of his moccasin at the dam; had followed the trail to the travelled road where he had deliberately quit; and had come on to warn him to get rid of the incriminating moccasins which were even then on his feet. The suggestion of exchange was merely polite diplomacy.
"Simon," he said slowly, "blamed if you ain't a white Injun!"
Simon acknowledged the compliment characteristically. He produced a pipe and examined the empty bowl with interest.
"Halo smokin', me!" he observed gravely.
Sandy nodded and handed him a large plug. The Indian filled his pipe and put the tobacco in his pocket.
"You my tillikum," he announced. "When you tenas boy I like you, you like me. Good, Konaway McCrae (every McCrae) my tillikum." He made a large gesture of generous inclusion, paused for an instant, and shot a keen glance at his friend. "Cas-ee Dunne my tillikum, too."
"Sure," said Sandy gravely. "We're all friends of yours, Simon."
Simon nodded and considered.
"All rancher my tillikum," he continued after an interval. "Ah-ha! Good! S'pose some time me mamook sick, me feel all same oleman—no more grub stop, no more smokin' stop—mebbyso all rancher potlatch grub, potlatch smokin', send doctin', send med'cin'? You kumtuks?"
He formulated this general scheme of pension and old-age insurance gravely. With five dollars in hand and a future provided for by grateful ranchers, he would be able to worship the Saghalie Tyee at the mission with a good heart.
"You don't want much," Sandy commented. "I guess we'd chip in, though, if you got up against the iron any time. Sure. S'pose you mamook sick, all rancher mamook help, give you muckamuck and smokin', stake you to doctor and dope; s'pose you go mimoluse, bury you in style."
Simon nodded, well pleased. A fine funeral thrown in for good measure suited his ideas perfectly. It was no more than his due for this evidence of friendship. So much for the future. Now for the present. He surveyed the five-dollar bill and chuckled.
"Tyee man hyas damfool!" said he. He cast a shrewd eye at the sun, which stood near the meridian. "Sitkum sun!" he announced.
"Noon—and that means you're hungry," said Sandy. "I never saw you when you weren't. Go on up to the house, and say I sent you. Muckamuck mika sick yakwahtin. Eat till your belly goes back on you, if you want to."
Simon grinned again; but he pointed to Sandy's feet.
"You mamook hyuhuy moccasin dam quick!" he warned once more.
* * *
1 AUTHOR'S NOTE.—Chinook, the trade jargon of the Pacific coast, is similar in origin to the pidgin English of China. It is composite, its root words being taken from various tribal vocabularies and from the French and English languages. The spelling conforms to the pronunciation; and the latter in most cases is merely the Indian rendering of French and English word sounds. It is, in fact, an Indian Volapuk, used extensively by the tribes of Oregon, Washington, British Columbia, and Alaska. The number of words is comparatively small, probably not exceeding nine hundred. Therefore each has various meanings, rendered by shades of pronunciation or by combin
ation with other words. Thus the word "mamook," signifying to do, to make, to perform, or anything denoting action, begins some two hundred phrases, for each of which there is one equivalent English word. Its nearest parallel is the French verb "faire," and its use is much the same. It is impossible in this space to attempt a vocabulary. "Halo" is the general negative. Throughout I have endeavoured to supply the meaning by the context.
CHAPTER XIII
Casey Dunne crossed from the Coldstream Supply Company's store—which was also the post office—to Bob Shiller's hotel. His pockets bulged with mail, for it was his first visit to town since the destruction of the dam a week before, and there was an accumulation of letters, newspapers, and periodicals. Ever since then he had been irrigating, throwing upon his thirsty fields every drop of water he could get.
As he came upon the veranda, he saw Shiller in conversation with a stranger.
"Oh, Casey," said Shiller, "I want you to shake hands with Mr. Glass. Mr. Glass—Mr. Dunne. Mr. Glass," the genial Bob went on, "has some notion of locating here if he can get a place to suit him. He likes the land, and he likes the climate; but the recent—the events—er—the way things shape at present has a leetle undecided him. Anything Mr. Dunne tells you, Mr. Glass, will be straight. He has land to burn, and one of our best ranches. Yes. I'll just leave you to talk it over together." And so saying, he executed a masterly retreat.
Glass was a mild, colourless, middle-aged man, attired in worn hand-me-down garments. His blue eyes, clear and direct enough, seemed to hold a little of the pathetic apprehension and appeal of a lost puppy. He hesitated when he spoke, repeatedly qualifying his statements. His was the awkwardness of the man who, having spent his life in familiar surroundings in some small community, suddenly finds himself in new places among strangers. And, lacking adaptability, is constrained and ill at ease.
"You see, Mr. Dunne, it's this way with me," he began. And, appearing to remember something suddenly, he asked: "Hadn't we better have a drink?"
"Not unless you need it in your business," said Casey. "Sit down and smoke a cigar with me and tell me your trouble."
"Well, I'd just as soon," said Glass, plainly relieved. "I don't drink much myself. My wife don't like it. It's a bad example for the children. But I thought that out here, maybe from what I'd heard——"
"Current Western fiction!" Casey laughed. "No, we don't drink every time we shake hands. Couldn't stand it. Well, what can I do for you?"
And thereupon Mr. Glass unbosomed himself ramblingly, with much detail, which included a sketch of his life and family history. Casey saw that Shiller had unloaded a bore on him.
Glass, it appeared, hailed from Maine, from the vicinity of one of the "obscots" or "coggins." He had followed various callings—carpenter, market gardener, and grocer—with indifferent success; but he had succeeded in accumulating a few thousand dollars. His eldest girl was not well. Consumption ran in her mother's family. The doctor had ordered a dryer climate, a higher altitude. For some years Glass had been thinking of migrating westward; but he had stuck in the narrow groove, lacking the initiative to pull up stakes and see for himself the land in which others had prospered. This sickness had decided him—and here he was.
He liked the climate, which he was sure would be just the thing for his daughter; and he liked the land. But here was the point—and it was the point which was worrying Sleeman grayheaded. There was trouble between the ranchers and the land company. Not that it was for him to say who was right or wrong. But there was trouble. Now, he was a man of small means, and he was forced to put all his eggs in one basket. Which was to say, that if he bought land, and subsequently was unable to get water for it, he would be ruined. Also he had heard that the ranchers were unfriendly to those who bought land from the company.
"And I'm a man that has kept out of trouble all my life, Mr. Dunne," he concluded plaintively. "I'm on good terms with everybody at home, and I wouldn't want, right at the start-off, as you might say, to have anybody think I was trying to take water away from him. And yet I like the country. I thought maybe you could advise me what to do. It seems like a lot of gall asking you, too; you having land for sale and me thinking of buying the company's. But, then, I saw their advertising. It was only right I should go to them, wasn't it?"
"Of course," said Casey. "I haven't any land for sale now. I'm holding what I have. But as to advising you, it's a difficult thing. Here's the situation: The amount of the total water supply is limited. The railway claims the right to take it all, if it likes. We claim enough to irrigate our properties. Right there we lock horns. There is a lawsuit just starting; but the Lord only knows which way it will be settled, or when. And now you know as much about it as I do."
"It don't look good," said Glass, shaking his head. "No, sir, it don't look good to me. And here's another thing. They tell me that there was trouble out here a ways the other night. I mean with the company's dam. Of course, I don't know anything about it myself; it's just what I've heard. I hope you don't mind me speakin' of it."
"Not in the least. Well, what about it, Mr. Glass?"
"It was a turrible risky thing to do—to blow up a dam," said Glass. "It'd be against the law, wouldn't it? Of course, I don't say it was. It might not be. I don't claim to know, and likely whoever done it had reasons. All the same, I wouldn't choose to be mixed up in doin's like that."
"Good thing to keep out of," Casey agreed.
"I wouldn't want anything of mine to be blown up."
"But who would blow up anything of yours?"
"I don't say anybody'd do it, of course," Glass protested hastily. "Only, you see, men that'd blow up a dam are—I mean, if I bought land off of the company and started in to use water and farm, they might blame me. I wouldn't want to get my neighbours down on me, Mr. Dunne."
"Does that mean you think that some of your prospective neighbours blew up the dam?"
"No, no," Glass disclaimed, in a flurry. "I don't know who did it, of course. I'm not saying anybody did. Only somebody must of. That's just common sense. You'll admit that yourself."
"Why, yes, that's a pretty safe conclusion," Casey agreed. "I don't think you need worry about that, though. The only point is whether the company will be able to keep an agreement to supply you with water. I can't tell you whether they will or not. If you buy you take a chance. If you bought from me, you'd take almost the same chance."
"I don't know what to do," said Glass, picking nervously at his white-metal watch chain. "It's hard to tell—there's so many things to be considered. I can't afford to lose money. This irrigation's new to me. I never saw it working. Would you mind if I came out to your farm and sort of looked around? I could learn a lot that way. Maybe if you had time, you could explain what I didn't understand? But, then, I wouldn't want to trouble you."
But Casey Dunne was already tired of Glass, of his timidity, his indecision, his self-effacement, his continual air of apology for existence.
"Come any time," he said. "Glad to see you. Sorry I can't do any more for you; but you'll have to decide for yourself."
"Yes, I know," Glass agreed dismally. "I'll look around first. I'm obliged to you. You—you're sure you won't have a drink? No. Well, I guess I'll go in and write a letter to my wife. I write to her twice a week. I'll see you later, maybe."
Casey nodded, glad to be rid of him. He put his feet on the rail and proceeded to go through his correspondence, which, though bulky, was not especially important.
"The mails would be a whole lot lighter if it wasn't for fake oil and cement propositions and special offers of the world's best authors," he grumbled. "Promoters and publishers seem to consider the small post office the natural breeding ground for suckers. Maybe they're right, too. Hello! Here's something different."
It was a large, square, white envelope, perfectly plain, but of aristocratic finish and thickness.
"Wedding—for the drinks!" growled Casey. "Not so different, after all." He ripped it open ruthlessly with his thumb.
"Here's where I get set back a few dollars starting another domestic plant. Blamed if it's any better than—hello!"
It was not a wedding announcement. Instead, it was a check. The amount thereof was the surprising sum of eighty cents, exchange added; and the signature, firm, square, clear-cut as lettering, was "Clyde Burnaby."
"Now what the devil?" Casey exclaimed, and jerked out the accompanying letter.
It was merely a short, friendly note. Miss Burnaby inclosed her check for one year's interest, at 8 per cent. on the loan from Mr. Dunne. She referred to the Wades. Gave an item or two of unimportant personal news. Hoped that his ranch was flourishing, and that he was well: and was his very cordially.
In feminine fashion followed a postscript:
Kitty Wade tells me that you are having trouble with some company which is taking water that you need for your ranch. I hope it isn't serious trouble, though she hinted as much. Do you care to tell me about it?
Casey Dunne sat for some minutes, the check and letter across his knees, while he gazed unblinkingly through the hot sunshine. It was some time since he had given Clyde Burnaby more than an occasional thought; his immediate affairs had been too pressing. Now the vision of her, as he had seen her last, rose before his eyes, and he found it a pleasant recollection. He, whose life since childhood had been passed in the outposts and beyond them, treasured the memories of the few occasions when chance had permitted him to sit with his own kind, to talk to them, to live as he would have lived had not fate forced him to hoe his own row, and chosen for him a row in the new lands.
Of the women he had met in these rare incursions he could recall none who pleased him as well as Clyde Burnaby. Her interest in his affairs pleased him also. He recalled her as she had sat across the aisle in the Pullman, her absolute frigidity to the advances of the would-be Lothario, her haughty stare when she had suspected him of like intent, her perfect composure during the holdup. Little things like that showed the stuff a girl was made of. Nothing foolish or nervous or hysterical about her. And then, subsequently, when he had met her on her own ground, she had endeavoured to put him at his ease. Funny that, but he appreciated it, nevertheless. And she could talk. She didn't giggle and ask inane questions. Nor did she treat him as some sort of a natural curiosity, who might be expected to do something shocking but entertaining at any moment. She was sensible as—well—as sensible as Sheila McCrae herself.
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