He fought the tears back manfully, in a way that set the Padre marveling at his courage.
After a moment he continued his interrogation.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Buck,” came the frank response.
“Buck—what?”
“Buck—jest plain, mister.”
“But your father’s name—what was that?”
“Pop.”
“Yes, yes. That’s what you called him. What did the folks call him?”
“Ther’ wa’an’t no folks. Jest pop, an’ ma, an’ me.”
A great lump had risen in the man’s throat as he looked down into those honest, hungry eyes. And for a moment he was at a loss. But the boy solved his dilemma in a way that proved the man in after-life.
“Say, you ain’t a farmer?” he inquired, with a speculative glance over his general outfit.
“Well, I am—in a small way,” the Padre had replied, with a half-smile.
The boy brightened at once.
“Then mebbe you can give me a job—I’m lookin’ for a job.”
The wonder of it all brought a great smile of sympathy to the man’s eyes now, as he thought of that little starving lad of eight years old, homeless, wandering amidst the vastness of all that world—looking for a “job.” It was stupendous, and he had sat marveling until the lad brought him back to the business in hand.
“Y’ see I kin milk—an’—an’ do chores around. Guess I can’t plough yet. Pop allus said I was too little. But mebbe I kin grow—later. I—I don’t want no wages—on’y food. Guess I’m kind o’ hungry, mister.”
Nor, for a moment, could the man make any reply. The pathos of it all held him in its grip. He leant over and groped in his saddle-bag for the “hardtack” biscuits he always carried, and passed the lad a handful.
He remembered how the boy snatched the rough food from his hands. There was something almost animal in the way he crammed his mouth full, and nearly choked himself in his efforts to appease the craving of his small, empty stomach. In those moments the man’s mind was made up. He watched in silence while the biscuit vanished. Then he carried out his purpose.
“You can have a job,” he said. “I’ve only a small farm, but you can come and help me with it.”
“Do you mean that, mister?” the boy asked, almost incredulously.
Then, as the Padre had nodded, a sigh of thankfulness escaped the young lips, which were still covered with the crumbs of his recent meal.
“Say, I’m glad. Y’ see I was gettin’ tired. An’ ther’ didn’t seem to be no farms around—nor nuthin’. An’ it’s lonesome, too, at nights, lyin’ around.”
The man’s heart ached. He could stand no more of it.
“How long have you been sleeping—out?”
“Three nights, mister.”
Suddenly the Padre reached out a hand.
“Here, catch hold, and jump.”
The boy caught the strong hand, and was promptly swung up into the saddle behind his benefactor. The next moment they were speeding back over the trail to the lad’s new home. Nor was the new-born hope solely beating in the starving child’s heart. The lonely farmer felt that somehow the day was brighter, and the green earth more beautiful—for that meeting.
Such had been the coming together of these two, and through all the long years of weary toil since then they still remained together, working shoulder to shoulder in a relationship that soon became something like that of father and son. The Padre remained the farmer—in a small way. But the boy—well, as had been prophesied by his dead father, later on he grew big enough to plough the furrows of life with a strong and sure hand.
The man’s reflections were broken into abruptly. The time and distance had passed more rapidly than he was aware of. The eager animal under him raised its head, and, pricking its small ears and pulling heavily on the reins, increased its pace to a gallop. Then it was that the Padre became suddenly aware that the home stretch had been reached, and before him lay a long, straight decline in the trail which split a dense pine-wood bluff of considerable extent.
* * *
A man was lounging astride of a fallen pine log. His lean shoulders were propped against the parent stump. All about him were other stumps left by those who had made the clearing in the woods. Beyond this the shadowy deep of the woods ranged on every side, except where the red sand of a trail broke the monotony of tone.
Near by two horses stood tethered together by a leading rein. One was a saddle-horse, and the other was equipped with a well-loaded pack-saddle. It was no mean burden of provisions. The carcass of a large, black-tailed deer sprawled across the back of the saddle, while on one side were secured three bags of flour, and on the other several jack-rabbits were strung together. But the powerful beast remained unconcernedly nibbling at the sparse green peeping here and there through the carpet of rotting pine cones and needles which covered the ground.
The man’s eyes were half-closed, yet he was by no means drowsing. On the contrary, his mind was essentially busy, and the occasional puckering of his dark brows, and the tightening of his strong jaws, suggested that his thoughts were not always pleasant.
After a while he sat up. But his movement was only the restlessness caused by the worry of his thought. And the gaze he turned upon his foraging horses was quite preoccupied.
A change, however, was not long in coming. Simultaneously both horses threw up their heads, and one of them gave a sharp, comprehensive snort. Instantly the man’s large brown eyes lit, and a pleasant expectancy shone in their depths. He was on his feet in an instant, and his tall figure became alert and vibrant with the lithe activity which was so wonderfully displayed in his whole poise. He, too, had become aware of a disturbing element in the silent depths of the woods.
He moved across to the trail, and, glancing down it, from out of the silence reached him the distant, soft plod of hoofs in its heavy covering of sand. His look of satisfaction deepened as he turned back to his horses and tightened the cinchas of the saddles, and replaced the bits in their mouths. Then he picked up the Winchester rifle propped against a tree stump and turned again to the trail.
A moment later another horseman appeared from beyond the fringe of pines and drew up with an exclamation.
“Why, Buck, I didn’t reckon to find you around here!” he cried cordially.
“No.” The young man smiled quietly up into the horseman’s face. The welcome of his look was unmistakable. No words of his could have expressed it better.
The Padre sprang from his saddle with the lightness of a man of half his years, and his eyes rested on the pack-saddle on Buck’s second horse.
“For the—folks?” he inquired.
“Guess so. That’s the last of the flour.”
For a moment a shadow passed across the Padre’s face. Then it as suddenly brightened.
“How’s things?” he demanded, in the stereotyped fashion of men who greet when matters of importance must be discussed between them.
“So,” responded Buck.
The Padre glanced quickly round, and his eyes fell on the log which had provided the other with a seat.
“Guess there’s no hurry. Let’s sit,” he said, indicating the log. “I’m a bit saddle weary.”
Buck nodded.
They left the horses to their own devices, and moved across to the log.
“Quite a piece to Leeson Butte,” observed Buck casually, as he dropped upon the log beside his friend.
“It surely is,” replied the Padre, taking the young man in with a quick, sidelong glance.
Buck was good to look at, so strong, so calmly reliant. Every glance of his big brown eyes suggested latent power. He was not strikingly handsome, but the pronounced nose, the level, wide brows, the firm mouth and clean-shaven chin, lifted him far out of the common. He was clad simply. But his dress was perfectly suitable to the life of the farmer-hunter which was his. His white moleskin trousers were tucked into the tops of his W
ellington boots, and a cartridge belt, from which hung a revolver and holster, was slung about his waist. His upper covering was a simple, gray flannel shirt, gaping wide open across his sunburnt chest, and his modest-hued silk handkerchief tied loosely about his neck.
“Leeson Butte’s getting quite a city,” Buck went on presently.
“That’s so,” replied the Padre, still bent upon his own thoughts.
After that it was quite a minute before either spoke. Yet there seemed to be no awkwardness.
Finally it was the Padre who broached the matters that lay between them.
“I got ten thousand dollars for it!” he said.
“The farm?” Buck’s interrogation was purely mechanical. He knew well enough that the other had purposely gone to Leeson Butte to sell the farm on which they had both lived so long.
The Padre nodded.
“A fancy price,” he said. “The lawyers closed quick. It was a woman bought it. I didn’t see her, though she was stopping at the hotel. I figured on getting seven thousand five hundred dollars, and only asked ten thousand dollars as a start. Guess the woman must have wanted it bad. Maybe she’s heard they’re prospecting gold around. Well, anyway she ought to get some luck with it, she’s made it easy for us to help the folks.”
Buck’s eyes were steadily fixed on the horses.
“It makes me feel bad seeing those fellers chasin’ gold, and never a color to show—an’ all the while their womenfolk an’ kiddies that thin for food you can most see their shadows through ’em.”
The eyes of the elder man brightened. The other’s words had helped to hearten him. He had felt keenly the parting with his farm after all those years of labor and association. Yet, to a mind such as his, it had been impossible to do otherwise. How could he stand by watching a small community, such as he was surrounded with, however misguided in their search for gold, painfully and doggedly starving before his very eyes? For the men perhaps his sympathy might have been less keen, but the poor, long-suffering women and the helpless children—the thought was too painful. No, he and Buck had but their two selves to think of. They had powerful hands with which to help themselves. Those others were helpless—the women and children.
There was compensation in his sacrifice when he remembered the large orders for edible stores he had placed with the merchants of Leeson Butte before leaving that town.
“There’s a heap of food coming along for them presently,” he said after a pause.
Buck nodded.
“I’ve been settin’ that old fur fort to rights, way up in the hills back ther’,” he said, pointing vaguely behind them. “Guess we’d best move up ther’ now the farm’s—sold. We’ll need a few bits of furniture from the farm. That right—now you’ve sold it?”
“Yes. I made that arrangement. She didn’t seem to mind anything I suggested. She must be a bully sort of woman. I’m sorry I didn’t see her. The lawyer says she comes from St. Ellis.”
“Young?” suggested Buck.
The Padre shook his head.
“I wouldn’t say so. A young woman with money wouldn’t be likely to hide herself in these hills.”
“That’s so. Guess it’s the gold fetching her—the gold that isn’t here.”
“Gold’s a cursed thing,” said the Padre reflectively.
“Yet none of ’em seem to shy at the curse.” Buck smiled in his slow way.
“No. Not without experiencing it.” The Padre’s eyes were still serious. Then he went on, “We shan’t farm any up there—at the fur fort?”
Buck shook his head.
“It means clearing every inch of land we need. Guess we best hunt, as we said. We’ll make out with pelts. There’s the whole mountains for traps.”
The other stared over at the horses, and his face was very grave. After a while he turned directly to his companion, and his eyes were mildly anxious.
“See here, Buck,” he said, with what seemed unnecessary emphasis. “I’ve thought a heap on the way back—home. It seems to me I’m not acting square by you. And I’ve made up my mind.” He paused. Buck did not change his position, and his eyes were carefully avoiding those of his companion. Then the Padre went on with a decision that somehow lacked confidence. “You must take half the money, and—and get busy your own way. We’ve done farming, so there’s no reason for you to hang around here. You’re a man now, and you’ve your way to make in the world. You see, when we had the farm I thought it was good for you. It would be yours when I died, and then who knows, in time, how valuable it might become? Now it’s all different. You see the hills are best for me.” He smiled strainedly. “They’ve always been good friends to me. But——”
“Yes, you don’t fancy leavin’ the hills.” Buck’s eyes wore a curious expression. They were half-smiling, half-angry. But the other could not see them. The Padre jumped eagerly at his words.
“Just so. I’ve known them so long now that there doesn’t seem to be any other world for me. Even Leeson Butte makes me feel—er—strange.”
Buck nodded. Then he changed the subject.
“Say, we don’t sleep at the farm to-night,” he said. “The blankets are up at the old fort. That’s why I got around here. When’s she comin’ along?”
“In two or three days.” The Padre had no choice but to follow the younger man’s lead. “She’s sending along a farm woman first. She’s going to run the place herself.”
“Ther’s no man comin’?” Buck half turned to his friend.
“I don’t think so.”
“They can’t do it—hereabouts,” Buck retorted quickly. “That farm needs a man.”
“Yes.”
Buck rose abruptly and went over to the horses.
“Going?” inquired the Padre.
“I’ll get along with the vittles, and hand ’em over to the boys. Guess I’ll git back to the fort in a few hours.”
The Padre sat hesitating. He watched the movements of his companion without observing them.
“Buck!”
The other paused as he was about to put his foot into the stirrup. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Yes?”
“About that money. There’s five thousand of it yours.”
“Not on your life, Padre!”
The elder man sighed as he stood up, and his look changed so that it almost seemed as if a weight had been lifted from his mind. Their eyes met as Buck swung himself into the saddle.
“Then we’re going to the hills—together?” he said smilingly.
“Sure,” responded Buck promptly. Then he added, “But we’re goin’ to hunt—not farm.”
His decisive manner left no room for doubt, and the Padre, moving over to him, held out his hand. They gripped till the elder man winced.
“I’m glad I found you on the trail that time,” he said, looking squarely into the steady brown eyes. “I’ve always been glad, but—I’m gladder still now.”
“Me, too,” said Buck, with a light laugh. “Guess I’d have hated to ha’ fed the coyotes.”
Buck swung round to the trail, leading his packhorse, and the Padre went back to his horse. Just as he was about to mount the younger man’s voice reached him again. He paused.
“Say, what’s the woman’s name?” Buck inquired.
“Eh?” The Padre looked startled. “The woman that bought the farm?”
“Yes—sure.”
The elder man’s face flushed painfully. It was a curious sight. He looked as stupidly guilty as any schoolboy.
“I—I can’t say. I never asked.” He felt absurdly foolish and tried to explain. “You see, I only dealt with the lawyer.”
Buck shook his head, and smiled in his slow fashion.
“Sold the farm, an’ don’t know who to! Gee!”
It was good to hear his laugh as he rode away. The Padre watched him till he was out of sight.
* * *
CHAPTER V
THE STEEPS OF LIFE
Buck leant over his horse’s wither
s as the laboring creature clawed tenaciously up the face of the rugged hill. His whole poise was that of sympathetic straining. Nor were his eyes a whit less eager than those of the faithful animal under him.
He was making the last twenty yards of the climb up Devil’s Hill from the side on which lay the new home adopted by the Padre and himself. Hitherto this point of approach had been accepted as inaccessible for a horseman, nor, until now, had Buck seen reason to dispute the verdict. But, to-day, a sudden impulse had constrained him to make the attempt, not from any vainglorious reason, or from the recklessness which was so much a part of his nature, but simply that somewhere high up on the great table-land at the summit of the hill he hoped to find an answer to a riddle that was sorely puzzling him.
It had been a great struggle even on the lower and more gradual slopes, for the basaltic rocks were barren, and broken, and slippery. There was no gripping soil, or natural foothold. Just the weather-worn rocks which offered no grip to Cæsar’s metal-shod hoofs. Yet the generous-hearted beast had floundered on up to the last stretch, where the hill rose abruptly at a perilous angle.
It was a terrible scramble. As he looked above, at the point where the sky-line was cut by the broken rocks, even the reckless heart of the man quailed. Yet there was no turning back. To do so meant certain disaster. No horse, however sure-footed, could ever hope to make the descent by the way they had come. Buck had looked back just for one brief second, but his eyes had instantly turned again for relief to the heights above. Disaster lay behind him. To go on—well, if he failed to reach the brow of the blackened hill it would mean disaster anyway. And a smile of utter recklessness slowly lit his face.
So, with set jaws and straining body, he urged Cæsar to a last supreme effort, and the great black creature responded gallantly. With head low to the ground, his muscles standing out like ropes upon his shoulders, his forelegs bent like grappling-hooks, his quarters tucked beneath him, he put his giant heart into the work. Step by step, inch by inch he gained, yawing and sliding, stumbling and floundering, making way where all way seemed impossible. Slowly they crept up, slowly, slowly they neared that coveted line. Buck was breathing hard. Cæsar was blowing and had thrown his mouth agape, a sign that beyond this he could make no further effort. Five yards—two yards. The jagged line seemed to come down to meet them. At last, with a final spring, the great horse trampled it under foot.
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