The Young Runaway, page 7
The Antelope Hills blocked the center of the gateway to the south. They shone white and gray and pink in the sunlight. Some were crowned with a fringe of black; others showed black clefts deep down between the domes; still others appeared craggy and rough, with belts of timber at their bases.
But it was the spreading of the fanlike range southward that drew and held Andrew Bonning's gaze. He felt dwarfed. How cramped he had been all his life! New York City would hardly have been a visible dot down in the center of that purple immensity. Poor, struggling, plodding, suffocating millions of men—of toilers—if they could only have found themselves there! Andrew felt a singular uplift of spirits. His instinct had been true. Its source and its meaning still remained inscrutable, but he realized that in following it he had found an unknown heritage.
So engrossed had Andrew been that he had forgotten the field glasses he had carried up the hill with him. These he now remembered and focused upon that mysterious gulf of purple.
What had been wavy lines and pale spots and dim shadows and blank reaches, veiled in differing degrees of the purple hue of distance, resolved themselves into endless rolling ridges like atolls in a smooth sea, and vast areas of flat land, bare and desolate, and wide green valleys, with here and there the tiny dots of ranches leagues apart.
The Easterner descended the knoll with giant strides. He had never, that he could remember, heard the singing of his heart as at that moment. Whatever had brought about the accident of his arrival here, he would bless all his life long. His failures now seemed like successive steps to a new life. He divined that any labors he undertook on this range would be labors of love, and they could not fail. He was profoundly grateful now to his own past inability to fit into an office or to sell bonds or to play the market; to the criticism, the misunderstanding, the bitter defeats and his father's financial fall that had sent him to Wyoming.
Andrew Bonning drove up to Bligh's ranch in this almost reverent mood, which perhaps cast a sort of glamour over the low-walled, mud-roofed rambling cabin, and especially to a large structure on the river bank—a cabin, deserted, with gaping windows, bleached gray logs and crumbling, yellow chimney. He had no time for more than this first glance because the old man whom he had interviewed in town suddenly appeared from behind the nearer cabin.
"You beat me here, Mr. Bligh," said Andrew smilingly.
"Yes, I saw your car as I passed the cottonwoods. How'd you know me?" His blue eyes were twinkling and kindly. Andrew read in them liking for his fellow man. Yet the bronzed thin face, wrinkled like withered parchment, attested to a life of struggle and trial.
"I heard that Sheriff Slade call your name...What do you know? He held me up, searched my car for contraband—the yellow-eyed goofer! I didn't take much to him, Mr. Bligh."
"Did he find any?" inquired the rancher. Andrew saw more in the penetrating eyes than the casual query testified.
"He did not. It made me sore—that digging into my gear. And I made a crack that I'm afraid was pretty foolish. It made the crowd laugh, anyway."
"Yeah? What'd you say to Slade?"
"I told him he might be a bootlegger himself, for all knew."
"Wal! You said that to Slade? Young man, you should bridle your tongue...But get down and come in."
"Say, that's a new one on me," declared Andrew. "'Get down and come in!' Range greeting, eh?"
"Yes. Motors will never take the place of horses on the range."
"Thanks, Mr. Bligh. But before I get out—or down—please give me some hope that I can land a job with you. I climbed a hill back there to get a look at the country. I'm just plain crazy about it. I'll simply have to get a job here. I can do any kind of work...And, well, Mr. Bligh, I'm the man you need."
"I like your enthusiasm. What's your name?"
"Andrew Bonning."
"Where from?"
"I told you—the East. Some day I'll tell you more about myself. It ought to be enough now to say I come to you clean and straight." And Andrew met the keen scrutiny of those usually mild blue eyes with a level open glance.
"Bonning, we cattlemen often hire men without names or homes or pasts. What counts here is, what you —what you can ."
"Well, in that case all a fellow can do is to ask for a chance to prove himself."
"It amounts to that."
"Will you give me a chance, Mr. Bligh?"
"I reckon I will, on conditions."
"What are they?"
"You offered to work for your keep, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir. I'll be glad to. You see, I bought a secondhand cowboy outfit."
"No cattleman could miss seein' all them trappin's, son...My condition is this—that you work for your board until I can afford to pay you real wages—provided we get along together."
"Okay. Suits me and I'm much obliged. I'll do my level best to please you—and I'm darned sure I can help you."
"Can you ride?"
"Yes."
"Throw a rope?"
"No."
"Or a gun?"
"No, but I'm a good rifle shot."
"Cook?"
"No, I thought I could. But eating my own cooking for two weeks has changed my mind."
"Good at figures?"
"Lord, no! I couldn't add up a column of figures ten times and get less than ten different sums."
"Neither can I. But we won't have much figuring to do...Bonning, I like your looks and I like your talk. One more question and it's a deal."
"Okay. Spring that one on me."
"Have you got guts?"
"Guts!" echoed Andrew.
"Nerve, in an Easterner's way of puttin' it. I got robbed of most of my cattle up north. Had a ranch on the Belle Fourche River, near Aladdin. Made up my mind to pull up stakes an' try a new range. Like this one fine. But today I learned there's some cattle stealing here, same as everywhere on the Wyomin' ranges."
"Who told you, Mr. Bligh?"
"Cattleman named McCall. Agreeable chap. Went out of his way to scrape acquaintance with me. An' I verified that news. Got laughed at for my pains. One old rancher said to me, 'Rustlin'? Hell, yes, enough left to make the cattle business healthy. When rustlin' peters out in Wyomin' thet'll be the end of the cattleman!'"
"Well, that's a point of view to make one think!"
"Wal, it needn't worry you. But when I put it up to you I'm makin' it plain. If you're white-livered or softhearted, not to say yellow, you just won't do. I've only one man on the ranch. Happened to run across him on the Belle Fourche. He's from Arizona, has seen a lot of range life, crippled—which is why he finds it hard to get jobs—but he's a real man. Married, by the way, to a nice little woman who sure can keep house. I never had a woman about my ranch before. An' eatin' my own sourdough biscuits nearly killed me...Wal, his name is Jim Fenner, an' if you make a good runnin' mate for him, I reckon my stock will increase."
"I'm only a tenderfoot," replied Andrew, discouraged in spite of his ardor. Bligh had a set, hard look around his mouth.
"I don't need to be told that. In a way it's in your favor. The thing is—will you learn this hard game of the range—fight for my interests—an' stick to me? It might lead to your good fortune. An' I'm puttin' it strong because I want you to declare yourself strong."
"I do, Mr. Bligh," replied Andrew ringingly, as he took the proffered hand. "I see it as tough, steady work—and no lark. It's a chance that will make a man of me. I'll do my damnedest!"
MARTHA ANN responded quickly to the cheery and kindly interest of the two travelers who had come upon her in the road, just after the ugly episode with the bully in the Ford. They were on a fishing trip to northern Nebraska.
They did not again refer to the distressing incident, and their keen sense of humor and lively knack of relating their own experiences soon restored Martha Ann to her old self.
They drove at a steady pace all the rest of the day, stopping only for a light supper, and at half past eight they arrived at the small town of Colfax. The men were camping along the way, so they left Martha at the inn, promising to call for her in the morning.
Soon after daylight the three were off again. At Benton, where they arrived in time for lunch, the gentlemen had to take a branch road, leading north. They were sorry that Martha Ann could not proceed further with them. She bade them good-by regretfully, promising to send them a post card when she had safely reached her destination.
Martha Ann faced the road alone once more, on foot, and somewhat forlornly. It seemed a long time since she had hiked even a short distance. All the old apprehensions trooped back into her mind. But when she saw great dark ridges rising above the horizon, and apparently not so very far away, she began to recapture her old adventurous spirit. These were the Black Hills. They thrilled her and also frightened her. Had she not been warned that she would never get through these lonesome hills alive?
A man and woman in a Packard stopped alongside the runaway girl, and the latter asked her if she would like a ride. Martha Ann smiled gratefully, and as the driver reached back and opened the door, she got into the back seat. They introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Corbett of Chicago. In replying Martha gave her name, but neglected to add her address.
"Bet you are headed for Hollywood," chuckled Mr. Corbett.
When she told them that Wyoming, not Hollywood, was her destination, the man said: "If I really thought you were a moviestruck kid, I'd turn you over to the authorities and have you sent home."
Martha Ann realized that this very thing could easily be done. She could not prove that she was over eighteen. She earnestly explained that she was on her way to visit an uncle in Wyoming, and that she was hiking for the fun of it and to save money.
"All right, young lady, I'll take your word for it," replied Mr. Corbett. "I'm in the show business myself, but I am glad you're not another girl who wants to be a star."
They reached the next town in time for an early dinner, and then Martha accompanied them to a movie. It featured Tom Mix and his horse, Tony, in a Western. It was a romantic story which left the Chicago girl a trifle sad. How utterly impossible for anything like this picture to happen to her! The only romance so far on this long, long journey had been Andrew Bonning's rescue of her from the clutches of a tramp. The memory of that occasion still warmed her heart. But his rude relegation of her to the ranks of a type of girl she despised had removed any possibility of romance from the episode. Where could he be now? Long ago he had passed by her on the road, perhaps too indifferent even to offer her a lift.
Since the Corbetts were remaining in this town to have extensive repairs made on the car, Martha left next morning on foot.
The air was cold, with a decided sharpness which the young traveler attributed to the altitude. Before noon she had received three uneventful rides, which brought her up into the wooded hills. Passing the beautiful hotel at the Springs, Martha Ann longed to spend a few days there. The tourists lounging around on the verandas seemed so carefree and happy. She wondered if any of them had to work for a living or had ever worried about anything in life.
She walked on to a roadside inn, where she had lunch, and then took again to the white ribbon of road through the black forest of firs. The fragrance of these trees made her short of breath and lightheaded with exhilaration. Except for an occasional car, the road was deserted. No hikers! No campers! Suddenly Martha heard a rustling in the brush, and saw a deer walk into an open glade to stand with long ears erect and watch her warily. How wild and beautiful appeared this creature of the forests—the only one she had ever seen in her whole life. She had a great desire to wander off the road, to mount up the steep slope where the tall dark fir trees shot up straight and spear pointed. She sat down on a rock to watch the trout in a clear pool. Shafts of golden sunlight pierced through the foliage, and a breeze sighed through the trees above her head. As she sat there in the sweet silence the hum of a motor broke in upon her meditations. She heard it almost with regret. And as she rose to resume her hike she determined that some day, far out in the wilds of Wyoming, she would find perfect loneliness where neither motor nor man would interrupt her thoughts.
A huge touring car caught up with her and stopped. She heard a terrier dog barking furiously and childish voices crying out: "Ride with us. Daddy says to ask you."
Martha turned to face a welcoming family, father and mother in the front seat, and a boy, a girl and a dog in the back.
They were so friendly, so eager to have her join them, that Martha could not refuse. When she got in between the children, however, she found them suddenly shy.
"How do you like the Black Hills?" inquired the smiling lady in front.
"Oh, I love them!" exclaimed Martha. "And I had been so scared. People back along the road predicted all sorts of terrible things."
"Nonsense, there's no one to hurt you. We come here often...Tell us, where are you from and where are you going? We arrived at the inn just as you were leaving. A girl hitchhiker! We are dying of curiosity."
"My name is Martha Ann Dixon. I live in Chicago, and am on my way to Wyoming to visit an uncle."
"What part of Wyoming?"
"Randall."
"Don't know it. Must be far...Have you hiked all this way from Chicago?"
"Oh, no. I took a train to Omaha."
"I see. Why didn't you hike all the way?"
"Guess I didn't want to meet anyone who might know me!"
"Naughty child!" interposed the lady. "Do you go to school?"
"Yes, to the university."
"Wonder what your professors would say—to see their star student wandering through the Black Hills?" queried the man, with a smile to his wife, as if they both were familiar with the college and its teachers.
The car climbed higher. The air grew thin and cold. Martha experienced a faint giddiness. When she caught sight of patches of snow along the road, she found herself agreeing with the children when they clamored to get out of the car. They climbed still higher, until they could look out and down over the green slopes to the variegated mosaic of farmlands far below. The driver halted the car by the side of a huge snowdrift, announcing that the radiator was boiling and that they had better stop to let it cool.
Martha marveled at the lovely white snow bank on one side of the road and on the other, wild flowers and green things growing down to a wall of fir trees. From where she sat the eye was led down to the gray and green earth far below.
"No wonder you come here often," sighed Martha.
Shortly afterward the family had to go off the road to a camp where their children were going later in the summer. They told Martha to proceed up to the lodge, where they advised her to take the bus to Rapid City.
She walked the all too short mile up to the lodge, which she expected to find on a mountaintop, but it stood near the edge of a beautiful little lake, under a lofty tower of gray, snow-patched rock. After a short wait on the cool porch of the lodge she found the bus was ready to start. By the time the bus had reached Rapid City night had fallen, and Martha was glad to find a comfortable hotel where she had supper and went promptly to bed.
Before starting out the next morning, she went into the office of the Chamber of Commerce, and of the three smiling occupants she asked collectively: "What is the best and quickest way to get to Belle Fourche?"
"Straight from here to Deadwood and then to Spearfish," replied one of the attendants, spreading a map on the counter. "Where you hail from?"
"Chicago."
Many questions followed which Martha answered good-naturedly and frankly. And when they learned that she actually was on her way to Wyoming, they had several sound suggestions to offer.
"Young lady," said one of the men, "let me fix your packsack so it will be easier for you. I am an old-timer with packsacks. And yours is on wrong."
"I'll be eternally grateful," replied Martha slipping off her pack.
He went into an adjoining room and returned with straps, buckles and tools. Then he proceeded to alter the straps on the packsack, and to add more. The other two men kept offering suggestions, and between them all they managed to get it to suit them, whereupon they tried it on their visitor.
"I'll choke. Straps all too high," protested Martha. "No, you just imagine that. Doesn't it feel easier—lighter?"
"I believe it does, at that."
"Are you going to try to make Deadwood tonight?"
"I'll try, you can bet. I'm falling behind my schedule."
"Perhaps I can help you out. There's a gentleman I know, and will vouch for, who intends driving to Deadwood today. May I call him up?"
Martha consented gratefully, and was promised her lift over the phone. She sat down to wait, thinking how many kind and nice people there really were. Presently two men came in, and Martha recognized them as people she had seen up at the lodge the day before. They greeted her in the manner friendly which she had come to expect as typical of the West. After being introduced one of the strangers said, "Well, Miss, let's go." They carried Martha's baggage out, and making her comfortable in the back seat, alone, they drove off.
"I'd like to ask a couple of questions, Miss," said the one who was not driving.
"A couple? That'll be easy. I usually have to answer a hundred. And I have a lot of stock answers."
"Did your parents give you permission to take this long trip alone?"
"No, indeed," Martha confessed.
"You don't need to answer this one: Have you a gun with you?"
"Oh, n-no."
"Or any kind of weapon?"
"I guess I haven't anything you could call a weapon. Except my little embroidery scissors."
Martha's questioner gave his companion a dig in the ribs. "Hear that, Jim Dawson?"
