IT was Flying Arrow who had saved Fred and his old friend. The young chief, true to his friendship for the old mountaineer, stoutly objected to killing the captives, when the White Injun, fearing the outcome of his cruelty, suggested that “dead men tell no tales.” Since, according to Indian custom, a unanimous decision was necessary to put a prisoner to death, Nixon had to content himself with his brutal scare. And now, thinking that the escaped men would rouse the valley, he made plans hastily to play his last trick and flee to escape the righteous wrath of the ranchers.
A council was held that night. It was agreed that they should break camp next morning. Old Copperhead, with the squaws and papooses, was to make a forced march and camp in the pass to the south. With this start, they could get into the eastern valleys before the whites were alive to their mischief. Ankanamp and his bunch of young bucks were to make the final raid on the ranches, lifting all the horses they could find. They would make as clean a sweep as possible, both for profit and for the purpose of crippling the pursuit. The raid was to begin at Morgan’s ranch, thence north to the Bar B and other places through the valley. Their rendezvous was to be in the pass at the southern end of the valley. Through this they would drive with all speed till out of reach of the whites.
The plot looked promising. It began to work smoothly. Without a mishap and before the sun was up, the whole band had filed out of the narrow gorge and trailed to the mouth of the canyon. Here it divided, the old chief with his weaker chargers skirting along the foothills to the south, Ankanamp with his marauders turning northward into the aspen groves on the mountain side, to hide and rest till dark should come to cover their movements. It chanced that they chose as their temporary resting place a thick covert of trees not more than half a mile south of Uncle Dave’s cabin. Picketing their horses out of sight within the groves, they rolled up in their blankets and threw themselves down to catch up the sleep they had lost the night before.
There they lay, dead to the world, when Fred, out hunting for Old Middie, Uncle Dave’s cow, which had strayed away the night before, came suddenly upon the sleeping Redskins. He stared a moment in surprise and fear, then seeing that he had not disturbed the band, he turned cautiously and stole back out of the dangerous den. When he felt safe, he broke into a run up the slope, arriving at the cabin with little breath to tell his tale.
When he did manage to get it out, the old mountaineer shook his head gravely. “Them red varmints mean mischief.”
“What do you think they are up to now?” asked Fred.
“Dunno, boy, dunno; but I reckon it’s some thievin’.”
“Hadn’t I better warn the ranchers?”
“Not just yet. I think we’d better do a little scoutin’ first. I’d like to git the lay o’ the land ’fore we make a move.” He studied a moment, then added, “If the stockmen could ketch ’em red-handed, they’d hev a clear cause to clean up that White Injun and his bunch. As it is, we ain’t dead sure they’re guilty.” The old mountaineer went on with his dinner preparations, but his face was full of thought. Finally he said, half to himself, “It’s a risky piece o’ business, but I reckon I kin do it.
“We’ll wait here till long ’bout dark. ’Tain’t likely they’ll be movin’ ’fore that time; then we’ll saddle Old Buck and both slip down as close as we kin git an’ be safe. I’ll leave you thar and steal in till I kin hear what they’re talkin’ ’bout. More’n likely they’ll drop some word thet’ll give us a hint o’ their scheme.”
“No, I’ll take that risk,” objected Fred.
“You don’t know their language, boy.”
“But, Uncle Dave, what if they catch you?”
“I reckon they’ll lift my skelp; but I ain’t caught yet, boy. An’ if they try any more tricks on me, that White Injun’ll pay dear fer it, ’fore I’m done talkin’. But let’s hope fer somethin’ better.”
“Well, go ahead, I’m with you whatever comes.”
“I’ve been in tight places ’fore this an’ squeezed through. Now, listen, if anything happens to me, jump on the horse and peg it fer help. If I get what I’m after, I’ll slip back and tell ye what to do.”
An hour later the two were picking their cautious way through the groves of the hidden nest of thieves. Within about two hundred yards of the place, they halted, and the old mountaineer began to steal alone closer to the den.
Fred watched him make his way stealthily into the brush and disappear. Then he listened and listened with straining ears for hours, it seemed, to catch the sound of his returning step, but he heard only the gentle chatter of the leaves, the squeaking of the wood mice, and the far-away call of the coyote, remarkably clear in the dangerous stillness of the night. Once he fancied he caught the sound of voices. He held his breath to hear, but the breeze swept away the sound. It may not have been fancy, however, for while the boy kept anxious watch, Nixon was giving his band of dusky followers their final instructions for the raid.
Another pair of eager ears caught not all, but enough of the plot that was being rehearsed that night in the shadow of the trees, to unravel the main thread of it. The old mountaineer, after a full hour of trying toil, had wormed his way within a few rods from the band, and there he lay, intent to catch every syllable of the rough English that Bud was using to instruct his followers. Flying Arrow interpreted the White Chief’s words into the Indian tongue to make sure they understood.
The old mountaineer stayed long enough to get clear the plot—almost too long indeed; for one Indian, leaving the band to look after his horse, walked within a step of the hidden listener. For a moment he feared discovery; but the Redskin went his way and returned none the wiser. Seizing his opportunity, the trapper turned and crept away, inch by inch, out of his dangerous place.
To Fred the time dragged into an age as he stood in the quiet darkness of the aspen grove. The moon had climbed high into the sky before the welcome sound of the soft returning step came. When it did, his tense feelings relaxed into sudden, half-painful relief.
“Oh, I’m glad you’re safe!”
“Quiet, boy,” responded Uncle Dave; “now, listen; they’ve planned a horse stealin’ raid. They’ll begin at Morgan’s ranch, then swing to the Bar B and on down the valley to the north. Jump on this horse and set out quiet but brisk to warn the settlers. Strike for Morgan’s first. They’ll git there long ’fore daybreak, I reckon. That won’t give the ranchers much time, but mebbe you kin gether enough agin they git there to scare ’em off. Here, swap weapons with me. That scatter gun o’ yours won’t be much use in an Injun fight.”
“But you may need it,” objected Fred.
“No, they’re not after me; I’ll be safe in my cabin. Now, go, and the Lord bless ye.”
Fred grasped the rough hand and pressed it, then leaped on the horse.
“Sh!” warned Uncle Dave, “they’re stirrin’. You’ll hev to move mighty cautious, but move.”
At the word Fred started again, this time to wind his way carefully through the grove. He kept well within the shadow of the trees till the willowy way of the creek offered another stretch of hidden trail, which he threaded cautiously for half a mile or more, then he struck across the open flat, urging Old Buck to his utmost.
Fear was swept aside. His only desire was to reach the ranch in time to upset the White Injun’s plot. The glad thought that he was doing signal service for the settlers and for Alta—service that might lift the cloud from his name—never crossed him. Old Buck, seeming to catch the feelings of his rider, rushed on; but his flying feet were too slow for Fred’s eager thoughts. The dark forms of the big stacks and sheds seemed miles away, but they neared at last, and finally he dashed up to them, leaped from his horse and ran to the door. His excitement was expressed in the hurried rap he gave.
The old Colonel, half roused by the galloping hoofs, was brought to a sitting posture by the sharp knock.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
“Fred Benton.”
Alta, wakened too, heard the name with a strange joy.
“What’s up?”
“Indians are raiding the valley.”
“Devil you say!” exclaimed the Colonel, jumping up and into his trousers, and hurrying to the door.
“They’ll be here any minute,” said Fred.
Aunt ‘Liza gave a hysterical scream. Alta, trembling with excitement, ran to comfort her.
“How do you know that?” demanded the Colonel.
“No time to tell now, get ready.”
“Go wake the boys”—Fred was on his way before the Colonel had finished the sentence.
Bill and Pete were in a sound sleep, but the word “Injuns” cleared their dazed senses quickly enough.
“How big a band is it?” asked the Colonel, coming up with his rifle.
“About twenty bucks, with a white devil at their head.”
“We’ll need help.”
“Yes, and the rest of the ranchers ought to be warned. I should be on my way, but I hate to leave because they’ll strike here first.”
“How do you know?”
“Uncle Dave overheard their plan.”
“Why can’t I go rouse the ranchers?” asked Alta, as she ran out to grasp and cling to Fred’s hand.
“It’s too risky, little gal,” objected her uncle; “you stay in out of harm’s reach.”
“Not when I can be of help.” Alta’s tone was decisive. “Get Eagle quick, Bill.”
“Alta will make a better messenger on that pony than I,” suggested Fred, “and she’ll be in less danger on the road than here.”
The old Colonel reluctantly acquiesced and Alta sprang to her saddle.
“Go to the Bar B first,” said Fred; “then strike for the ranches north and east; watch out for danger as you return. If you sight trouble, strike for Uncle Dave’s cabin.”
Alta was up and away in a second.
“Take care of Aunt ‘Liza,” she called back, as she dashed down the road.
“Now get your guns, boys, and let’s make ready. Pete, you and Bill take care o’ the house; this boy and I will guard the stables. If you sight Injuns, give ’em hell.”
The men took their stations as directed.
For half an hour or more the Colonel and Fred wailed, straining their eyes in an effort to see the brush forms take the shape of prowling Injuns, but no signs of such life appeared. The old Colonel began to wonder whether he had not been made the butt of an Injun scare, when suddenly his sharp eye caught sight of a dark object worming through the brush toward the corral. He cocked his rifle carefully. The creeping object checked dead still at the sound; then it began to crawl again. And now another form came into view. The Colonel waited till the skulking savage was within a few rods of the bars, then he took aim and fired.
The Indian, fatally struck, gave a piteous death yell, staggered half up, and pitched forward. The cry brought half a dozen forms out of the brush. Fred fired at one of them as they fled for the thick willows.
This shock at their plot all but created a panic among the band. Only their fury to avenge their comrade, and the desperate determination of Bud Nixon to wreak vengeance on his foes, held them to their plan. At another time the White Injun would have played the skulking coward, but now his blood was up, and he was reckless of the end.
To divert attention, part of the band under Flying Arrow was sent to attack the house. The savages set up a fearful yelling and shouting as they circled about it. The ruse was successful, so far as uncovering the corral was concerned. Colonel Morgan and Fred, concluding that the house was in danger, hurried to defend it while Nixon struck for the corral to capture the horses. The rifles were cracking and the savages yelling when a wild shout broke through the din, and close upon it came the thumping hoofs of the Bar B horses.
Hearing that challenging shout, the savages about the house fled again for the willows, leaving Bud and his braves entangled among the stacks and stables. Daylight was just beginning to break.
“There goes a red devil,” yelled Jim, spurring his horse after a dark form, scurrying for the willows.
“There’s another,” shouted Dick, catching sight of Bud Nixon, just emerging from the stable door with the Colonel’s finest saddle horse.
“Watch me drop him!” He blazed away at the White Injun as he spoke. Bud heard and recognized the voice. His blood boiled. If it was the last act of his life, he’d have revenge now. He whipped out his revolver and fired. Dick’s horse leaped sidewise. Bud blazed away again and Dick reeled and fell. Bud ran for his own horse, leaped on it, and dashed away to dive into the thicket of brush and trees, just in time to escape the charging cowboys. A rattle of revolver shots followed him.
Fred, running back to protect the stock, saw the whole encounter. He hurried to help his stricken companion. Dick lay limp and unconscious, an ugly wound through his left shoulder. Fred turned heartsick as he tried to call his old friend back to life. Several others rode up and helped him carry Dick into the house. While some one was dressing his wound, he regained consciousness. He was seriously but not fatally hurt. Bill was left to help Aunt ‘Liza nurse him, and the rest dashed away to run down the daring thieves, who, scattered and leaderless, were hidden or fleeing in every direction—all but three,—they had tasted quickly the wrath of the ranchers.
LIKE a hunted wolf, sore-distressed and savage, the defeated White Chief was hidden with two of his followers in the tangled depths of Mystery Grove. He had heard, with murder in his heart, the cowboys beating about the brush in search of him and his scattered band. Luckily for them, none came within range of his revolver. The noise of the conflict had died down, the search around him had ceased, and the sun was nearly up before they found the moment to dare to skulk out of their risky retreat and make the attempt to thread the willowy trail up Sage Creek, which Nixon had followed a few hours before with such high hopes of glorious revenge.
It was a dangerous gauntlet to run; but it was more dangerous to stay till day should come to light the recesses of the grove. At any rate, he chose to take chances of capture in the open. Luck seemed to favor him. No signs of his pursuers were to be seen. He was chuckling savagely to himself in the thought that he would give them the slip and have his day yet, when a cowboy, or rather a cow-girl, as his second sharper glance told him, suddenly appeared just above him on the flat.
It was Alta Morgan. On returning from her brave ride to sound the warning, she had chosen the open way on the eastern side of the creek. The two saw and recognized each other simultaneously. Alta checked the scream of terror that leaped to her lips, and cut Eagle sharply with her quirt as she whirled his head to spring away from danger. She was so dazed she hardly knew which way to fly till Fred’s words flashed through her mind,—“If you sight danger, go to Uncle Dave’s.” Straight as an arrow she headed Eagle for the hills.
“Ha!” gloated the White Injun, spurring his horse after her, his fear of discovery and death completely swept aside by the wicked thought that now focused all his hate and energy. He would capture and carry off the proud little puss whose spite had caused all his trouble. A thousand devilish thoughts surged through his hate-fired brain as he spurred and lashed his struggling horse in his mad effort to overtake her.
It was a race for life. Eagle, seeming to sense it, strained every nerve to carry his mistress out of her terrible danger; but the exhausting work he had already done that morning had unnerved his steely muscles, and for the life of him he could not keep Bud’s cayuse from gradually closing the gap between them.
They had gained the steeper hills. Both horses had to slacken speed as they raced up the slope.
“On, Eagle, on!” called the terror-dazed girl, leaning over his neck in eagerness and patting it nervously. The little horse responded to that caressing touch with a new burst of speed. Up the trail he flew, gaining somewhat on his pursuers.
But the brave little horse could not maintain his lead. The White Injun gradually drew closer and finally overtook the fleeing girl; then grabbing her reins, he brought Eagle to a standstill. Alta, in a frenzy of anger and fear, lashed the brute’s clutching hand and leering face; but he clung on in spite of the stinging whip until his two lagging bucks caught up.
“Grab her arms and tie ’em tight,” he commanded; “then bind her to the saddle.” The savages obeyed.
“Let me go, you beast!” screamed the girl.
“When I’m done with you.”
“Oh, you devil!” She struggled frantically to free herself from the torturing thongs, but seeing that it was useless, she suddenly checked and held herself with queenly self-control.
“We’ll see who’s boss this time, my fine lady,” Bud mocked at her; “I told you once that it was dangerous business to play with fire. Come on.” He jerked Eagle’s reins as he spoke and headed hurriedly toward the south, making his trail through the cover of the scattering groves. The two Indians followed closely behind, nervously looking about from time to time for pursuers.
But there were no friends to dash to her rescue. Uncle Dave, however, keeping anxious watch that morning, had seen it all from the hills above them. The sight fired his old heart; but he was too far away to lift an arm in her defense. The best he could do was to keep general track of the trail they were taking, and when they finally disappeared beyond the canyon a mile or so to the south, he started out afoot to rouse the ranchers. Half-way down Sage Creek, he met Fred, on a fresh horse and leading old Buck, galloping toward his cabin.
“Have you seen Alta?” was his first anxious word.
“Yes, boy, that white Injun has captured her.”
“Captured her! My God! Which way did he go?”
“To’rds the south, beyond the canyon.”
“The demon! He’ll murder her or worse. He must be stopped.” Fred turned his horse to dash away in the direction Uncle Dave had given.
“Hold on, boy, you’d better get help.”
“No, we mustn’t lose time; I’m going now.”
“Then I’ll go with you.” The old man climbed on to Buck as he spoke, and followed Fred’s wild lead. “Take it easy, boy,” he cautioned; “you’ll make better time.”
Fred checked his speed somewhat, but could not hold down his throbbing heart.
Bud Nixon, meanwhile, was pushing on as fast as he could with his helpless, worn-out captive to overtake the band of Indians then hurrying through the southeastern pass. It was not till about dusk that he caught up with them camped temporarily in a secluded side canyon.
The savages were in a flurry of excitement. News of the fight had already been brought by Flying Arrow and other stragglers. Squaws and papooses were running about crying and wailing despite the efforts of the bucks to hold down their noise. The appearance of Ankanamp with his white prisoner brought consternation to the camp.
Alta was quickly lifted from her horse and carried into a tepee standing somewhat apart from the rest of the lodges. Her arms were untied, but she was left there closely guarded, at Bud’s order, by two squaws, while he and the other leaders held a council in Old Copperhead’s wigwam.
The Indians were in an ugly temper over their defeat, and naturally they laid the blame for it upon the one who had led them. Ankanamp was received, therefore, for the first time with sullen silence. He had staked too much on this last throw and had lost, bringing danger and terror to the tribe. This was enough to make the hot-headed braves ready to kill the White Chief.
Old Copperhead had already been put to the test to hold his followers from doing harm to Ankanamp as he appeared. And now he came bringing a white girl captive. Pursuit to the death would be sure to follow in the wake of that dastardly trick. The Indians all knew what that meant; but to their credit they held down their anger to listen to their chiefs. There was little time, however, for talk. A quick decision and action were demanded. Whether to flee or to make a stand and fight was the question; for they knew that the whites would soon trail them to this lair.
The old chief counseled sending the squaws and papooses on that night, leaving the warriors to guard their retreat. Nixon urged an ambush.
“They are sure to follow us,” he said, “but we kin beat ’em back and get revenge.”
“Yes, cow-men follow all right,” said Flying Arrow; “they trail Injun night and day till they git white squaw. Why you bring white squaw here?” he demanded, turning savagely on Nixon.
“That’s my business,” retorted the bully.
“Make Injuns heap trouble,” said Old Copperhead.
“Why you bring white girl here?” again demanded Flying Arrow.
“She’s my squaw.”
“You lie!” hissed the Indian.
“Well, I’m going to make her mine.”
“What you do with Laughing Eyes?”
“None of your damned business!”
“You promise Indian girl to make her your squaw.”
“You lie!”
“No, you lie,—she tell me. Now you keep promise and let white squaw go. Then all well.” The young chief’s words were calm and clear.
“What! marry an Injun? I’ll see you in hell first.”
“You no too proud to use Injun girl. Now you make Laughing Eyes your squaw, or me kill you!” A savage fire blazed in the young chief’s eyes. Bud cowered under his glance. The other Indians stood like statues watching them.
Then Old Copperhead said firmly: “Flying Arrow right. You marry Injun girl. Let white girl free. You do this. All well. You no do it. You die.”
“Well, have your way then,” said the cowardly cur, playing for time; “we’ll settle the job to-morrow.”
This promise made, the council turned again to the main issue, and soon decided on a plan of action. They were to follow their old chief’s advice. About midnight the squaws and papooses under his lead were to make a forced march, while the bucks stayed behind to guard the trail. The white girl was not to be harmed, but taken back in the morning to the mouth of the pass and set free.
All might have gone as planned, if Bud had not broken faith with the Indians. Flying Arrow, fearing treachery on his part, kept catlike watch of the White Chief’s movements.
While all this was happening, Fred and Uncle Dave were cautiously following the trail of the Indians. The keen eyes of the old mountaineer brought them at last within sight of the hidden camp. But how to get into it and free the captive was the trying problem. All fires were out and all voices were hushed. To break into the camp openly would be madness; and they could expect no help for hours, when if fortune favored them it might come. For they had sent word back by a straggling rancher they had chanced to meet. It might be that the cowboys would find the uncertain trail; but their help at best would come late. Something must be done at once.
“If I could only find out whar they’re keepin’ the gal,” said Uncle Dave, “I’d risk passin’ the word to her; but it’s hard to tell. I’m goin’ to risk it anyway.”
“Let me go with you,” urged Fred.
“No; ’tain’t no use o’ both of us runnin’ into a trap. You kin help better by stayin’ here with the horses while I steal down among ’em and try to git the lay o’ things.” He handed Fred the reins, and picked his way cautiously through the darkness toward the quiet camp.
The mental torture that Alta was enduring throughout these long hours was terrible. Desperate to do something, yet powerless; fearing death not half so much as the villain’s touch, she sat within the wigwam resolved to kill herself rather than suffer dishonor. A hundred plans of escape passed through her brain, but she dared not risk any of them. Dreading the worst, yet praying and hoping for deliverance, she held herself from doing anything desperate.
The night was advancing. The squaws that guarded her wigwam had ceased their chatter, and sat dozing outside; nothing was audible except the night noises.
Suddenly she felt a light tapping on the tent. Her heart almost stopped beating. Then a voice whispered her name. She could have leaped for joy, but fear held her quiet. She crept to the edge of the tent and whispered her answer, “Yes, I’m here.”
“Keep your courage, gal; we’ll save you.”
“Oh, you will, will you,” came the gruff voice of Bud Nixon, who with evil thought in his brain had also crept up to the girl’s tepee. “Take that, you sneaking devil!”
A revolver shot rang out. There was a groan and a heavy fall. The old mountaineer, struck in the back by the villain’s bullet, had pitched forward and fallen against the tent.
The shot and Alta’s scream brought the Indians in a rush to the spot. When Flying Arrow discovered what the White Injun had done, he leaped like a panther at his throat and drove his knife into the murderer’s heart.
“You kill my friend, Long Beard; you wrong Laughing Eyes; you die, you die!”
Fred, desperate to do something to save Alta, and unable to stand the suspense, had flung fear aside and followed Uncle Dave into the camp. The shot and Alta’s cry brought him into the crowd in time to see the Indian strike down the brute. But his thoughts were all for Alta and Uncle Dave. Rushing to his old friend’s side with her, they raised his dying head and tried to call him back to consciousness.
“Oh, Uncle Dave!” she cried, “you must not die. Speak to me.”
His eyes opened. He came back enough to realize dimly what was happening.
“Don’t take it—too hard,” he said falteringly; “it’s only—the end—of the—long trail.”
The young chief was bending over his old friend with them.
“Long Beard, you know me. Flying Arrow—your papoose-boy long time ago.”
“Yes, yes,” he faltered, “I—know—you;—thank God, you’re here. You—save my white boy and girl now. You promise?” The words came with great effort.
“Yes, me no let Injun hurt ’em—me take care of ’em.”
“There—I—feel—better. Now—we’ll camp—over—there—be quiet—Tobe—go to—sleep.”
His last words were scarcely audible. His weary head fell back, the gentle, gray eyes closed, and the old mountaineer rested in peace at the end of the long trail.
Fred and Alta sat for a few moments half dazed; then suddenly realizing that he had gone, Alta broke under the strain and sorrow into wild expressions of her grief.
“Oh, Fred!” she cried, “he’s dead—he’s given his life to save me. How can I ever bear to think what my troubles have cost him?”
“There, don’t blame yourself, dear,” said Fred, taking her in his arms. “It was a sweet sacrifice for him, Alta; he loved you.”
“I loved him, too,” she sobbed; “and I love you, for being so brave and good to me.”
“Alta, do you really mean it?” He drew her close to his throbbing heart.
“Mean it, Fred? why I have always loved you, only I never knew how much till now.”
“Sweetheart!” he raised her troubled face to his. The rest was told in their sweet first kiss. Thoughts of danger and death were momentarily swept aside by the rush of joy that filled their hearts. Out of pain and suffering, their love had suddenly leaped into glad life. They had found each other. A new strength had come to their blended souls; and with it came a sweet comfort, as they sat there hand in hand through the stillness, keeping watch over their old friend, endeared to them now by memories that could never die.
The Indians did nothing to molest them, but made hurried preparations to steal away as they had planned. Silently the dusky forms glided here and there among the tepees; then group after group disappeared along the trail to the eastward until all were gone but Flying Arrow and half a dozen young braves.
When morning broke to light the scene, Bud Nixon still lay where he had fallen, and by his side the Indian girl whom he had wronged sat in silent sorrow.
“Come, sister,” said the young chief in gentle Indian tongue, “I’ll take care of you.” He raised her tenderly and led her away, while other Indians, lifting up her White Chief’s body, carried it along the canyon trail; another brave followed these, leading Ankanamp’s horse.
They buried him in a crevice among the lava rocks. Over this rough grave they piled stones and sticks to keep bird or beast from molesting it. His horse they killed and buried by him, that he might have something to carry him to the Happy Hunting Grounds. The sorrow-stricken girl begged to be killed too, but they forced her to leave with them.
This done, Flying Arrow returned to take a parting look at his old friend. He gazed in silence for a moment. Then turning to Fred and Alta he said,
“Now go, get friends, carry Long Beard home. Injun no hurt you any more. Good-by.”
“Good-by, brave!” responded Alta with feeling.
“Good-by,” said Fred, reaching out his hand; “we’ll not forget your kindness.”
The young chief took the proffered hand, turned quickly, sprang upon his horse and disappeared along the trail through the pines. He was hardly out of sight when hoof beats were heard down the canyon, and a few moments later Colonel Morgan with Cap Hanks, Dan, Jim, Pat and several other ranchers came upon the scene.
The Colonel leaped from his horse to take his “little squirrel” in his arms, and to hold her there while they listened to Fred’s sad story.
Touched to tears, the group of rugged men stood in silence till Colonel Morgan said quietly, “Let’s make a litter, boys, and carry his body home.”
The next day a crowd of ranch folk from all over the valley gathered to pay their last humble tribute to the old mountaineer. They buried him on Sunset Cliff, just above his cabin. An elder made a few remarks, telling the story of the old man’s noble self-sacrifice, read the Shepherd Psalm, and offered a simple prayer. To mark the spot, a cairn of rough stones was piled above the grave.
After the crowd had dispersed, Fred and Alta lingered to cover the cairn and grave with autumn leaves. The sun was just setting when they finished their loving work and took the trail toward the Morgan ranch; for the Colonel would listen to no other plan than that Fred should stay there as long as he remained in the valley.
As they climbed the hill above the cabin, they turned to take a parting look. The old mountaineer’s home stood in the shadows, deserted, but the last rays of the sun lingered on the cliff, the newly-made grave, and the sheltering pines above it.
“Isn’t that a beautiful spot in which to lay his dear old body to rest?” said Fred.
“Yes,” responded Alta, “I shall always feel better to think of him sleeping where the sunlight loves to linger.”
They stayed a few moments gazing in silence on the picture of light and peace. Then with hearts strangely lifted out of the gloom that had depressed them, they turned in the sunset afterglow to ride slowly home together.
THE END
PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY
& SONS COMPANY, AT THE
LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO