CHAPTER XIII
PATTY DRAWS A MAP
That evening after supper, Patty sat upon her doorstep and watched theslowly fading opalescent glow in which the daylight surrendered toencroaching darkness. "How wonderful it all is, and how beautiful!"she breathed. "The indomitable ruggedness of the hills--rough andforbidding, but never ugly. Always beckoning, always challenging, yetalways repulsing. Guarding their secrets well. Their rock walls andmighty precipices frowning displeasure at the presumptuous meddling ofthe intruder, and their valleys gaping in sardonic grins at the punyattempts to wrest their secret from them. Always, the mountains mock,even as they stimulate to greater effort with their wonderful air, andsoothe bitter disappointment with the soft caress of twilight'safter-glow. I love it--and yet, how I hate it all! I can't hold outmuch longer. I'm like a general who has to withdraw his forces, notbecause he is beaten, but because he has run short of ammunition. Itis August, and by the end of September I'll be done." She clenched herfists until the nails dug into her palms. "But I'll come back," shecried, defiantly. "I'll work--I'll find some way to earn some money,and I'll come back year after year, if I have to, until I haveexplored every single one of these mountains from the littlestfoothill to the top of the highest peak. And someday, I'll win!"
"Mr. Bethune is rich." She started. The thought flashed upon herbrain, vivid as whispered words. Involuntarily, she shuddered at thememory of his burning eyes, the hot touch of his lips upon herhand--her arm. She remembered the short, curt answers of the hard-eyedPierce. And the thinly veiled distrust of Bethune, voiced by VilHolland, Thompson, and the preacher whom he had affectionatelyreferred to as "The Bishop of All Outdoors." Could it be possible--wasit reasonable, that these were all so mean and contemptible of soulthat their words were actuated by jealousy of Bethune's success? Pattythought not. Somehow, the characters did not fit the role. "If he'dhave explained their dislike upon the grounds of his Indian blood, itmight have carried the ring of truth--at least, it would have beenreasonable. But, jealousy--as Mr. Vil Holland would say, 'I don't grabit.'"
She recalled the wolfish gleam that flashed into Bethune's eyes, andthe malicious hatred expressed in his insinuations and accusationsagainst these men. Could it be possible that her distrust of VilHolland was unfounded? But no, there was the repeated searching of hercabin--and had not Lord Clendenning caught him in the act? There wasthe trampled grass of the notch in the hills from which he wasaccustomed to spy upon her. And the cut pack sack--somehow, she wasnot so sure about that cut pack sack. But, anyway--there is the jug!"I don't trust him!" she exclaimed, "and I don't trust Monk Bethune,now. I'm glad I found him out before it was--too late. He's bad--Icould see the evil glitter in his eyes. And, how do I know that hetold the truth about Lord Clendenning and Vil Holland?" Darknesssettled upon the valley and Patty sought her bunk where, for arestless hour, she tossed about thinking.
The following morning the girl paused, coffee pot in hand, in the actof preparing breakfast, and listened. Distinct and clear above thesound of sizzling bacon, floated the words of an old ballad:
Oh, ye'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road, An' I'll be in Sco'lan' afore ye;
But, oh, my true love I'll never meet again, On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomon'.
Hastening to the open door she peered down the valley. The songceased, and presently from the cottonwood thicket emerged a horse andrider. The rider wore a roll-brimmed hat and brilliant yellow chaps,and he was mounted upon a fantastically spotted pinto. "It's--'TheBishop of All Outdoors'," she smiled, as she returned to the stove."He certainly has a voice. I don't blame Mr. Thompson for being crazyabout him. Anybody that can sing like that! And he loves it, too."
A hearty "Good morning" brought her once more to the door.
"Just in time for breakfast," she smiled up into the eyes of the manon the pinto.
"Breakfast! Bless you, I didn't stop for breakfast. I figured onbreakfasting with my friend, The Villain, over across the ridge."
"The Villain?"
"Vil Holland," laughed the man. "His name, I believe is, Villiers. Ishortened it to Villain, and the natives hereabouts have bobbed itdown to Vil. But he'll have to breakfast alone this morning, asusual. I've changed my mind. You see, I share the proverbial weaknessof the clergy for a good meal. And against so charming a hostess, oldVil hasn't a chance in the world." Dismounting, the Reverend LenChristie removed his saddle and bridle and, with a resounding slap onthe flank turned the pinto loose. "Get along, old Paint, and lay insome of this good grass!" he laughed as the pinto, cavorting like acolt, galloped across the creek to join Patty's hobbled cayuse.
"My, that bacon smells good," he said, a moment later, as he stood inthe doorway and watched the girl turn the thin strips in the pan. "Dolet me furnish part of the breakfast," he cried, eagerly and beganswiftly to loosen from behind the cantle of his saddle a slender case,from which he produced and fitted together a two-ounce rod. "I'll takeit right from your own dooryard in just about two jiffies." He affixeda reel, threaded a cobweb line, and selected a fly. "Just save thatbacon fry for a few minutes and we'll have some speckled beauties inthe pan before you know it."
Pushing the frying pan to the back of the stove, Patty accompanied himto the bank of the stream where she watched enthusiastically as, oneafter another, he pulled four glistening trout from the water.
"That's enough," he said, as the fourth fish lay squirming upon thegrass. And in what seemed to the girl an incredibly short time, he hadthem cleaned, washed, and ready for the pan. While she fried them hebusied himself with his outfit, wiping his rod and carefully returningit to its case, and spreading his line to dry. And a few moments laterthe two sat down to a breakfast of hot biscuits, coffee, bacon, andtrout, crisp and brown, smoking from the pan.
"You must have ridden nearly all night to have reached here so early,"ventured the girl as she poured a cup of steaming coffee.
"No," laughed Christie, "I spent the night at the Wattses'. I had somedrawing paper and pencils for David Golieth. Do you know, I've anotion to send that kid to school some place. He's wild about drawing.Takes me all over the hills for a mile or two around the ranch andshows me pictures he has drawn with charcoal wherever there is a pieceof flat rock. He's as shy and sensitive as a girl, until he begins totalk about his drawing, then his big eyes fairly glow with enthusiasmas he points out the good points of some of his creations, and thedefects of others. All of them, of course, are crude as the pictorialefforts of the Indians, but it seems to me that here and there I cansee a flash of real genius."
"Wouldn't it be wonderful if he should become a famous artist!"exclaimed the girl. "And wouldn't you feel proud of having discoveredhim? And I guess lots of them do come from just as unpromisingparentage."
"It wouldn't be so remarkable," smiled the man. "Watts, himself is agenius--for inventing excuses to rest."
"How is the sick man?" asked Patty. "The one you went to see, over onBig Porcupine, wasn't it?"
"Yes, old man Samuelson. Fine old fellow--Samuelson. I sure hope he'llpull through. Doc Mallory came while I was there, and he told me he'sgot a good fighting chance. And a fighting chance is all that oldfellow asks--even against pneumonia. He's a man!"
"I wonder if there is anything I could do?" asked the girl.
Christie's face brightened. "Why, yes, if you would. It's a long ridefrom here--thirty miles or so. There's nothing you could take them,they're very well fixed--capital Chinese cook and all that. But I'vean idea that just the fact that you called would cheer them immensely.They lost a daughter years ago who would be about your age, I think.They've got a son, but he's up in Alaska, or some place where theycan't reach him. Decidedly I think it would do those old people aworld of good. You'll find Mrs. Samuelson different from----"
"Ma Watts?" interrupted Patty.
The man laughed, "Yes, from Ma Watts. Although she's a well meaningsoul. She's going over and 'stay a spell' with the Samuelsons, just assoon as she can 'fix to g
o.' Mrs. Samuelson is a really superior oldlady, refined and lovable in every way. You'll like her immensely. I'msure. And I know she will enjoy you."
"Thank you," Patty bowed elaborately. "Poor thing, she must befrightfully lonely."
"Yes. Of course, the neighbors do all they can. But neighbors are fewand far between. Vil Holland has been over a couple of times, and JackPierce stopped work right in the middle of his upland haying to go totown for some medicine. I tell you, Miss Sinclair, a person soonlearns who's who in the mountains."
Christie pushed back his chair. "I must be going. I hate to hurry off,but I want to see Vil and caution him to have an eye on the old man'sstock--you see, there are some shady characters in the hills, and oldman Samuelson runs horses as well as cattle. It is very possible theymay decide to get busy while he is laid up.
"By the way, Miss Sinclair, may I ask if you are making satisfactoryheadway in your own enterprise?"
Patty shook her head. "No. I'm afraid I'm making no headway at all.Sometimes, I think--I'm afraid--" she stumbled for words.
"Is there anything in the world I can do to help you?" asked the man,eagerly. "If there is, just mention it. I knew your father, andadmired him very much. I'm satisfied he made a strike, and I do hopeyou can locate it."
The girl shook her head. "No, nothing, thank you," she answered andthen suddenly looked up, "That is--wait, maybe there is something----"
"Name it." Christie waited eagerly for her to speak.
"It just occurred to me--maybe you could help me--find a school."
"A school!"
"Yes, a school to teach. You see, I have used nearly all my money. Bythe end of next month it will be gone, and I must get a job." The mannoticed that the girl was doing her best to meet the situationbravely.
"Indeed I will help you!" he exclaimed. "In fact, I think I can rightnow promise that whenever you get ready to accept it, there will be aposition waiting."
"Even if it is only a country school--just so I can make enough moneythis winter to come back next summer."
"I couldn't think of letting a country school get you. We need youright in town. You see, I happen to be president of the school board,and if I were to let a perfectly good teacher get away, I'd deserve tolose my job." Stepping to the door, he whistled shrilly, and a momentlater the piebald cayuse trotted to his side. When the horse stoodsaddled and bridled, the man turned to Patty: "Oh, about theSamuelsons--do you know how to get to Big Porcupine?"
Patty shook her head. "No, but I guess I can find it."
"Give me a pencil and a piece of paper, and I'll show you in aminute." Leaning over the table, the man sketched rapidly upon thepaper. "We'll say this is the Watts ranch, and mark it R. That's ourstarting point. Then you follow down the creek to the ford--here, atF. Then, instead of following the trail, you turn due east, and followup a little creek about ten miles. This arrow pointing upward means upthe creek. When you come to a sharp pinnacle that divides yourvalley--we'll mark that [^] so--you take the right hand branch, andfollow it to the divide. That leads, let's see, southeast--we'll markit S. E. 3 to D; it runs about three miles to the divide which youcross. Then you follow down another creek four or five miles until itempties into Big Porcupine, 4 E. to P., and from there it's easy. Justturn up Porcupine, pass Jack Pierce's ranch, and about five milesfarther on you come to Samuelson's. Do you get it?"
Patty watched every move of the pencil, as she listened to the explanation.And when, a few moments later, the big "Bishop of All Outdoors" crossed theford and rode out of sight up the coulee that led to the trampled notch inthe hills, she threw herself down at the table and with eyes big withexcitement, drew her father's map from its silk envelope and spread it outbeside Christie's roughly sketched one. "What a fool I am not to haveguessed that those letters must stand for the points of the compass!" shecried. "It ought to be plain as day, now." Carefully, she read thecabalistic line at the bottom of the map. "SC 1 S 1 1/2 E 1 S [up arrow] to[union symbol] 2 W to a. to b. Stake L. C. [zigzag symbol] center." Herbrow drew into a puzzled frown "SC," she repeated. "S stands for south, butwhat does SC mean? SW or SE would be southwest, or southeast, but SC--?"She glanced at the other map. "Let's see, Mr. Christie's first letter isR--that stands for Watts' Ranch. SC must represent daddy's starting point,of course! But, SC? Let's see, South Corner--south corner of _what?_ I wishhe'd put his letters right on the map like this one, instead of all in arow at the bottom, then I might figure out what he was driving at. SC, SC,SC, SC," she repeated over and over again, until the letters became a merejumble of meaningless sounds. "S must stand for South," she insisted, "andC could stand for creek, or cave, only there are no caves around here thatI've seen, or camp--South Camp--that don't do me any good, I don't knowwhere any of his camps were. And he'd hardly say Creek, that would be tooindefinite. Let's see, C--cottonwood--south cottonwood--short cottonwood,scarred cottonwood, well if I have to hunt these hills over for a shortcottonwood or a scarred cottonwood, when there are millions of both, Imight better keep on hunting for the crack in the rock wall."
For a long time she sat staring at the paper. "If I could only get thestarting point figured out, the rest would be easy. It says one milesouth, one and one half miles east, one mile south, then the arrowheadpointing up, must mean up a creek or a mountain to something thatlooks like an inverted horseshoe, then, two miles west to a. to b.whatever a. and b. are. There are no letters on the map, then it saysto stake L. C.--L. C., is lode claim, at least, I know that much, andit can be 1500 feet long along the vein, and 300 feet each way fromthe center. But what does he mean by the wiggly looking mark beforethe word center? I guess it isn't going to be quite as easy as itlooks," she concluded, "even when I know that the letters stand forthe points of the compass. If I could only figure out where to startfrom I could find my way at least to the a. b. part--and that would besomething.
"Anyway, I know how to make a map, now, and that is just exactly whatI needed to know in order to set my trap for the prowler who iscontinually searching this cabin. It's all ready but the map, and Imay as well finish up the job to-day as any time." From the pocket ofher shirt she drew a photograph and examined it critically. "It looksa good deal like the close-up of one of daddy's," she saidapprovingly, "and it certainly looks as if it might have been carriedfor a year." Returning the picture to her pocket, she folded thepreacher's map with her father's and replaced them in the envelope,then making her way to the coulee, extracted from the tin can two orthree of her father's ore samples. These, together with a lightminer's pick, she placed in an empty flour sack which she secured toher saddle and struck out northwestward into the hills.
At the top of the first divide she stopped, carefully studied the backtrail, and producing paper and pencil made a rough sketch which shemarked 1 NW. She rode on, mapping her trail and adding letters andfigures to denote distance and direction.
Her continued scrutiny of the back trail satisfied her that she wasnot followed. Two hours brought her to her journey's end, a rock wallsome seven miles from her cabin. Producing the photograph, sheverified the exact location, and with her pick, proceeded to stir upthe ground and loose rocks at the base of the ledge. For an hour sheworked steadily, then carefully replaced the dirt and small fragments,taking care to leave the samples from her sack where they would appearto have been tossed with the other fragments. Indicating the spot by adot on the photograph she rode back to her cabin and spent the entireafternoon covering sheets of paper with trail maps, and letters, andfigures, in an endeavor to produce a sketch that would pass as aprospector's hastily prepared field map. At last she produced severalthat compared favorably with her father's and taking a blank leaf froman old notebook she found in the pack sack, drew a very creditablerough sketch.
"Now, for putting in the letters and figures," she said, as she heldthe paper up for inspection. "Let's see, where would daddy havestarted from? Watts's ranch, maybe, or he could have started fromhere. This cabin was here then, and that would make it seem all themore r
easonable that I should have chosen this for my home. C standsfor cabin, or, let's see, what did they call this place. The sheepcamp, here goes SC--Why! SC--SC! That's the starting point on daddy'smap! And here I sat right in this chair and nearly went crazy tryingto figure out what SC meant! And, if it weren't so late, I'd startright out now to find my mine! If it weren't for that a. b. part Icould ride right to it, and snap my fingers at the prowler. But, itmay take me a long time to blunder onto the meaning of these letters,and anyway, I want to know 'who's who,' as Mr. Christie says." Shecontinued her work, and a half-hour later examined the resultcritically. "SC 1 NW 1 N [up arrow] to [union symbol] 2 E to a. Stake L. C.center at dot," she read, "and just to make it easier for him, I putthe a. down on the map." With a sigh of satisfaction the girlcarefully placed the new map and photograph in the silk envelope, andplacing the others in the pocket of her shirt, fastened it with a pin.Whereupon, she gathered up all the practice sketches and burned them.
Glancing out of the window, she saw Microby Dandeline approaching thecabin, her dejected old Indian pony, ears a-flop, placing one footbefore the other with the extreme deliberation that characterized hisevery movement. Patty smiled as her eyes took in the details of thegrotesque figure; the old harness bridle with patched reins and oneblinder dangling, the faded gingham sunbonnet hanging at the back ofthe girl's neck, held in place by the strings knotted tightly beneathher chin, the misshapen calico dress caught over the saddle-horn in amanner that exposed the girl's bare legs to the knees, and the thickbare feet pressed uncomfortably into the chafing rope stirrups--truly,a grotesque, and yet, Patty frowned--a pitiable figure, too. The ponyhalted before the door, and Patty greeted the girl who scrambledclumsily to the ground.
"Well, well, if it isn't Microby Dandeline! You haven't been to see melately. The last time you were here I was not at home."
"Hit wasn't me."
"What!" exclaimed Patty, remembering the barefoot track at the spring.
"I wasn't yere las' time."
Patty curbed a desire to laugh. The girl was deliberately lying--butwhy? Was it because she feared displeasure at the invasion of thecabin. Patty thought not, for such was the established custom of thecountry. The girl did not look at her, but stood boring into the dirtwith her bare toe.
"Well, you're here now, anyway," smiled Patty. "Come on in and help meget supper, and then we'll eat. You get the water, while I build thefire."
When the girl returned from the spring, Patty tried again: "While Iwas in town somebody came here and cooked a meal, and when they gotthrough they washed all the dishes and put them away so nicely Ithought sure it was you, and I was glad, because I like to have youcome and see me."
"Hit wasn't me," repeated the girl, stubbornly.
"I wonder who it could have been?"
"Mebbe hit was Mr. Christie. He was to our house las' night. He brungDavy some pencils an' a lot o' papers fer to draw pitchers. Pa 'lowedhow Davy'd git to foolin' away his time on 'em, an' Mr. Christie sayshow ef he learnt to drawer good, folks buys 'em, an' then Davy'll gitrich. Pa says, whut's folks gonna pay money fer pitchers they kin git'em fer nothin'? But ef folks gits pitchers they does git rich, don'tthey?"
"Why, yes----"
"You got pitchers, an' yo' rich."
Patty laughed. "I'm afraid I'm not very rich," she said.
"Will yo' give me a pitcher?"
"Why, yes." She glanced at the few prints that adorned the log wall,trying to make up her mind which she would part with, and decidingupon a mysterious moonlight-on-the-waves effect, lifted it from thewall and placed it in the girl's hands.
Microby Dandeline stared at it without enthusiasm: "I want a tookone," she said, at length.
"A what?"
"A one tooken with that," she pointed at the camera that adorned thetop of the little cupboard.
"Oh," smiled Patty, "you want me to take your picture! All right, I'dlove to take your picture. You can get on Gee Dot, and I'll take youboth. But we'll have to wait till there is more light. The sun hasgone down and it's too dark this evening."
The girl shook her head, "Naw, I don't want none like that. Thathain't no good. I want one like yo' pa tookened of his mine. Then I'llgit rich too."
"So that's it," thought Patty, busying herself with the biscuit dough.And instantly there flashed into her mind the words of Ma Watts, "Mr.Bethune tellin' her how she'd git rich ef she could fin' a gol' mine,an' how she could buy her fine clos' like yourn an' go to the city an'live." And she remembered that the woman had said that all the timeshe and Lord Clendenning had been wrangling over the eggs, Bethune andMicroby had "talked an' laughed, friendly as yo' please."
"How do you know my father took any pictures of his mine?" askedPatty, cautiously.
"'Cause he did."
"What would you do with the picture if I gave it to you?"
"I'd git rich."
"How?"
"'Cause I would."
Patty whirled suddenly upon the girl and grasping her shoulder with adoughy hand shook her smartly: "Who told you that? What do you mean?Who are you trying to get that picture for? Come! Out with it!"
"Le' me go," whimpered the girl, frightened by the unexpected attack.
"Not 'til you tell me who told you about that picture. Comeon--speak!" The shaking continued.
"Hit--wu-wu-wus--V-V-Vil Hol-Holland!" she sniffled readily--all tooreadily to be convincing, thought Patty, as she released her grip onthe girl's shoulder.
"Oh, it was Vil Holland, was it? And what does he want with it?"
"He--he--s-says h-how h-him an' m-me'd g-git r-r-rich!"
"Who told you to say it was Vil Holland?"
"Hit wus Vil Holland--an' that's whut I gotta say," she repeated,between sobs. "An' now yo' mad--an'--an' Mr. Bethune he'll--he'll killme."
"Mr. Bethune? What has Mr. Bethune got to do with it?"
The girl leaped to her feet and faced Patty in a rage: "An' he'll killyo', too--an' I'll be glad! An' he says he's gonna By God git thatpitcher ef he's gotta kill yo', an' Vil Holland, an' everyone in thesedamn hills--an' I'm glad of hit! I don't like yo' no more--an' pitchershows _hain't_ as good as circusts--an' I don't like towns--an' Ihain't a-gonna wear no shoes an' stockin's--an' I'm a-gonna tell mayo' shuck me--an' she'll larrup yo' good--an' pa'll make yo' git outo' ar sheep camp--an' I'm glad of hit!" She rushed from the cabin, andmounting her pony, headed him down the creek, turning in the saddleevery few steps to make hateful mouths at the girl who stood watchingfrom the doorway.