CHAPTER XIV
THE SAMUELSONS
Patty retired that night with her thoughts in a whirl. So, it was MonkBethune who, all along, had been plotting to steal the secret of herfather's strike? Monk Bethune, with his suave, oily manner, hisprofessed regard for her father, and his burning words of love! Foolthat she couldn't have penetrated his thin mask of deceit! It allseemed so ridiculously plain, now. She remembered the flash ofdistrust that her first meeting with him engendered. And, step, bystep, she followed the course of his insidious campaign to instillhimself into her good graces. She thought of the blunt warning of VilHolland when he told her that her father always played a lone hand,and his almost scornful question as to whether her father had told herof his partnership with Bethune. And she remembered her defiance ofHolland, and her defense of Bethune. And, with a shudder, sherecollected the moments when, in the hopelessness of her repeatedfailures, she had trembled upon the point of surrendering to hispersuasive eloquence.
With the villainous scheming of Bethune exposed, her thoughts turnedto the other, to her "guardian devil of the hills." What of VilHolland? Had she misjudged this man, even as she had so nearly becomethe dupe of Bethune? She realized now, that nearly everyone with whomshe had come into contact, distrusted Bethune, and that they trustedVil Holland. She realized that her own distrust of him rested to agreat extent upon the open accusations of Bethune, and the fact thathe was blunt to rudeness in his conversations with her. If he were tobe taken at his neighbors' valuation, why was it that he watched hercomings and goings from his notch in the hills? Why did he follow herabout upon her rides? And why did he carry that disgusting jug? Sheadmitted that she had never seen him the worse for indulgence in thecontents of the jug, but if he were not a confirmed drunkard, whyshould he carry it? She knew Bethune hated him--and that counted apoint in his favor--now. But it did not prove that he was not as badas Bethune. But why had Bethune told Microby that he would get thatpicture if he had to kill her and Vil Holland? What had Vil Hollandto do with his getting the picture! Surely, Bethune did not believethat Vil Holland shared her secret! Vil Holland _must_ be lawless--therunning of the sheep herder out of the hills was a lawless act. Why,then, were such men as Thompson and the Reverend Len Christie hisfriends? This question had puzzled her much of late, and not findingthe answer, she realized her own dislike of the man had wanedperceptibly. Instinctively, she knew that Len Christie was genuine.She liked this "Bishop of All Outdoors," who could find time to ride ahundred miles to cheer a sick old man; who would think to bringpencils and drawing paper to a little boy who roamed over thehillsides with a piece of charcoal, searching for flat rocks uponwhich to draw his pictures; and who sang deep, full-throated balladsas he rode from one to the other of his scattered hill folk, upon hisoutlandish pinto. Surely, such men as he, and the jovial,whole-hearted Thompson--men who had known Vil Holland foryears,--could not be deceived.
"Is it possible I've misjudged him?" she asked herself. And when atlast she dropped to sleep it was to plunge into a confused jumble ofdreams whose dominant figure was her lone horseman of the hills.
Patty resolved to keep her promise to Christie and ride over to theSamuelson ranch, before she started to work out the directions of herfather's map. "I may be weeks doing it if I continue to be as dumb asI have been," she laughed. "And when I get started I know I'll neverwant to stop 'til I've worked it out."
Immediately after breakfast she saddled her horse and returning to thecabin, picked up the little oiled silk packet that containedphotograph and map. Where should she hide it? Her glance traveled fromthe locked trunks to the loose board in the floor. Each had beensearched time and again. "Whoever he is, he'd think it was funny thatI decided all at once to hide the map, when I've been carrying it withme so persistently," she muttered. Her eyes rested upon the littledressing table. "The very thing!" she cried. "I'll leave it right outin plain sight, and he'll think I forgot it." Her first impulse was toremove the thin gold chain but she shook her head: "No, it will lookmore as if I'd just slipped it off for the night if I leave the chainon. And besides," she smiled, "he ought to get some gold for hispains." With a last glance of approval at the little packet lying asif forgotten upon the dressing table, she closed the door and headeddown the creek.
It was evident to Patty, upon reaching the Watts ranch that MicrobyDandeline had not carried out her threat to "tell ma" about theshaking. For the mountain woman was loquaciously cordial as usual:"Decla'r ef hit hain't yo', up an' a-ridin' fo' sun-up! Yo' shorefavor yo' pa. He wus the gittin'est man--Yo'd a-thought he wus ridin'fer wages, 'stead o' jest prospectin'. Goin' down the crick, to-day,eh? Well, I don't reckon yo' pa's claim's down the crick, but yo'cain't never tell. He wus that clost-mouthed--I've heard him an' Wattsset a hour, an' nary word between the two of 'em. 'Pears like they'sjest satisfied to be a-lightin' matches an' a-puffin' they pipes.Wimmin folks hain't like thet. They jest nachelly got to let out aword now an' then, 'er bust--one."
"Microby Dandeline!" there was a sudden rush of bare feet upon thewooden floor, and Patty caught a flick of calico and a flash of barelegs as the girl disappeared around the corner of the barn.
"Land sakes! Thet gal acts like she's p'ssessed! She tellin' whut anice time she had to yo' place las' evenin', an' then a-runnin' awaylike she's wild as a hawrk. Seems like she's a-gittin' mo' triflin'every day----"
"Sence Monk Bethune's tuk to ha'ntin' this yere crick so reg'lar,"interrupted Watts, who stood leaning against the door jamb.
"'T'aint nothin' agin Mr. Bethune, 'cause he's nice to Microby,"retorted the woman; "I s'pose 'cordin' to yo' idee, he'd ort to cussher an' kick her aroun'."
"Might be better in the long run, an' he did," opined the man,gloomily.
"Where's yo' manners at? Not sayin' 'howdy'?" reminded his wife.
"I be'n a-fixin' to," he apologized, "yo' lookin' mighty peart thismawnin'." A cry from the baby brought a torrent of recrimination uponthe apathetic husband: "Watts! Watts! Looks like yo' ort to could lookafter Chattenoogy Tennessee, that Microby Dandeline run off an' leftalone. Like's not she's et a nail thet yo' left a han'ful of on thefloor thet day yo' aimed fer to fix me a shelft."
"She never et no nail," confided the man, as he returned a momentlater carrying the infant. "She done fell out the do' an' them henswus apeckin' her. She's scairt wuss'n hurt."
"Well," smiled Patty. "I must go. Tell Microby to come up to my cabinright soon. I'd like to have a talk with her."
"Might an' yo' pa's claim 'ud be som'ers up the no'th branch,"suggested the woman. "He rid that-a-way sometimes, didn't he, Watts?"
"I'm not prospecting to-day. I'm going over to see the Samuelsons. Mr.Samuelson is sick."
"Law, yes! I be'n a-aimin' fer to git to go, this long while. I heernit a spell back, an' Mr. Christie done tol' us over again. They do sayhe's bad off. But yo' cain't never tell, they's hopes of 'em gittin'onto they feet agin right up 'til yo' hear the death rattle. Yo' tellMiz Samuelson I aim to git over soon's I kin. I'll bring along thebaby an' a batch o' sourdough bread, an' fix to stay a hull week.Watts'll hev to make out with Microby an' the rest. Yo' tell MizSamuelson I say not to git down in the mouth. They all got to dieanyhow. An' 'taint so bad, onct it's over an' done. But lots of 'emgits well, too. So they hain't no call to do no diggin' right up tothe death rattle--an' even then they don't allus die. Ol' man Rink,over on Tom's Hope, back in Tennessee, he rattled twict, an' come toboth times, an' then, couple days later, he up an' died on 'em 'thoutnary rattle. So yo' cain't never tell--men's thet ornery, even thebest of 'em."
Christie's prediction that Patty would like Mrs. Samuelson proved tobe conservative in the extreme. From the moment the slight gray-hairedlittle woman greeted her, the girl felt as though she were talking toan old friend. There was something pathetic in the old lady's cheerfuloptimism, something profoundly pathetic in the endeavor to transformher bit of wilderness into some semblance to the far-away home she hadknown in the long ago. And she had succeeded admirably. To cr
oss theSamuelson threshold was to step from the atmosphere of the cow-countryand the mountains into a region of comfort and quiet that contrastedsharply with the rough and ready air of the neighboring ranches. Thehouse itself was not large, but it was built of lumber, not logs. Thelong living room was provided with tastefully curtained casementwindows, and rugs of excellent quality took the place of theinevitable carpet upon the floor. A baby grand piano projected intothe room from its niche beside the huge log fireplace, and bookcases,guiltless of glass fronts, occupied convenient spaces along the wall,their shelves supporting row upon row of good editions. It was inthis room, looking as though she had stepped from an ivory miniature,that the mistress of the house greeted Patty.
"You are very welcome, my dear. Mr. Samuelson and I were deeplygrieved to hear the sad news of your father. We used to enjoy hisoccasional brief visits."
"How is Mr. Samuelson?" asked Patty, as she pressed the little woman'sthin, blue-veined hand.
"He seems better to-day."
The girl noted the hopeful tone of voice. "Is there anything I cando?" she asked.
"Not a thing, thank you. Mr. Samuelson sleeps a good part of the time,and Wong Yie is a wonderful nurse. But, come, you must have luncheon.I know you will want to refresh yourself after your long ride. Thebathroom is at the head of the stairs. I'll take a peep at my invalidand when you are ready we'll see what Wong Yie has for us."
Patty looked hungrily at the porcelain tub--"A real bathroom!" shebreathed, "out here in the mountains--and books, and a piano!"
Mrs. Samuelson awaited her at the foot of the stair and led the way tothe dining room. When she was seated at the round mahogany table shesmiled across at the old lady in frank appreciation.
"It seems like stepping right into fairyland," she said. "Like the oldstories when the heroes and heroines rubbed magic lamps, or steppedonto enchanted carpets and were immediately transported from theirmiserable hovels to castles of gold inhabited by beautiful princes andprincesses."
The old lady's eyes beamed: "I'm glad you like it!"
"Like it! That doesn't express it at all. Why, if you'd lived in anabandoned sheep camp for months and prepared your own meals on abroken stove, and eaten them all alone on a bumpy table covered with apiece of oilcloth, and taken your bath in an icy cold creek and thenonly on the darkest nights for fear someone were watching, and read afew magazines over and over 'til you knew even the advertisements byheart--then suddenly found yourself seated in a room like this, withreal china and silver, and comfortable chairs and a _luncheoncloth_--you'd think it was heaven."
Patty was aware that the old lady was smiling at her across the table."If I had lived like that for months, did you say? My dear girl, welived for years in that little shack--you can see it from where yousit--it's the tool house, now. Mr. Samuelson built it with his ownhands when there weren't a half-dozen white men in the hills, anduntil it was completed we lived in a tepee!"
"You've lived here a long time."
"Yes, a long, long time. I was the first white woman to come into thispart of the hill country to live. This was the first ranch to beestablished in the hills, but we have a good many neighbors now--andsuch nice neighbors! One never really appreciates friends andneighbors until a time--like this. Then one begins to know. A longtime ago, before I knew, I used to hate this place. Sometimes I usedto think I would go crazy, with the loneliness--the vastness of itall. I used to go home and make long visits every year, and then--thechildren came, and it was different." The woman paused and her eyesstrayed to the open window and rested upon the bold headland of amighty mountain that showed far down the valley.
"And--you love it, now?" Patty asked, softly, as she poured Frenchdressing over crisp lettuce leaves.
"Yes--I love it, now. After the children came it was all different. Inever want to leave the valley, now. I never shall leave it. I am anold woman, and my world has narrowed down to my home, and myvalley--my husband, and my friends and neighbors." She looked upguiltily, with a tiny little laugh. "Do you know, during those firstyears I must have been an awful fool. I used to loathe it all--loathethe country--the men, who ate in their shirt sleeves and blew intotheir saucers, and their women. It was the uprising that brought me toa realization of the true worth of these people--" The little woman'svoice trailed off into silence, and Patty glanced up from her salad tosee that the old eyes were once more upon the far blue headland, andthe woman's thoughts were evidently very far away. She came back tothe present with an apology: "Why bless you, child, forgive me! My oldwits were back-trailing, as the cowboys would say. You have finishedyour salad, come, let's go out onto the porch, where we can get theafternoon breeze and be comfortable." She led the way through theliving-room where she left the girl for a moment, to tiptoe upstairsfor a peep at the sick man. "He's asleep," she reported, as theystepped out onto the porch and settled themselves in comfortablewicker rockers.
"What was the uprising?" asked Patty. "Was it the Indians? I'd love tohear about it."
"Yes, the Indians. That was before they were on reservations and theywere scattered all through the hills."
A cowboy galloped to the porch, drew up sharply, and removed his hat."We rode through them horses that runs over on the east slope an'they're all right--leastways all the markers is there, an' the bunchesdon't look like they'd be'n any cut out of 'em. But, about them whitefaces--Lodgepole's most dried up. Looks like we'd ort to throw 'emover onto Sage Crick."
The little woman looked thoughtful. "Let's see, there are about sixhundred of the white faces, aren't there?"
"Yessum."
"And how long will the water last in Lodgepole?"
"Not more'n a week or ten days, if we don't git no rain."
"How long will it take to throw them onto Sage Creek?"
"Well, they hadn't ort to be crowded none this time o' year. The fourof us had ort to do it in three or four days."
The old lady shook her head. "No, the cattle will have to wait. Iwant you boys to stay right around close 'til you hear from VilHolland. Keep your best saddle horses up and at least one of you stayright here at the ranch all the time. The rest of you might ridefences, and you better take a look at those mares and colts in the bigpasture."
The cowboy's eyes twinkled: "I savvy, all right. Guess I'll take thebunk-house shift myself this afternoon. Got a couple extry guns toclean up an' oil a little."
"Whatever you do, you boys be careful," admonished the woman. "And incase anything happens and Vil Holland isn't here, send one of the boysafter him at once."
The other laughed: "Guess they ain't much danger, if anything happenshe won't be a-ridin' right on the head of it." The cowboy gathered uphis reins, dropped them again, and his gloved fingers fumbled with hisleather hat band. The smile had left his face.
"Anything else, Bill?" asked Mrs. Samuelson, noting his evidentreluctance to depart.
"Well, ma'am, how's the Big Boss gittin' on?"
"He's doing as well as could be expected, the doctor says."
The cowboy cleared his throat nervously: "You know, us boys thinks aheap of him, an' we'd like fer him to git a square deal."
"A square deal!" exclaimed the woman. "Why, what in the world do youmean?"
"About that there doc--d'you s'pect he savvys his business?"
"Of course he does! He's considered one of the best doctors in theState. Why do you ask?"
"Well, it's this way. When he was goin' back to town yesterday I laidfor him. You see, the Old Man--er, I mean--you know, ma'am, the BigBoss, he's a pretty sick man--an' it looks to us boys like things hadort to break pretty quick, one way er another. So, I says, 'Doc, how'she gittin' on?' an' the doc he says, jest like you done, 'good ascould be expected.' When you come right down to cases, that don't tellyou nothin'. So I says, 'that's 'cordin' to who's doin' the expectin'.What we want to know,' I says, 'is he goin' to git well, er is hegoin' to die?' 'I confidently hope we're going to pull him through,'he comes back. 'Meanin', he's goin' to git well?' I says. 'Ye
s,' hesays. 'Fer how much?' I asks him. I didn't have but thirty-fivedollars on me, but I shook that in under his nose. You see, I wantedto find out if the fellow would back his own self up with his money.'What do you mean?' he says. 'I mean,' I informs him, 'that moneytalks. Here's the Missus payin' you good wages fer to cure up the OldMan. You goin' to do it, an' earn them wages, or ain't you? Here'sthirty-five dollars that says you can't cure him.'"
The corners of the old lady's mouth were twitching behind thehandkerchief she held to her lips: "What did the doctor say?" sheasked.
"Tried to laugh it off," declared the cowboy in disgust. "But Ireminds him that this here ain't no laughin' matter. 'D'you s'pose,' Isays, 'if the Old Man told me: "Bill, there's a bad colt to bust," or"Bill, go over onto Monte's Crick, an' bring back them two-year-olds,"do you s'pose I wouldn't bet I could do it? They's plenty of us hereto do all the "confidently hopin'" that's needed. What you got to dois to git busy with them pills an' make him well,' I says, 'or quitan' let someone take holt that kin.'" The man paused and regarded thewoman seriously. "What I'm gittin' at is this: If this here doc ain'tgot confidence enough in his own dope to back it with a bet, it's timewe got holt of one that will. Now, ma'am, you better let me send oneof Jack Pierce's kids to town to see Len Christie an' tell him to gitthe best doc out here they is. I'll write a note to Len on the sidean' tell him to tell the doc he kin about double his wages, 'cause therest of the boys feels just like I do, an' we'll all bet agin him so'tit'll be worth his while to make a good job of it." He paused,awaiting permission to carry out his plan.
The little woman explained gravely: "Doctors never bet on their cases,Bill. It isn't that they won't back their judgment. But because itisn't considered proper. Doctor Mallory is doing all any mortal mancan do. He's a wonderfully good doctor, and it was Len Christie,himself, that recommended him."
The cowboy's eyes lighted: "It was? Well, then, mebbe he's all right.I never had no time fer preachers 'til I know'd Len. But, what he saysgoes with me--he's square. I don't go much on no doctor, though.They're all right fer women, mebbe, an' kids. I believe all the OldMan needs right now to fix him up good as ever is a big stiff jolt ofwhisky an' bitters." The cowboy rode away, muttering and shaking hishead, but not until he was well out of sight round the corner of thehouse did the little woman with the gray hair smile.
"I hope Doctor Mallory will understand," she said, a trifleanxiously, "I have some rather trying experiences with my boys, and ifBill has gone and insulted the doctor I'll have to get Jack Pierce togo to town and explain."
"This Bill seems to just adore Mr. Samuelson," ventured Patty. "Whyhis voice was almost--almost reverent when he said 'the Old Man.'"
The little lady nodded: "Yes, Bill thinks there's no one like him. Yousee, Bill shot a man, one day when--he was not quite himself. Over inthe Blackfoot country, it was, and Vil Holland knew the facts in thecase, and he rode over and told Mr. Samuelson all about it, and theyboth went and talked it over with the prosecuting attorney, and withold Judge Nevers, with the result that they agreed to give the boy achance. So Mr. Samuelson brought him here. That was five years ago.Bill is foreman of this outfit now, and our other three riders areboys that were headed the same way Bill was. Vil Holland brought oneof them over, and Bill and Mr. Samuelson picked up the other two--and,if I do say it myself," she declared, proudly, "there isn't an outfitin Montana that can boast a more capable or loyal, or a straighterquartet of riders than this one."
As Patty listened she understood something of what was behind thewords of Thompson and Len Christie, when they had spoken that day of"Old Man" Samuelson. But, there was something she did not understand.And that something was--Vil Holland. Everybody liked him, everybodyspoke well of him, and apparently everybody but herself trusted himimplicitly. And yet, to her own certain knowledge, he did carry a jug,he did follow her about the hills, and he did tell her to her facethat when she found her father's claim she would have a race on herhands, and that if she were beaten she would have to be satisfied withwhat she would get.
But Vil Holland, his comings and his goings were soon forgotten in theabsorbing interest with which Patty listened as her little gray-hairedhostess recounted incidents and horrors of the Indian uprising, thefirst sporadic depredations, the coming of the troops, and finally theforcing of the belligerent tribes onto their reservations.
It had been Patty's intention to ride back to her cabin in theevening, but Mrs. Samuelson would not hear of it. And, indeed the girldid not insist, for despite the fact that she had become thoroughlyaccustomed to her surroundings, the anticipation of a dinner preparedand served by the highly efficient Wong Yie, in the tastefullyappointed dining room, with its real silver and china, provedsufficiently attractive to overcome even her impatience to begin theworking out of her father's map. And the realization fully justifiedthe anticipation. When the meal was finished the two women had talkedthe long evening away before the cheerful blaze of the wood fire, andwhen at last she was shown to her room, the girl retired to luxuriatein a real bed of linen sheets and a box mattress.