*CHAPTER VI*
_*Farewell to Baker City*_
We all came to our feet then, Apache Kid carefully flicking the sandfrom his clothing.
"Now," he said, "that settles us. We 're quits." And we all walkedslowly and silently back in company toward the city. When we came toBlaine's "coffee-joint" Apache Kid stopped, and told me he would see melater in the evening at the Laughlin House to arrange about the startingout on our venture. Donoghue wanted him to go on with him, but ApacheKid said he must see Blaine again before leaving the city.
"I desire to leave a good impression of myself behind me," he said witha laugh. "I should like Blaine to feel sorry to hear of my demise whenthat occurs, and as things stand I don't think he 'd care, to use thelanguage of the country, a continental cuss."
So saying, with a wave of his hand, he entered Blaine's.
At Baker Street corner Donoghue stopped.
"I 'll be seeing you two days from now," he said.
"Do we not start for two days then?" I asked.
"O, Apache Kid will see you to-night and make all the arrangements aboutpulling out. So-long, just now."
So I went on to my hotel and, thus rescued from poverty on the very daythat I had the first taste of it, I felt very much contented andcheered, and it was with a light and hopeful heart that I wandered out,after my unusually late supper, along the waggon road as far as thefoothill woods and back, breathing deep of the thin air of night andrejoicing in the starlight.
When I returned to the hotel there was a considerable company upon therear verandah, as I could see from quite a distance--dim, shadowy formssprawled in the lounge chairs with the yellow-lit and open door behindshining out on the blue night, and over them was the lamp that alwayshung there in the evenings, where the parrot's cage hung by day.
When I came on to the verandah I picked out Apache Kid at once.
A man who evidently did not know him was saying:
"What do you wear that kerchief for, sir, hanging away down your neckthat way?"
There were one or two laughs of other men, who thought they were aboutto see a man quietly baited. But Apache Kid was not the man to standmuch baiting, even of a mild stamp.
I think few of the men there, however, understood the nature thatprompted him when he turned slowly in his chair and said:
"Well, sir, I wear it for several reasons."
"Oh! What's them?"
"Well, the first reason is personal--I like to wear it."
There was a grin still on the face of the questioner. He found nothingparticularly crushing in this reply, but Apache went on softly: "Thenagain, I wear it so as to aid me in the study of the character of themen I meet."
"O! How do you work that miracle?"
"Well, when I meet a man who does n't seem to see anything strange in mywearing of the kerchief I know he has travelled a bit and seen the likeelsewhere in our democratic America. Other men look at it and I can seethey think it odd, but they say nothing. Well, that is a sign to methat they have not travelled where the handkerchief is used in this way,but I know that they are gentlemen all the same."
There was a slight, a very slight, exulting note in his voice and I sawthe faces of the men on the outside of the crowd turn to observe thespeaker. I thought the man who had set this ball a-rolling looked atrifle perturbed, but Apache was not looking at him. He lay back in hischair, gazing before him with a calm face. "Then again," he saidleisurely, as though he had the whole night to himself, "if I meet a manwho sees it and asks why I wear it, I know that he is the sort of manabout whom people say here,--in the language of the country,--'Don'tworry about him; he 's a hog from Ontario and never been out of the bushbefore!'"
There was a strained silence after these words. Some of the moreself-reliant men broke it with a laugh. The most were silent.
"I'm a hog--eh? You call me a hog?" cried the man, after looking on thefaces of those who sat around. I think he would have swallowed ApacheKid's speech without a word of reply had it not been spoken before solarge an audience.
"I did not say so," said Apache Kid, "but if I were you, I would n'tmake things worse by getting nasty. I tried to josh a man myself thisafternoon, and do you know what I did? I called in on him to-night tosee whether he had savveyed that I had been trying to josh him. I foundout that he had savveyed, and do you know what I did? I apologised tohim----"
"D' ye think I 'm going to apologise for askin' you that question?"
"You interrupt me," said Apache Kid. "I apologised to him, I was goingto say, like a man. As to whether I think you are going to apologise ornot--no."
He turned and scrutinised the speaker from head to toe and back again.
"No," he repeated decidedly. "I should be very much surprised if youdid."
"By Moses!" cried the man. "You take the thing very seriously. I onlyasked you----" and his voice grumbled off into incoherence.
"Yes," said Apache Kid. "I have a name for being very serious. PerhapsI did answer your question at too great length, however."
He turned for another scrutiny of his man, and broke out with such apeal of laughter, as he looked at him, that every one else followedsuit; and the "josher," with a crestfallen look, rose and went indoors.
I was still smiling when Apache Kid came over to me.
"Could you be ready to go out to-morrow at noon on the Kettle River Gapstage?" he asked quietly.
"Certainly," said I. "We don't start from here, then?"
"No. That's to say, we don't leave the haunts of men here. It isbetter not, for our purpose. Have you seen Canlan to-night?"
I told him no, but that I had been out for my evening constitutional andnot near the city.
"He does n't seem to be at this hotel to-night. I must go out and tryto rub shoulders with him if he's in town. If I see him anywhere aroundtown, I may not come back here to-night. If I don't see him, I 'll lookin here later in the hope of rubbing against him. So if you don't seeme again to-night, you 'll understand. To-morrow at noon, the KettleRiver Gap stage."
But neither Apache Kid nor Canlan put in an appearance all evening, andso I judged that elsewhere my friend had "rubbed against" Canlan.
I was astonished to find on the morrow that I had, somewhere within me,a touch of fondness for Baker City, after all, despitefully though ithad used me.
"You should stay on a bit yet," said Mrs. Laughlin, when I told her Iwas going. "You can't expect just to fall into a good job right away onstriking a new town."
"I should never have come here," I explained, "had it not been that Ihad a letter to a gentleman who was once in the city. The fact is, mypeople at home did not like the thought of me going out on speck, andthe only man in the country I knew was in Baker City. But he had movedon before I arrived."
"And where do you think of going now?" she asked.
I evaded a direct answer, and yet answered truthfully:
"Where I wanted to go was into a ranching country. Mining never took myfancy. I believe there are some ranches on the Kettle River."
"Oh, a terrible life!" she cried out. "They 're a tough lot, themKettle River boys. They 're mostly all fellows that have beencattle-punching and horse-wrangling all their lives. They come fromother parts where the country is getting filled up with grangers andsheepmen. I reckon it's because they feel kind o' angry at their job inlife being kind o' took from them by the granger and the sheepmen thatthey 're so tough. Oh! they 're a tough lot; and they 've got to be, tohold their own. Why, only the other day there a flock o' sheep camealong on the range across the Kettle. There was three shepherds withthem, and a couple of Colonel Ney's boys out and held them up. Thesheep-herders shot one, and the other went home for the other boys, allrunning blood from another shot, and back they went, and laid out themthree shepherds--just laid them out, my boy (d'ye hear?)--and ran thewhole flock o' sheep over into a canon one atop the other. Ney and therest only wants me
n that can look after their rights that way----"
How long she might have continued, kindly enough, to seek to dissuademe, I do not know. But I was forced to interrupt her and remind her Ishould lose the stage.
"Yes," she said, "I might just have kept my mouth shut and saved mybreath. You lads is all the same. But mind what I say," she cried afterme, "you should stay on here and rustle yourself a good job. You 'rejust going away to 'get it in the neck.' Maybe you 'll come back hereagain, sick and sorry. But seein' you 're going, God bless you, my lad!"and I was astonished to see her green eyes moist, and a soft, tenderlight on her lean, freckled face.
"So-long, then, lad, and good luck to you," said her better half. "Ifyou strike into Baker City again--don't forget the Laughlin House."
I was already in the street, half turning to hear their parting words,and with a final wave I departed, and (between you and me) there was alump in my throat, and I thought that the Laughlin House was not such abad sort of place at all to tarry in.
In Baker Street, at the very corner, I saw Apache Kid advancing towardme, but he frowned to me and, when he raised his hand to his mouth toremove his cigar, for a brief moment he laid a finger on his lip, and ashe passed me, looking on the ground and walking slowly, he said: "You goaboard the stage yourself and go on."
There was no time to say more in passing, and I wondered what might bethe meaning of this. But when I came to where the stage-coach stood,there was Canlan among the little knot of idlers who were watching itpreparing for the road. He saw me when I climbed aboard, and, steppingforward, held out his hand. "Hullo, kid," he said, "pulling out?"
"Yes," said I.
"Goin' to pastures green?"
I nodded.
"Well, I want to thank you. I bin keepin' my eyes open for you sincethat night. I want to thank you for that service you done me. Any timeyou want a----" but I did not catch his last words. The driver hadmounted the box, gathered up the "ribbons," sprung back the brake, andwith a sudden leap forward we were off in a whirl of dust. I nodded myhead vigorously to Canlan, glad enough to see that he was only anxiousto be friendly and to thank me for the service I had rendered himinstead of embarrassing me with questions as to my destination.
Away we went along Baker Street and shot out of the town, and there,just at the turning of the road, was Apache Kid by the roadside, and hestood aside to let the horses pass. The driver looked over his shoulderto make sure that he got on safely, but there was no need to stop thehorses, for with a quick snatch Apache Kid leapt aboard and sat down,hot, and breathing a little short, beside me.