Part 15 (2/2)
”Which proves pretty conclusively that there must have been more than two,” was Ballard's deduction, when they were again pus.h.i.+ng cautiously down the inner valley toward its junction with the great canyon. ”But why should two, or a dozen of them, fire on us in the dark? How could they know whether we were friends or enemies?”
Bigelow's quiet laugh had a touch of grimness in it.
”Your Elbow Canyon mysteries have broken bounds,” he suggested. ”Your staff should include an expert psychologist, Mr. Ballard.”
Ballard's reply was belligerent. ”If we had one, I'd swap him for a section of mounted police,” he declared; and beyond that the narrow trail in the cliff-walled gorge of the Boiling Water forbade conversation.
Three hours farther down the river trail, when the summer dawn was paling the stars in the narrow strip of sky overhead, the perpendicular walls of the great canyon gave back a little, and looking past the water-boy guide, Ballard saw an opening marking the entrance of a small tributary stream from the north; a little green oasis in the vast desert of frowning cliffs and tumbled boulders, with a log cabin and a tiny corral nestling under the portal rock of the smaller stream.
”h.e.l.lo!” said Bigelow, breaking the silence in which they had been riding for the greater part of the three hours, ”what's this we are coming to?”
Ballard was about to pa.s.s the query on to the boy when an armed man in the flapped hat and overalls of a range rider stepped from behind a boulder and barred the way. There was a halt, an exchange of words between young Carson and the flap-hatted trail-watcher in tones so low as to be inaudible to the others, and the armed one faced about, rather reluctantly, it seemed, to lead the way to the cabin under the cliff.
At the dismounting before the cabin door, the boy cleared away a little of the mystery.
”This yere is whar I live when I'm at home,” he drawled, lapsing by the influence of the propinquity into the Tennessee idiom which was his birthright. ”Pap'll get ye your breakfas' while I'm feedin' the bronc's.”
Ballard glanced quickly at his guest and met the return glance of complete intelligence in the steady gray eyes of the Forestry man. The cabin and the corral in the secluded canyon were sufficiently accounted for. But one use could be made of a stock enclosure in such an inaccessible mountain fastness. The trail station in the heart of the Boiling Water wilderness was doubtless the headquarters of the ”rustlers” who lived by preying upon the King of Arcadia's flocks and herds.
”Your allies in the little war against Colonel Craigmiles,” said Bigelow, and there was something like a touch of mild reproach in his low tone when he added: ”Misery isn't the only thing that 'acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.'”
”Apparently not,” said Ballard; and they went together into the kitchen half of the cabin which was built, in true Tennessee fas.h.i.+on, as ”two pens and a pa.s.sage.”
The welcome accorded them by the sullen-faced man who was already frying rashers of bacon over the open fire on the hearth was not especially cordial. ”Mek' ye an arm and re'ch for yerselves,” was his sole phrase of hospitality, when the bacon and pan-bread were smoking on the huge hewn slab which served for a table; and he neither ate with his guests nor waited upon them, save to refill the tin coffee cups as they were emptied.
Neither of the two young men stayed longer than they were obliged to in the dirty, leather-smelling kitchen. There was freedom outside, with the morning world of fresh, zestful immensities for a smoking-room; and when they had eaten, they went to sit on a flat rock by the side of the little stream to fill and light their pipes, Ballard crumbling the cut-plug and stoppering the pipe for his crippled companion.
”How is the bullet-gouge by this time?” he questioned, when the tobacco was alight.
”It's pretty sore, and no mistake,” Bigelow acknowledged frankly.
Whereupon Ballard insisted upon taking the bandages off and re-dressing the wound, with the crystal-clear, icy water of the mountain stream for its cleansing.
”It was a sheer piece of idiocy on my part--letting you come on with me after you got this,” was his verdict, when he had a daylight sight of the bullet score. ”But I don't mean to be idiotic twice in the same day,” he went on. ”You're going to stay right here and keep quiet until we come along back and pick you up, late this afternoon.”
Bigelow made a wry face.
”Nice, cheerful prospect,” he commented. ”The elder cattle thief isn't precisely one's ideal of the jovial host. By the way, what was the matter with him while we were eating breakfast? He looked and acted as if there were a sick child in some one of the dark corners which he was afraid we might disturb.”
Ballard nodded. ”I was wondering if you remarked it. Did you hear the sick baby?”
”I heard noises--besides those that Carson was so carefully making with the skillet and the tin plates. The room across the pa.s.sage from us wasn't empty.”
”That was my guess,” rejoined Ballard, pulling thoughtfully at his short pipe. ”I heard voices and tramplings, and, once in a while, something that sounded remarkably like a groan--or an oath.”
Bigelow nodded in his turn. ”More of the mysteries, you'd say; but this time they don't especially concern us. Have you fully made up your mind to leave me here while you go on down to the railroad? Because if you have, you and the boy will have to compel my welcome from the old robber: I'd never have the face to ask him for a whole day's hospitality.”
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