Part 25 (1/2)
”I not sabe 'bally,' me,” answered the Indian.
The pink King Georgeman looked puzzled.
”He means he doesn't understand what 'bally' is,” explained Banty.
Con laughed. ”Tell him that _I'm_ 'bally,' in these clothes; he'll grasp then what a fearful thing 'bally' means.”
It was that remark, ”poking fun” at his own appearance, that thoroughly won Banty's loyalty to his cousin from over seas. A chap that could openly laugh and jeer at his own peculiarities must surely be a good sort, so forthwith Banty pitched in heart and soul to arrange all kinds of excursions and adventures, and The Eena planned and suggested, until it seemed that all the weeks stretching out into the holiday months were to be one long round of sport and pleasure in honor of the lanky King Georgeman, who was so anxious to fall easily into the ways of the West.
Just as The Eena predicted, Con proved an able fisherman and excellent ”trailsman.” He could stay in the saddle for hours, could go without food or sleep, had the endurance of a horse and the good nature of a big romping kitten. He was generous and unselfish, but with a spontaneous English temper that blazed forth whenever he saw the weak wronged or the timid terrified.
”I'll never make a really good hunter, Eena,” he regretted one day, ”I can't bear to gallop on a big cayuse after a little scared jack rabbit, and run him down and kill him when he's so little and doesn't try to fight me with his claws or fangs like a lynx will do. It's not a fair deal.”
”But when one camps many leagues from the ranch house, one must eat,”
observed the Indian.
”Yes, that's the pity of it,” agreed Con, ”but it seems to me a poor sort of game to play at.”
Nevertheless he did his part towards providing food when they all went camping up in the timberline in August, and frequently he, Banty and the Indian would go out by themselves on a three or four days' expedition away from the main camp, ”grubbing” themselves and living the lives of semi-savages. And it was upon one of these adventures that the three got separated in some way, Banty and the Indian reaching camp a little before sunset, and waiting in vain for Con's appearance while the hours slipped by, and they called and shouted, and fired innumerable shots thinking to guide him campwards, while they little knew that all the gold in British Columbia could not have brought Con's feet to enter that little tent for many days to come; that with all his newborn affection for Banty, Con would make him most unwelcome should chance bring them face to face again.
II
It happened so strangely, so quickly, that Con gave himself no time to think. They had been trailing a caribou, just for sport, for the hunting season was closed, and Con struck into the wrong trail on the return journey. Thinking to overtake the others, he worked his cayuse hard, galloping on and on until the hills and canyons began to look unfamiliar. Feeling that he was lost, he fired his gun, once, twice.
Far down in the valley came a response, so he loped down the winding trail until he suddenly came upon a little shack surrounded by fields of alfalfa, and a few cattle grazing along a creek.
As he neared the ranch a shot was fired from the shack window, he jerked his animal up shortly, and was about to wheel and gallop back, when a pitiful groan reached his ears, and a man's voice begged: ”Water, water, for the love of heaven bring me water!” Then, unfamiliar as Con was to Western life, instinct told him that the revolver shot was meant to call him to some one's aid.
”Coming,” he shouted, slipping from his saddle, ”buck up, I'll fetch water,” but before he could enter the door, a terrible, repulsive face was lifted to the window, and the man almost shrieked:
”Don't come in, don't, I say; just hand me some water from the creek.
I'm too weak to walk.”
”Of course I'm coming in,” blurted Con, indignantly. ”Why, man, you're dead sick!”
”Don't!” choked the man; ”oh, boy, don't come near me, _I've got smallpox_.”
For one brief second Con stood, stiff with horror. ”Who's with you, helping you, nursing you?” he demanded.
”No one, I'm alone, alone; oh! water, water,” moaned the man.
Con flung open the door. There was no hesitation, no fear, no thought of self; just a great human pity in his fair young face, and a wonderful tenderness in his strong young arms as he lifted the loathsome sufferer from the floor where he had fallen in his weakness, after crawling to the window in that last, almost hopeless effort to call a.s.sistance.
On the soiled and tumbled bed he laid the man, who still shrieked: ”Go away, go away, you're crazy to come in here!” Then without a word of even kindly encouragement the boy seized a bucket and dashed down to the creek. ”It's water, not words, he wants now,” he said to himself, running back, and in another moment his good right arm was slipping under the sick man's shoulders, and he was lifting him up and holding to the fever-cracked lips a cup of gloriously cold water.
”Bless you! The dear good G.o.d himself bless you! But, oh, boy, go away, go away!” murmured the man, weakly.
”Go away and leave you here alone, perhaps to die? And then have to face my parents and Banty and The Eena, and--and England again and tell what I've done? Not I!” cried the boy, indignantly. ”Look at this shack, the state it's in; look at you. How did you come to be here alone?”
”I had a pardner, but he left me, just skinned out, when he suspected what I had,” said the man, hopelessly. It was then that Con burst forth in that quick flas.h.i.+ng English temper that was always aroused at the sight of injustice, of unmanliness, or of underhand dealings. He was so furious that he took his temper out in cleaning up the shack, and cooking some soft foods for the patient, and every time the wretched man begged him to go away he got so indignant and abusive that the sick one finally laughed outright, thereby lifting them both out of the depths of grey despair.