Part 18 (2/2)
The girl kissed the old lady and pa.s.sed out. The doctor stood for a moment on his doorstep gazing after her.
”Poor child--poor child!” he murmured. ”Yes, she'll find him--I saw him home myself,” And he broke off with an expressive shrug.
CHAPTER XI
THE CAMPAIGN OPENS
The summit of a hill, however insignificant its alt.i.tude, is always an inspiring vantage point from which to survey the surrounding world.
There is a briskness of atmosphere on a hilltop which is inspiriting to the most jaded of faculties; there is a sparkling vitality in the breath of the morning air which must ever make life a joy and the world seem an inexpressible delight in which it is the acme of happiness to dwell.
The exigencies of prairie life demand the habit of early rising, and more often does the tiny human atom, which claims for its home the vast tracts of natural pasture, gaze upon the sloth of the orb of day than does that glorious sphere smile down upon a sleeping world.
Far as the eye can reach stretch the mighty wastes of waving gra.s.s--the undulating plains of ravis.h.i.+ng verdure. What breadth of thought must thus be inspired in one who gazes out across the boundless expanse at the glories of a perfect sunrise? How insignificant becomes the petty affairs of man when gazing upon the majesty of G.o.d's handiwork. How utterly inconceivable becomes the a.s.sociation of evil with such transcendently beautiful creation? Surely no evil was intended to lurk in the shadow of so much simple splendor.
And yet does the ghastly specter of crime haunt the perfect plains, the majestic valleys, the noiseless, inspiring pine woods, the glistening, snow-capped hills. And so it must remain as long as the battle of life continues undecided--so long as the struggle for existence endures.
The Hon. Bunning-Ford rose while yet the daylight was struggling to overcome the shades of night. He stood upon the tiny veranda which fronted his minute house, smoking his early morning cigarette. He was waiting for his coffee--that stimulating beverage which few who have lived in the wilds of the West can do without--and idly luxuriating in the wondrous charm of scene which was spread out before him. ”Lord” Bill was not a man of great poetic mind, but he appreciated his adopted country--”G.o.d's country,” as he was wont to call it--as can only those who have lived in it. The prairie had become part of his very existence, and he loved to contemplate the varying lights and colors which moved athwart the fresh spring-clad plains as the sun rose above the eastern horizon.
The air was chill, but withal invigorating, as he watched the steely blue of the daylit sky slowly give place to the rosy tint of sunrise.
Slowly at first--then faster--great waves of golden light seemed to leap from the top of one green rising ground to another; the gray white of the snowy western mountains pa.s.sed from one dead shade to another, until, at last, they gleamed like alabaster from afar with a diamond brilliancy almost painful to the eye. Thus the sun rose like some mighty caldron of fire mounting into the cloudless azure of a perfect sky, showering unctuous rays of light and heat upon the chilled life that was of its own creating.
Bill was still lost in thought, gazing out upon the perfect scene from the vantage point of the hill upon which his ”shack” stood, when round the corner of the house came a half-breed, bearing a large tin pannikin of steaming coffee. He took the pannikin from the man and propped himself against a post which helped to support the roof of the veranda.
”Are the boys out yet?” he asked the waiting Breed, and nodding towards the corrals, which reposed at the foot of the hill and were overlooked by the house.
”I guess,” the fellow replied laconically. Then, as an afterthought, ”They're getting breakfast, anyhow.”
”Say, when they've finished their grub you can tell 'em to turn to and lime out the sheds. I'm going in to the settlement to-day. If I'm not back to-night let them go right on with the job to-morrow.”
The man signified his understanding of the instructions with a grunt.
This cook of ”Lord” Bill's was not a man of words. His vocation had induced an irascibility of temper which took the form of silence. His was an incipient misanthropy.
Bill returned the empty pannikin and strolled down towards the corrals and sheds. The great barn lay well away from where the cattle congregated. This ranch was very different from that of the Allandales of Foss River. It was some miles away from the settlement. Its surroundings were far more open. Timber backed the house, it is true, but in front was the broad expanse of the open plains. It was an excellent position, and, governed by a thrifty hand, would undoubtedly have thrived and ultimately vied with the more elaborate establishment over which Jacky held sway. As it was, however, Bill cared little for prosperity and money-making, and though he did not neglect his property he did not attempt to extend its present limits.
The milch cows were slowly mouching from the corrals as he neared the sheds. A diminutive herder was urging them along with shrill, piping shrieks--vicious but ineffective. Far more to the purpose were the efforts to a well-trained, bob-tailed sheep dog who was awaking echoes on the brisk morning air with the full-toned note of his bark.
”Lord” Bill found one or two hands quietly enjoying their after-breakfast smoke, but the majority had not as yet left the kitchen.
Outside the barn two men were busily soft-soaping their saddles and bridles, whilst a third, seated on an upturned box, was wiping out his revolver with a coal-oil rag. Bill pa.s.sed them by with a nod and greeting, and went into the stable. The horses were feeding, but as yet the stalls had not been cleaned out. He returned and gave some instructions to one of the men. Then he walked slowly back to the house.
Usually he would have stayed down there to see the work of the day carried out; now, however, he was preoccupied. On this particular morning he took but little interest in the place; he knew only too well how soon it must pa.s.s from his possession.
Half-way up the hill he paused and turned his sleepy eyes towards the south. At a considerable distance a vehicle was approaching at a spanking pace. It was a buckboard, one of those st.u.r.dy conveyances built especially for light prairie transport. As yet it was not sufficiently near for him to distinguish its occupant, but the speed and cut of the horses seemed familiar to him. He continued on towards the house, and seated himself leisurely on the veranda, and, rolling himself another cigarette, calmly watched the on-coming conveyance.
It was the habit of this man never to be prodigal in the display of energy. He usually sat when there was no need for standing; he always considered speech to be golden, but silence, to his way of thinking, was priceless. And like most men of such opinion he cultivated thought and observation.
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