Part 6 (1/2)
I waited there for some little time. Then I saw that by squeezing between two plies of lumber could reach the other side of the platform.
When I reached the railing I climbed over, and, with the help of braces and posts, soon got to where I could drop down. Once on the ground I ran along under the platform until I saw a lane that led to the street. My one thought was to reach the cabin where the Negro cook stayed and ask him if d.i.c.k Leslie had come to camp. If he had not arrived, then I intended to make a bee-line for my mustang.
VI. d.i.c.k LESLIE, RANGER
Which end of the street I entered I had no idea. The cabins were all alike, and in my hurry I would have pa.s.sed the cook's shack had it not been for the sight of a man standing in the door. That stalwart figure I would have known anywhere.
”d.i.c.k!” I cried, rus.h.i.+ng at him.
What d.i.c.k's welcome was I did not hear, but judging from the grip he put on my shoulders and then on my hands, he was glad to see me.
”Ken, blessed if I'd have known you,” he said, shoving me back at arm's-length. ”Let's have a look at you.... Grown I say, but you're a husky lad!”
While he was looking at me I returned the scrutiny with interest. d.i.c.k had always been big, but now he seemed wider and heavier. Among these bronzed Westerners he appeared pale, but that was only on account of his fair skin.
”Ken, didn't you get my letter--the one telling you not to come West yet a while?”
”No,” I replied, blankly. ”The last one I got was in May--about the middle. I have it with me. You certainly asked me to come then. d.i.c.k, don't you want me--now?”
Plain it was that my friend felt uncomfortable; he s.h.i.+fted from one foot to another, and a cloud darkened his brow. But his blue eyes burned with a warm light as he put his hand on my shoulder.
”Ken, I'm glad to see you,” he said, earnestly. ”It's like getting a glimpse of home. But I wrote you not to come. Conditions have changed--there's something doing here--I'll--”
”You needn't explain, d.i.c.k,” I replied, gravely. ”I know. Buell and--” I waved my hand from the sawmill to the encircling slash.
d.i.c.k's face turned a fiery red. I believed that was the only time d.i.c.k Leslie ever failed to look a fellow in the eye.
”Ken!... You're on,” he said, recovering his composure. ”Well, wait till you hear--h.e.l.lo! here's Jim Williams, my pardner.”
A clinking of spurs accompanied a soft step.
”Jim, here's Ken Ward, the kid pardner I used to have back in the States,” said d.i.c.k. ”Ken, you know Jim.”
If ever I knew anything by heart it was what d.i.c.k had written me about this Texan, Jim Williams.
”Ken, I sh.o.r.e am glad to see you,” drawled Jim, giving my hand a squeeze that I thought must break every bone in it.
Though Jim Williams had never been described to me, my first sight of him fitted my own ideas. He was tall and spare; his weather-beaten face seemed set like a dark mask; only his eyes moved, and they had a quivering alertness and a brilliancy that made them hard to look into.
He wore a wide sombrero, a blue flannel s.h.i.+rt with a double row of big b.u.t.tons, overalls, top-boots with very high heels, and long spurs. A heavy revolver swung at his hip, and if I had not already known that Jim Williams had fought Indians and killed bad men, I should still have seen something that awed me in the look of him.
I certainly felt proud to be standing with those two rangers, and for the moment Buell and all his crew could not have daunted me.
”h.e.l.lo! what's this?” inquired d.i.c.k, throwing back my coat; and, catching sight of my revolver, he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed: ”Ken Ward!”
”Wal, Ken, if you-all ain't packin' a gun!” said Jim, in his slow, careless drawl. ”d.i.c.k, he sh.o.r.e is!”
It was now my turn to blush.
”Yes, I've got a gun,” I replied, ”and I ought to have had it the other night.”