Tom pushed on ahead to reconnoiter the Upper Spring
[Page [262]]
"Bring Me His Ears"
By CLARENCE E. MULFORD
Author of
"Bar 20," "Bar 20 Days," "Bar 20-Three," "Buck Peters,
Ranchman," "The Coming of Cassidy," "Hopalong Cassidy,"
"Johnny Nelson," "The Man from Bar 20," "Tex," etc.
A.L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with A.C. McClurg & Co.
Printed in U.S.A.
Copyright A.C. McClurg & Co. 1922
Published October, 1922
Copyrighted in Great Britain
Printed in the United States of America
"Bring Me His Ears"
CHAPTER I
The tall, lanky Missourian leaning against the corner of a ramshackle saloon on Locust Street, St. Louis, Missouri—the St. Louis of the early forties—turned his whiskey-marked face toward his companion, a short and slender Mexican trader, sullenly listening to the latter's torrent of words, which was accompanied by many and excitable gesticulations. The Missourian shook his head in reply to the accusations of his companion.
"But he was on thee boat weeth us!" exclaimed the other. "An' you lose heem—lak theese!" the sharp snap of his fingers denoted magic.
"Thar ain't no use o' gittin' riled," replied Schoolcraft. "How in tarnation kin a man keep th' trail o' a slippery critter like him in these yere crowds? I'll git sight o' him, right yere."
"That ees w'at you say," rejoined the Mexican, shrugging his shoulders. "But w'at weel I say to le Gobernador? Theese hombre Tomaz Boyd—he know vera many t'eengs—too vera many t'eengs—an' he ensult le Gobernador. Madre de Dios—sooch ensult!" He shivered at the thought. "W'en I get thee message, I tr-remble! It say 'Br-ring heem to me—or breeng me his ears!' I am tol' to go to Señor Schoolcr-raft at Eendependence—he ees thee man. I go; an' then you lose heem! Bah! You do not know theese Manuel Armijo, le Gobernador de Santa Fe, my fren'—I tr-remble!"
"You need a good swig, that's what you need," growled Schoolcraft. "An' if ye warn't a chuckle-head," he said with a flash of anger, "we wouldn't 'a' come yere at all; I told ye he's got th' prairie fever an' shore would come back to Independence, whar I got friends; but no—we had ter foller him!" He spat emphatically. "Thar warn't no sense to it, nohow!"
The other waved his arms. "But w'y we stan' here, lak theese? W'y you do no'teeng?"
"Now you look a-here, Pedro," growled the Missourian, his sullen gaze passing up and down the slender Mexican. "Ye don't want ter use no spurs on this critter. I ain't no greaser! If ye'll hold them arms still fer a minute I'll tell ye somethin'. Thar's three ways o' gittin' a deer: one is trailin'—which we've found ain't no good; another is layin' low near a runway—which is yer job; th' third is watchin' th' salt lick—which is my job. You go down ter th' levee, git cached among them piles o' freight an' keep a lookout on th' landin' stage o' th' Belle. I'll stick right yere on this corner an' watch th' lick, which is Hawkens' gun store. He lost his pistol overboard, comin' down th' river, didn't he? An' th' Belle ain't sailin' till arter ten o'clock, is she? One o' us is bound ter git sight o' him, fer he'll shore go back by th' river; an' if thar's any place in this town whar a plainsman'll go, it's that gun store, down th' street. You do what I say, or you an' Armijo kin go plumb ter hell! An' don't ye wave yer fists under my nose no more, Pedro; I might misunderstand ye."
The Mexican's face brightened. "Eet ees good, vera good, Señor Schoolcraft. Hah! You have thee br-rains, my fren'. Armijo, he say: 'Pedro, get heem to Santa Fe, if you can. If you can't, then keel heem, an' breeng me hees ears.' Bueno! I go, señor. I go pronto. Buena dia!"
"Then git," growled Schoolcraft. "Thar's that long-faced clerk o' Hawkens' openin' th' shop. Now remember: this side o' th' junction o' th' Oregon trail I'm only ter watch him. If he goes southwest from th' junction, yer job begins; if he heads up fer th' Platte, my job starts. I ain't got no love fer him, but I'm hopin' he heads fer Oregon an' gets killed quick! I hate ter think o' a white man in Armijo's paws. An' if he hangs 'round th' settlements, we toss up fer th' job. If that's right, vamoose."
"Eet ees r-right to thee vera letter," whispered the Mexican, rubbing his hands. "Eef only I can get heem to Santa Fe—ah, my fren'!"
"Yer wuss nor a weasel," grunted the Missourian, slight prickles playing up and down his spine. "Better git down to them freight piles!"
Schoolcraft watched his scurrying friend until he slipped around a corner and was lost to sight; then he turned and looked up the street at the gun shop of Jake and Samuel Hawken, whose weapons were renowned all over that far-stretching western wilderness. Shrugging his shoulders, he glanced in disgust at the heavy, patented repeating rifle in his hand and, letting his personal affairs take precedence over those of the distant Mexican tyrant, he swung down the street, crossed it, and entered the famous gun shop. He risked nothing by the move, for the store was the Mecca of frontiersmen, and a trip to St. Louis was hardly complete without a visit to the shop.
The Hawkens were established, so much so that they were to be singled out by one of the famous Colt family with a partnership proposition. The fame of their rifles had rolled westward to the Rockies and beyond. They were to be found across the Canadian and Mexican boundaries and wherever hunters and trappers congregated, who scorned the Northwest fusil as fit only for trading purposes, laughed in their sleeves at the preposterous length and general inefficiency of the Hudson Bay muskets, and contentedly patted the stocks of their Hawkens'. There is a tradition that the length of the Hudson Bay muskets, which often rose over the head of a tall man while the butt rested on the ground, was due to the fact that the ignorant Indians could obtain a white man's gun only by stacking up beaver skins until the pile was as high as the musket. Even worse than the flintlock trade guns were the escopetas of the south, matchlocks of prodigious bore and no accuracy or power, which were used by many of the Mexicans. That swarthy-skinned race which suffered under the tyranny of Armijo seemed to believe that anything which used powder was a weapon. The rank and file of the Mexicans were courageous and usually fought bravely until deserted by their officers, or until they were fully convinced that the miscellaneous junk with which they were armed was worse than useless. It can hardly be expected that men shooting pebbles, nails, and what-not out of nearly useless blunderbusses; or using bows, arrows, and lances will stand up very long against straight-shooting troops armed with the best rifles; add to this the great difference in morale, and the ever-present distrust of the officers, and a fair and honest understanding may be arrived at.
Hawkens' clerk took down one of the great rifles to go over it with an oiled rag, which was another example of painting the lily. The weapon was stocked to the muzzle and shot a bullet weighing thirty-two to the pound, each thus being an honest half-ounce of lead. It was brass mounted and had a poorly done engraving of a buffalo on the trap in its stock. He turned to replace it and take down another when the sound of the opening door made him pause and face the incoming customer.
The newcomer was neither hunter nor trapper, gambler nor merchant, to judge from his nondescript and mixed attire. His left hand had an ugly welt running across the base of the palm and it had not been healed long enough to have lost its distinctive color. In his right hand he carried a rifle which was new to that part of the country, and he slid it onto the counter.
"Swap ye," he gruffly said, stepping back and leering at the clerk. "Too ak'ard fer me. Can't git used ter it, nohow. I like a stock with a big drop—this un makes me hump my head down like a bull buffaler. That's th' wuss o' havin' a long neck."
The clerk glanced at the repeating Colt and then at the injured hand. The faintest possible suggestion of a knowing smile flitted across his face, and he shook his head.
"Those are too dangerous," he replied. "We don't handle them."
"W'y, that's a fine rifle!" growled the customer, a heavy frown settling on his coarse face. "Six shots, with them newfangled caps, without re-loadin'. She's a plumb fine weapon!"
"Looks good," laughed the clerk; "but we don't care to handle them."
"They've sorta put yer nose outer j'int, ain't they?" sneered the customer. "Wall, ye kin bet yer peltries I wouldn't be givin' ye th' chanct to handle this un," he angrily declared, "if it had a bigger drop an' warn't so ak'ard fer a man like me. Ye can't find a rifle in yer danged store as kin hold a candle ter it. I bet ye ain't never seen one afore!"
"It's our business to keep informed," responded the clerk, still smiling. "We heard all about that rifle as soon as it was patented."
"But ye allus could sell a gun like this un," persisted the scowling owner. "Ye must have a hull passel o' tenderfeet a-comin' in yere."
The clerk frowned and his voice became slightly edged. "The reputation of Hawkens' is a valuable asset. It was acquired in two ways: honest goods and fair dealing. Most tenderfeet ask us for a gun that we can recommend; we cannot recommend that rifle. Do you care to look at one that will not shoot through the palm of your extended hand after it gets hot from rapid shooting?"
"I got ye thar, pardner!" retorted the customer. "I done that with a poker. Ye don't seem anxious ter do no business."
"Our stock and my time are at your disposal," replied the clerk; "but we cannot take that Colt in part payment."
"Wall, ye don't have ter: I know a man as will; an' he ain't all swelled up, neither. You an' yer rifles kin go ter h—l together!" He jerked the Colt from the counter and stamped out, cursing at every step, and slammed the door behind him so hard that it shook the shop. Thoroughly angered, he strode down the street and had gone a block before he remembered that he was to keep watch on the shop. Cursing anew, he wheeled and went back on the other side of the street and stopped at the corner of a ramshackle saloon.
The clerk was taking down another rifle when the door opened again and he wheeled aggressively, but his frown was swiftly wiped out by a smile.
The newcomer was somewhere in the twenties, stood six feet two in his moccasins, and had the broad, sloping shoulders that tell of great strength. He was narrow waisted and sinewy and walked with a step light and springy. Dressed in buckskin from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, he had around his waist a broad belt, from which hung powder horn, bullet pouch, a container for caps, a buckskin bag for spare patches, a bullet mold, and a heavy, honest skinning knife. Slung from a strap over one shoulder hung his "possible" bag, containing various small articles necessary to his calling. In his hand was a double-barreled rifle which he seemed to be excited about.
"Mr. Jarvis!" he exclaimed, offering the weapon for inspection. "Tell me what you think of this?"
The clerk chuckled and his eyes lighted with pleasure. "I've seen it, or its twin, before. English, fine sights, shooting about thirty-six balls to the pound. They're pointed, aren't they? Ah-ha! I thought so." He took the gun and examined it carefully. "Just what I've been trying to tell Mr. Jacob Hawken. Look at those nipples: large diameter across the threaded end, making it much easier to worry out wet powder by removing them and working with a bent wire from that end. We have to work at the ball with a screw, and that is no easy task after the patch paper becomes swollen. With this rifle you can replace the wet powder with dry and fire the ball out in much less time. Where did you get it, Mr. Boyd?"
The plainsman laughed exultingly. "Won it on the boat coming down, from an English sportsman who was returning home. He said it was a fine weapon, and I thought so; but I wanted your opinion."
"Take it out on the Grand Prairie and try it out. From what I can see here it is a remarkably fine rifle; but handsome is, you know."
"I've tried it out already," laughed the other. "It's the best rifle in this country, always excepting, of course, the Hawken!"
"As long as you put it that way I shall have to agree with you. Did you see the man who left a few moments before you came in?"
Boyd nodded shortly. "Yes; but I don't care to discuss him beyond warning you to look out for him. He deals in draft animals in Independence, has the name of being slippery, and is known as Ephriam Schoolcraft. However, I'm not an unprejudiced critic, for there is not the best of feelings between us, due to an unprincipled trick he tried to play on my partner." His face clouded for a moment. His partner had joined the ill-fated Texan Santa Fe Expedition and had lost his life at the hands of one of Armijo's brutal officers, for whom Tom Boyd had an abiding hatred. On his last visit to Santa Fe he had shown it so actively that only his wits and forthright courage had let him get out of the city with his life. "Well, to change the subject, I lost my pistol in the river, and I've heard a great deal about a revolving Colt pistol from some Texans I met. It shoots six times without re-loading and is fitted for caps. Got one?"
"Two," chuckled Jarvis. "A large bore and a smaller. They are fine weapons, but never rest the barrel on your other hand when you shoot."
"I'll remember that. Which size would you recommend for me?"
"The larger, by all means. We are expecting a shipment by express down the Ohio and it should reach us almost any day now. It took the Texans to prove their worth and give them their reputation."
"Fit it with caps, mold and whatever it needs. I need caps and powder for the rifle, too. First quality Kentucky, or Dupont, of course."
The purchase completed Jarvis watched his friend and customer distribute them over his person and then asked a question.
"Where to now, Mr. Boyd?"
"Independence and westward," answered the other. "Spring is upon us, the prairie grass is getting longer all the time, and Independence is as busy and crowded as an ant hill. All kinds of people are coming in by train and river, bound for the trade to Santa Fe and Chihuahua, and for far away Oregon." His eyes shone with enthusiasm. "The homesteaders interest me the most, for it is to them that we will owe our western empire. The trappers, hunters, and traders have prepared the way, but they are only a passing phase. The first two will vanish and in their places the homesteaders will take root and multiply. Think of it, Mr. Jarvis, now our frontiers are only halfway across the continent; what an empire that will some day become!"
Jarvis nodded thoughtfully and looked up. "What does your father say to all this, especially after the news last fall about your narrow escape in Santa Fe?"
Boyd shrugged his shoulders. "Father set his heart on me becoming his junior partner, and to passing his work over to me when he was ready to retire. Two generations of surgeons, is his boast; and in me he hoped to make it three. Against that, the West needs men! Those Oregon-bound wagons bring tears to my eyes. They have cast my die for me. I am on my way to Fort Bridger and Fort Hall and the valley of the Columbia, to lend my strength and little knowledge of the open to those who need it most."
Jarvis nodded his head in sympathy, for he had heard many speak nearly the same thoughts; indeed, at times, the yearning to leave behind him the dim old shop and the noisy, bustling city beset him strongly, despite his years of a life unfitting him for the hardships of the prairies and mountains. Being able to read Greek and Latin was no asset on the open trail; although schoolmasters would be needed in that new country.
"I know how you feel, Mr. Boyd. Have you seen your father since you landed?"
Tom reluctantly shook his head. "It would only reopen the old bitterness and lead to further estrangement. No man shall ever speak to me again as he did—not even him. If you should see him, Jarvis, tell him I asked you to assure him of my affection."
"I shall be glad to do that," replied the clerk. "You missed him by only two days. He asked for you and wished you success, and said your home was open to you when you returned to resume your studies. I think, in his heart, he is proud of you, but too stubborn to admit it." As he spoke he chanced to glance through the window of the store. "Don't look around," he warned. "I want to tell you that Schoolcraft and a Mexican just passed the shop, peered in at you with more than passing interest and went on. I suppose it's nothing, though."
"It's enough to make me keep my eyes open," replied Tom, sighting his new rifle at the great clock on the wall, which seemed to move a little faster under the threat. "I thought they were watching me on the boat. Armijo's vindictive enough to go to almost any length. He isn't accustomed to having his beast face slapped."
Jarvis' jaw dropped in sheer amazement. "You mean—do I understand—eh, you mean—you slapped his face?"
"So hard that it hurt my hand; I'll wager his teeth are loose," replied Tom, his interest on his new weapon.
"Er—slapped Governor Armijo's face?" persisted Jarvis from the momentum of his amazement.
"The Governor of the Department of New Mexico," replied the hunter.
Jarvis drew a sleeve across his forehead and carefully felt for the high stool behind him. Automatically climbing upon it he seated himself with great care and then, remembering that his customer was standing, slid off it apologetically. He was gazing at his companion as though he were some strange, curious animal.
"Eh—would you mind telling me why?" he asked.
"He offended me; and if I'd known then what I found out later I would have broken every bone in his pompous carcass and thrown him to the dogs!" His face had reddened a little and the veins on his forehead were beginning to stand out.
Jarvis examined the clock with almost hypnotic interest. "And how did he offend you, Mr. Boyd, if I may inquire?"
"Oh, the beast came swaggering along the street, followed at a respectful distance by a crowd of his boot-lickers, and pushed me out of his way. I asked him who in hell he thought he was, in choice Spanish, and the conceited turkey-gobbler reached for his saber. The more I see of this gun, Jarvis, the more I like it."
"Yes, indeed; and then what, Mr. Boyd?"
"Huh?"
"He reached for his saber—and then?"
"Oh," laughed Tom. "I helped him draw it, and broke it across his own knee. He called me a choice name and I slapped his face. You should have seen the boot-lickers! Before they could get their senses back and make up their minds about rushing my pistol I had slipped through a store, out of the back and into a place I know well, where I waited till dark. I understand there was quite a lot of excitement for a day or so."
"I dare say—I dare say there might have been," admitted Jarvis. "In fact, I am sure there would be. Damn it, Tom, would you mind shaking hands with me?"
CHAPTER II
Tom wended his way to the levee and as he passed the last line of buildings and faced the great slope leading to the water's edge his eyes kindled. Two graceful stern-wheel packets were moving on the river, the smaller close to the nearer bank on her way home from the treacherous Missouri; the larger, curving well over toward the Illinois shore, was heading downstream for New Orleans. Their graceful lines, open bow decks with the great derricks supporting the huge landing stages, and the thick, powerful masts on each edge of the lower deck toward the bow, each holding up the great spar so necessary for Mississippi river navigation; the tall stacks with the initials of the boat against a lattice work between; the regular spacing of windows and doors in the cabins, and the clean white of their hulls and superstructure, rendered more vivid by contrast with the tawny flood on all sides of them, made a striking and picturesque sight. Each had a curving tail of boiling brown water behind, and a bone in its teeth. These river boats were modeled on trim and beautiful lines and were far from being crude, frontier makeshifts.
Several Mackinaw boats moved anglingly across the current from the other shore, and a keelboat glided down the river for New Orleans, or to turn up the Ohio for Pittsburg, helped in the current by a dirty, square sail. The little twin-hulled ferry was just coming in from the Illinois shore, its catamaran construction giving it a safety which a casual observation would have withheld. The passengers clung to its rails as it pitched and bobbed in the rolling wake of the south-bound packet, a wake dreaded by all small craft unfortunate enough to pass the slapping paddle at too close a distance, for the following billows were high, sharp, and close together.
On the great levee wagons and carts rattled and rumbled; drivers shouted and swore as they picked their impatient and erratic way through the traffic; lazy negroes, momentarily spurred into energetic activity, moved all kinds of merchandise between the boats and the great piles on the sloping river bank, two long lines of them passing each other on the bridging gangplanks reaching far ashore. Opposed to this scene of labor and turmoil was a canoe well offshore, whose two occupants, drifting with the current, lazily fished for the great channel catfish which the negro population loved so much.
On a packet, which we will call the Missouri Belle, a whistle blew sharply and as the sound died away several groups of passengers hurried across the levee, scurrying about like panicky bugs when a log is rolled over, darting this way and that amid the careless bustle of the traffic, as eager to reach a place of safety as are chickens affrighted by the shadow of a drifting hawk. The crowd was cosmopolitan enough to suit the most exacting critic. Freighters, merchants, hunters, trappers, and Indians returning to the upper trading posts or to their own country; gamblers; a frock-coated minister who suspiciously regarded every box and barrel and bale that he saw rolled up the freight gangplank, and who was a person of great interest to many pairs of eyes on and off the boat; a priest; a voluble, chattering group of coureurs des bois; a small crowd of soldiers going up to Fort Leavenworth; emigrants, boatmen, and travelers made up the hurrying procession or stood at the rails and watched the confusion on the levee.
Tom joined the animated stream, swinging in behind an elderly gentleman who escorted a young lady of unflurried demeanor through the maelstrom of wagons, carts, mules, horses, passengers, and heavily laden negroes. Caught in a jam and forced to make a quick decision and to follow it instantly, the young lady dropped her glove in picking up her skirts and a nervous horse was about to stamp it into the dirt and dust when Tom leaped forward. Grasping the bridle with one hand, he bent swiftly and reached for the glove with the other. As he was about to grasp it, a man dressed in nondescript clothes left his Mexican companion and bent forward on the other side of the horse, his lean, brown fingers eagerly outstretched.
Tom's surprise at this unexpected interference acted galvanically and his hand, turning up from the glove, grasped the thrusting fingers of the other in a grip which not only was powerful but doubly effective by its unexpectedness. He swiftly straightened the wrist and forearm of his rival into perfect alignment with the rest of the arm and then, with a sudden dropping of his own elbow, he turned the other's arm throwing all his strength and weight into the motion. The result was ludicrous. The rival, bent forward, his other hand on the ground, had to give way in a hurry or have his arm dislocated. His right foot arose swiftly into the air and described a short arc as his whole body followed it; and quicker than it takes to tell it he was bridged much the same as a wrestler, his arched back to the ground. Tom grinned sardonically and with a swift jerk yanked his adversary off his balance, and as the other sprawled grotesquely in the dust, the victor of the little tilt picked up the glove, leaped nimbly aside and looked eagerly around for its owner. He no sooner stood erect than he saw her with a handkerchief stuffed in her mouth and, bowing stiffly and with sober face he gravely presented the glove to her. She had waited, despite all her escort could do, somewhat breathlessly watching the rescue and the short, quick comedy incidental to it; and now, with reddened cheeks and mischievous eyes, she took the glove and murmured her thanks. The elderly gentleman, grinning from ear to ear, raised his high beaver, thanked the plainsman, and then hurried his charge onto the boat, fearful of the time lost.
Tom stood in his tracks staring after them, hypnotized by the beauty of the face and the timbre of the voice of the woman whose eyes had challenged him as she had turned away.
The profane remarks of the wagon driver, the more picturesque remarks of other drivers, and the vociferous, white-toothed delight of the negroes did not soothe Ephriam Schoolcraft's outraged dignity nor help to cool his anger, and he arose from his dust bath seeking whom he might devour. He did not have to seek far, for a negro's shouted warning reached Tom in time to spin him around to await his adversary. The plainsman was cool, imperturbable, and smiling slightly with amusement.
Schoolcraft leaped for him and was sent spinning against a pile of freight. As he recovered his balance his hand streaked for his belt, but stopped in the air as he gazed down the barrel of the new Colt snuggling against the hip of the younger man. It must have looked especially vicious to a man accustomed to a single-shot pistol, or a double-barreled Derringer, at best.
"That was no killing matter," said Tom quietly. "Don't make it so, and don't make us both miss that packet, and get locked up in a St. Louis jail. I'll get out again quicker than you, but that hardly matters. If you're going aboard, go ahead; I'm in no great hurry." Out of the corner of his eye he was watching the Mexican, but found nothing threatening.
Schoolcraft glared at him, allowed a hypocritical smile to mask his feelings, bowed politely, and walked down the levee, the Mexican following him, and Tom bringing up the rear. They were quickly separated by the bustle on the boat, each giving his immediate attention to the preparations necessary for his comfort during the voyage.
A second blast of the whistle was followed by the groaning of the great derrick as it lifted the landing stage and swung it aboard; lines were hauled in and the passengers along the rails waved their adieus and called last minute messages to those they were leaving behind. It would be many years before some of them saw their friends again, and for a few the reunion would not be on this earth. A bell rang aft and the great stern paddle slapped and thrashed noisily as it bit and tore at the yellow water beneath it. Showers of sparks, incandescent as they left the towering stacks, fell in gray flakes on the decks and the river, the bluish smoke of the wood fires trailing straighter and straighter astern as the packet rounded into the boiling current and pushed upstream at a constantly increasing speed, leaving behind her the western metropolis on the left-hand bank and a straggling hamlet on the other.
Here the Mississippi is a mighty river, approaching half a mile in width between its limestone banks; deep, swift, its current boiling up the muddy contribution of the great Missouri, as if eager to expose the infamy of its pollution to the world. But whatever it lost in purity by the addition of the muddy water, pouring in eighteen miles above the city, it gained in greatness. Other large rivers have been tamed and rendered nearly harmless, but these two have baffled man's labors and ingenuity, and finally the contributing stream has been given up as incorrigible.
The confusion of the passengers attending to their baggage, places at table and their sleeping quarters grew constantly less as mile followed mile, and by the time the Belle swung in a great, westward curve to leave the Father of Waters for the more turbid and treacherous bosom of the Big Muddy, many were eagerly looking for the line marking the joining of the two great streams. It was plain to the eye, for the jutting brown flood of the Missouri, dotted with great masses of drift, was treated with proper suspicion by the clearer flood of the nobler stream, and curved far out into the latter without losing the identity of its outer edge for some distance below.
CHAPTER III
Piloting on the Mississippi was tricky enough, with the shifting bars and the deadly, submerged logs, stumps, and trees; but the Missouri was in a class by itself; indeed, at various stages of high water it seemed hardly to know its own channels or, in some places, even its own bed. It threw up an island today to remove it next week or ten years later, and cut a new channel to close up an old one whenever the mood suited. Gnawing off soft clay promontories or cutting in behind them was a favorite pastime; and the sand and clay of its banks and the vast expanses of its bottoms coaxed it into capricious excursions afield. More than one innocent and unsuspecting settler, locating what he considered to be a reasonable distance from its shores on some rich bottom, found his particular portion of the earth's surface under the river or on its further bank when he returned from a precipitate and entirely willing flight.
There were two tricks used on the river to get out of sandbar difficulties that deserve mention. During certain stages of the river it for some reason would cross over from one side of its bed to the other, and between the old and the new deep channels would be a space of considerable distance crossed by the water where there was no channel, but only a number of shallow washes, none of which perhaps would be deep enough to let a steamboat through. The deepest would be selected, and if only two or three more inches of water were needed, the boat would be run up as far as it could go, the crew would fix the two great spars with their shoes against the bottom, slanting downstream, set the steam capstans drawing on their ropes, and then reverse the paddle wheel. The turning of the great wheel would force water under the hull while the spars pushed backward and, raising a platform of water around her and taking it with her, she would slide over the shallow place and go on about her business.
In case of a bar where there were no submerged banks to hold a platform of water, and only a few more inches needed, the spars would be used as before, but the paddle wheel would remain idle. The backward thrust of the spars would force the boat ahead, while their lifting motion would raise it a little. This being repeated again and again would eventually "walk" the boat across and into deeper water on the other side. It was a slow and laborious operation and sometimes took a day or two, but it was preferable to lying tied to the bank and waiting for a rise, often a matter of a week or more.
All this was an old story to Tom, who now was on his fifth trip up the river, for he was an observant young man and one who easily became acquainted with persons he wished to know. These included the officers and pilots, who took to the upstanding young plainsman at first sight and gave painstaking answers to his many but sensible questions. In consequence his knowledge of the river was wide and deep, although not founded on practical experience.
Long before the packet turned into the Missouri he had his affairs attended to and was leaning against the rail enjoying the shifting panorama. But the scenery did not take all of his attention, for he was keeping a watch for a certain Mexican trader and for the young lady of the glove; and after the boat had rounded into the Big Muddy, he caught sight of the more interesting of the two as she walked forward on the port side in the company of her escort. Waiting a few moments to see if they would discover him, he soon gave it up and went in search of the purser, who seemed to know about everyone of note in St. Louis.
"Hello, Tom," called that officer, having recovered his breath after the rush. "Yo're goin' back purty quick, ain't you?"
"Reckon not. One night an' one day in th' city was enough. But this cussed packet is near as lonesome. I don't know a passenger on board."
"I can fix that," laughed the purser. "I know about three-quarters of 'em, an' can guess at th' rest. I counted seven professional gamblers comin' up th' plank. They'll be in each other's way. You feelin' like some excitement?"
"Not with any of them," answered Tom, grinning. "I can count seven times seven of them fellers in Independence; an' I hear some of 'em are plannin' to join up with th' next outgoing train."
"Well," mused the purser. His face cleared. "There's that sneakin' minister. Havin' looked in everythin' but our mouths, he'll mebby have time to convert a sinner. How 'bout him?"
"Don't hardly think he can do much with me," muttered Tom. He considered a moment and tried to hide his grin. "Now I noticed an elderly old gentleman with a young lady, gettin' aboard jest before I did. They was leavin' you when I showed up. Happen to know 'em?"
"You shouldn't 'a' give back th' glove when you did," laughed the officer. "You should 'a' had yore quarrel with Schoolcraft first, so you could 'a' waited till we was under way before you handed it back to her. That would 'a' give you a better chance to get acquainted. I've heard that frontierin' sharpens a man's wits, but I dunno. Want to meet 'em? Th' old sport's interesting when he ain't tryin' to beat th' gamblers at their own game. An' he's plumb successful at it, too, if there ain't too many ag'in him."
Tom had the grace to flush under his tan, but he thankfully accepted the bantering and the suggestion. "What you suppose I've risked wastin' my time talkin' to you for?" he demanded.
"You know cussed well you wasn't wastin' it," retorted the purser. "Come on, an' meet one of th' finest young ladies in St. Louis. She won't care if you pay more attention to her uncle."
A few minutes later Tom had been made acquainted with the couple and they soon discovered that they had mutual friends in the city. Time passed rapidly and Patience Cooper and her uncle, Joseph, took a keen interest in their companion's account of life on the prairies. He found that the uncle was engaged in the overland trade and was going out to Independence to complete arrangements for the starting of his wagons with the Santa Fe caravan. Finding that they were to be seated at different tables they had the obliging steward change their places so they could be together, and after the meal the uncle begged to be excused and headed for the card room, which brought a fleeting frown to the face of his niece. Tom observed it without appearing to and led the way to some chairs on deck near the rail.
The blast of the whistle apprised them of a landing in sight and soon they picked it out, as much by the great piles of firewood as by any other sign. This was the little hamlet of St. Charles, and here came on board several plainsmen and voyageurs who, having missed the packet at St. Louis, had hastened across the neck of land to board it here. As soon as the gangplank touched the bank a hurrying line of men depleted the great wood pile, and in a few minutes the landing stage swung aboard again and the Missouri Belle circled out into mid-channel, a stream of sparks falling astern.
An annoying wind had been blowing when they left the parent stream, annoying in a way a stranger to the river never would have dreamed. There being no permanence to the channels, no fixity to the numerous bars, no accurate knowledge covering the additions to the terrible, destroying snags lurking under the surface, the pilot literally had to read his way every yard and to read it anew every trip. All he had to go by was the surface of the water, and it told him a true tale as long as it was reasonably placid. From his high elevation he looked down into the river and learned from it where the channel lay; and from arrow-head ripples and little, rolling wavelets, where the snags were, for every one close enough to the surface to merit attention was revealed by the telltale "break" on the water. Let a moderate wind blow and his task became harder and more of a gamble; but even then, knowing that the waves run higher over deeper water, he still could go ahead; but above a certain strength the wind not only baffled his reading, but gave such a sidewise drift to the shallow-draft, high-riding vessel that he could not hope to take it safely through some of the narrower channels. Rain or hail, which turned the surface into a uniform area of disturbance, instantly closed his book; and in this event he had no recourse except to lie snugly moored to the south bank and wait until the weather conditions changed. Sometimes these waits were for a few hours, sometimes for a day or more; and when the persistent southwest prairie gales blew day and night, moving great clouds of sand with them, the boat remained a prisoner until they ceased or abated.
There was good reason for choosing that south bank, for the stronger winds almost invariably came from that direction during the navigation season, and the bank gave a pleasing protection. While lying moored, idleness in progress did not mean idleness all around, for the boilers ate up great quantities of wood, and in many cases the fuel yards were the growing trees and windfalls on the banks. Once the boat was moored the crew leaped ashore and became wood-choppers, filling the fuel boxes and stacking the remainder on shore for future use. In a pinch green cottonwood sometimes had to be used, but it could be burned only by adding pitch or resin.
Nowhere on the river was a navigation mark, for nowhere was the channel permanent enough to allow one to be placed. It was primitive, pioneer navigation with a vengeance, requiring intelligent, sober, quickwitted and courageous men to handle the boats. On the Missouri the word "pilot" was a term of distinction.
The river was high at this time of the year, caused less by the excessive rains and melting snows in the mountains, being a little early for them, than by the rains along the immediate valley; bottom lands were flooded, giving the stream a width remarkable in places and adding greatly to the amount of drift going down with the current.
The afternoon waned and the wind died, the latter responsible for the pilot's good nature, and the shadows of evening grew longer and longer until they died, seeming to expand into a tenuity which automatically effaced them. But sundown was not mooring time, for the twilight along the river often lasted until nine o'clock, and not a minute was wasted.
When St. Charles had been left astern Tom had led his companion up onto the hurricane deck and placed two chairs against the pilot house just forward of the texas, where the officers had their quarters. The water was now smooth, barring the myriads of whirling, boiling eddies, and from their elevated position they could see the configuration of the submerged bars. The afterglow in the sky turned the mud-colored water into a golden sheen, and the wind-distorted trees on the higher banks and ridges were weirdly silhouetted against the colored sky. Gone was the drab ugliness. The finely lined branches of the distant trees, the full bulks of the pines and cedars and the towering cottonwoods, standing out against the greenery of grass covered hills, provided a soft beauty; while closer to the boat and astern where sky reflections were not seen, the great, tawny river slipped past with a powerful, compelling, and yet furtive suggestion of mystery, as well it might.
Tom was telling of the characteristics of the river when the boat veered sharply and caused him to glance ahead. A great, tumultuous ripple tore the surface of the water, subsided somewhat and boiled anew, the wavelets gold and crimson and steel blue against the uniform lavender shade around them. The many-fanged snag barely had been avoided as it reached the upward limit of its rhythmic rising and falling.
Soon a bell rang below and the boat slowed as it headed in toward a high, wooded bank. Nudging gently against it the packet stopped, men hurried lines ashore, made them fast to the trees and then set a spring line, which ran from the stern forward to the bank ahead of the bow, so as to hold the boat offshore far enough to keep it afloat in case the river should fall appreciably during the night. The pilot emerged behind them, glanced down at the captain overseeing the mooring operations, and then spoke to Tom, who made him acquainted with Patience and invited him to join them. He gladly accepted the invitation and soon had interested listeners to his store of knowledge about the river. Darkness now had descended and he pointed at the stream.
"There's somethin' peculiar to th' Missouri," he said. "Notice th' glow of th' water, several shades lighter than th' darkness on th' bank? On the Mississippi, now, th' water after dark only makes th' night all th' blacker; but on this stream th' surface can be seen pretty plain, though not far ahead. We take full advantage of that when we have to sail after dark. We would be goin' on now, except that we got news of a new and very bad place a little further on, an' we'd rather tackle it when we can see good."
"Oh," murmured Patience. "A ghost road leading through a void."
A long, dark shape appeared on the "ghost road" and bore silently and swiftly down upon the boat, struck the hull a glancing blow, scraped noisily, ducked under, turned partly and scurried off astern. It was a trimmed tree trunk, and by its lowness in the water it told of a journey nearly ended. Before long one end would sink deeper and deeper, finally fastening in the alluvial bottom and, anchoring securely, lie in wait to play battering ram against some ill-fated craft surging boldly against the current.
The lanterns on shore began to move boatward as the last of the wooding was finished and the fuel boxes again were full. Farther back among the trees some trappers had started a fire and were enjoying themselves around it, their growing hilarity and noise suggesting a bottle being passed too often. Gradually the boat became quiet and after another smoke the pilot arose and excused himself, saying that it was expected that the journey would be resumed between three and four o'clock in the morning.
"How long will it take us to reach Independence Landing?" asked Patience.
The pilot shook his head. "That depends on wind, water, and th' strength of th' current, though th' last don't make very much difference sometimes."
Tom looked up inquiringly. "I don't just understand th' last part," he confessed. "Mebby I didn't hear it right."
"Yes, you did," replied the pilot, grinning in the darkness. "When she's high she's swift; but she's also a hull lot straighter. Th' bends of this river are famous, an' they add a lot of miles to her length. They also cut down th' slant of her surface, which cuts down th' strength of th' current. At lower water we'd have a longer distance to sail, but a gentler current. When she rises like she is now she cuts off, over or behind a lot of th' bends an' makes herself a straighter road. An' th' shorter she gits, th' steeper her pitch grows, which makes a stronger current. She jest reg'lates herself accordin' to her needs, an' she gits shet of her floods about as quick as any river on earth. Oh, I tell you, she's a cute one; an' a mean one, too!"
"She's shore movin' fast enough now," observed Tom, watching the hurtling driftwood going spectrally down the almost luminous surface. "How long will this high water last, anyhow?"
"Considerable less than th' June rise," answered the pilot. "She's fallin' now, which is one of th' reasons we're tied to th' bank instid of goin' on all night. This here rise is short, but meaner than sin. Th' June rise is slower an' not so bad, though it lasts longer. It comes from th' rains an' meltin' snow in th' mountains up above. Down here th' current ain't as swift as it is further up, for this slope is somethin' less than a foot to th' mile; but if it warn't for th' big bottoms, that let some of th' water wander around awhile instid of crowdin' along all at once, we'd have a current that'd surprise you. Jest now I figger she's steppin' along about seven miles an hour. Durin' low water it's some'rs around two; but I've seen it nearer ten on some rises. There are places where steamboats can't beat th' current an' have to kedge up or wait for lower water. About gittin' to Independence Landin', or what's left of it, I'll tell you that when we pass Liberty Landin'. Miles through th' water ain't miles over th' bottom, an' it's th' last that counts. Besides, th' weather has got a lot to say about our business. I hope you ain't gittin' chilled, Miss Cooper, this spring air cuts in amazin' after sundown."
"I am beginning to feel it," she replied, arising, "I'll say good night, I believe, and 'turn in.'"
Tom escorted her to the lower deck and watched her cross the cabin and enter her room, for he had no illusions about some of the men on board. As her door closed he wheeled and went to look at the engines, which were connected directly to the huge paddle wheel. The engineer was getting ready to climb into his bunk, but he smoked a pipe with his visitor and chatted for a few minutes. Tom knew what it meant to be an engineer on a Missouri river packet and he did not stay long. He knew that his host scarcely took his hand from the throttle for a moment while the boat was moving, for he had to be ready to check her instantly and send her full speed astern. The over-worked system of communication between the pilot house and the engine room had received its share of his attention during his runs on the river.
He next went forward along the main deck and looked at the boilers, the heat from them distinctly pleasing. As he turned away he heard and felt the impact from another great, trimmed log slipping along the faint, gray highway. Some careless woodcutter upstream had worked in vain. He stopped against the rail and looked at the scurrying water only a few feet below him, listening to its swishing, burbling complaints as it eddied along the hull, seeming in the darkness to have a speed incredible. A huge cottonwood with its upflung branches and sunken roots paused momentarily as it struck a shallow spot, shivered, lost a snapping dead limb, collected a surprising amount of débris as it swung slowly around and tore free from the clutching mud of the bottom and, once more acquiring momentum, shot out of sight into the night, its slowly rising branches telling of the heavy roots sinking to their proper depth. Next came a tree stump like some huge squid, which must have been well dried out and not in the water for very long, else it would have found the bottom before this. Then a broken and waterlogged keelboat, fully twenty-five feet long, scurried past, a great menace to every boat afloat. Planks, rails from some pasture fence, a lean-to outhouse, badly smashed, and a great mass of reeds and brush came along like a floating island. The constantly changing procession and the gray water fascinated him and he fairly had to tear himself away from it. Strange splashings along the bank told him of undermined portions of it tumbling into the river, and a louder splash marked the falling of some tree not far above.
"She's talkin' a-plenty tonight," said a rough voice behind him and he turned, barely able to make out a figure dressed much the same as he was; but he did not see another figure, in Mexican garb, standing in the blackness against a partition and watching him. The speaker continued. "More gentle, this hyar trip; ye should 'a' heard her pow-wowin' th' last run up. I say she's wicked an' cruel as airy Injun; an' nothin' stops her."
"I can't hardly keep away from her," replied Tom, easily dropping into the language of the other; "but I ain't likin' her a hull lot. A hard trail suits me better."
"Now yer plumb shoutin'," agreed the other. "If 'twarn't fer goin' ashore every night, up in th' game country, I don't reckon I'd want ter see another steamboat fer th' rest o' my days. Everythin' about 'em is too onsartin."
Tom nodded, understanding that his companion was a hunter employed by the steamboat company to supply the boat's table with fresh meat. After the game country, which really meant the buffalo range, was reached this man went ashore almost every night and hunted until dawn or later, always keeping ahead of the boat's mooring and within sight of the river after daybreak. Whatever he shot he dragged to some easily seen spot on the bank for the yawl to pick up, and when the steamboat finally overtook him he went aboard by the same means. His occupation was hazardous at all times because of the hostility of the Indians, some few of which, even when their tribes were quiet and inclined to be friendly for trade purposes, would not refuse a safe opportunity to add a white man's scalp to their collection. The tribes along the lower sections of the river were safer, but once in the country of the Pawnees and Sioux, where his hunting really began, it was a far different matter. He did not have much of the dangerous country to hunt in because the Belle did not go far enough up the river; but the hunters on the fur company's boats went through the worst of it.
"Goin' out this spring?" asked the hunter.
"Yep; Oregon, this time," answered Tom. "My scalp ain't safe in Santa Fe no more. Been thar?"
"Santa Fe, yep; Oregon, no. Went to N'Mexico in '31, an' we got our fust buffaler jest tother side o' Cottonwood Creek. It war a tough ol' bull. Bet ye won't git one thar no more. We forded th' Arkansas at th' lower crossin' an' follered th' dry route. Hear thar's a track acrost it now, but thar warn't any then. Don't like that stretch, nohow. Longest way 'round is th' best fer this critter. Ye got Bent's Fort handy ter bust up th' trip, git supplies an' likker; an' I'd ruther tackle Raton Pass, mean as it is, than cross that cussed dry plain atween th' Crossin' an' th' Cimarron. I'd ruther have water than empty casks, airy time; an' fur's th' Injuns air consarned, 'twon't be long afore ye'll have ter fight 'em all th' way from th' frontier ter th' Mexican settlements. They'll be gittin' wuss every year."
"Yer talkin' good medicine," replied Tom, thoughtfully. "'Twon't be safe fer any caravan ter run inter one o' them war parties. Thar cussin' th' whites a'ready, an' thar bound ter jine han's ag'in us when th' buffaler git scarce."
The hunter slapped his thigh and laughed uproariously. "Cussed if that ain't a good un! Why, th' man ain't alive that'll live ter see that day. They won't git scarce till Kansas is settled solid, an' then there'll have ter be a bounty put on 'em ter save th' settlers' crops. Why, thar's miles o' 'em, pardner!"
"I've seen miles o' 'em," admitted Tom; "but they'll go, an' when they once start ter, they'll go so fast that a few years will see 'em plumb wiped out."
"Shucks!" replied the hunter, "Why, th' wust enemies they got is th' Injuns an' th' wolves. Both o' them will go fust, an' th' buffalers'll git thicker an' thicker."
"We are thar worst enemies!" retorted Tom with spirit. "Th' few th' Injuns kill don't matter—if it did they'd 'a' been gone long ago. They only kill fer food an' clothin'; but we kill fer sport an' profit. Every year that passes sees more whites on th' buffaler ranges an' more hides comin' in ter th' settlements; an' most of them hides come from th' cows. Look at th' beaver, man! Thar goin' so fast that in a few years thar won't be none left. Thar's only one thing that'll save 'em, an' that's a change in hats. Killin' fer sport is bad enough, but when th' killin' is fer profit th' end's shore in sight. What do we do? We cut out th' buffaler tongues an' a few choice bits an' leave th' rest for th' wolves. Th' Injuns leave nothin' but th' bones. Why, last trip acrost I saw one man come inter camp with sixteen tongues. He never even bothered with th' hump ribs! I told him if he done it ag'in an' I saw him, I'd bust his back; an' th' hull caravan roared at th' joke!"
"Danged if it warn't a good un," admitted the hunter, chuckling. "Have ter spring that on th' boys." He turned and looked around. "Them fellers on th' bank air shore havin' a good time. They got likker enough, anyhow. Cussed if it don't sound like a rendezvous! Come on, friend: what ye say we jine 'em? It's too early to roll up, an' thar's only card buzzards in th' cabin a-try-in' ter pick th' bones o' a merchant."
"We might do wuss nor that," replied Tom; "but I don't reckon I'll go ashore tonight."
"Wall, if ye change yer mind ye know th' trail. I'm leavin' ye now, afore th' bottles air all empty," and the hunter crossed the deck and strode down the gangplank.
Tom watched the hurrying, complaining water for a few moments and then turned to go to the cabin. As he did so something whizzed past him and struck the water with a hiss. Whirling, he leaped into the shadows under the second deck, the new Colt in his hand; but after a hot, eager search he had to give it up, and hasten to the cabin, to peer searchingly around it from the door. The only enemy he had on board to his knowledge was Schoolcraft—and then another thought came to him: was Armijo reaching out his arm across the prairies?
Joe Cooper was intent on his game; Schoolcraft and the Mexican trader were taking things easy at a table in a corner, and both had their knives at their belts. They did not give him more than a passing glance, although a frown crept across the Independence horse-dealer's evil face. Seating himself where he could watch all the doors, Tom tried to solve the riddle while he waited to scrutinize anyone entering the cabin. At last he gave up the attempt to unravel the mystery and turned his attention to the card game, and was surprised to see that it was being played with all the safeguards of an established gambling house. Having a friend in the game he watched the dealer and the case-keeper, but discovered nothing to repay him for his scrutiny. An hour later the game broke up and Joe Cooper, cashing in his moderate winnings, arose and joined Tom and suggested a turn about the deck before retiring. Tom caught a furtive exchange of fleeting and ironical glances between the case-keeper and the dealer, but thought little of it. He shrugged his shoulders and followed his new friend toward the door.
Ephriam Schoolcraft, somewhat the worse for liquor, made a slighting remark as the two left the cabin, but it was so well disguised that it provided no real peg on which to hang a quarrel; and Tom kept on toward the deck, the horse-dealer's nasty laugh ringing in his ears. He could see where he was going to have trouble, but he hoped it would wait until Independence was reached, for always there were the makings of numerous quarrels on board under even the best of conditions, and he determined to overlook a great deal before starting one on his own account. It was his wish that nothing should mar the pleasure of the trip up the river for Patience Cooper.
He and his companion stopped in the bow and looked at the merry camp on shore, both sensing an undertone of trouble. Give the vile, frontier liquor time to work in such men and anything might be the outcome.
He put his lips close to his companion's ear: "Mr. Cooper, did you notice anyone hurry into the cabin just before I came in? Anyone who seemed excited and in a hurry?"
Cooper considered a moment: "No," he replied. "I would have seen any such person. Something wrong?"
"Schoolcraft, now; and that Mexican friend of his," prompted Tom. "Did they leave the cabin before you saw me come in?"
"No; they both were where you saw them for an hour or two before you showed up. I'm dead certain of that because of the interest Schoolcraft seemed to be taking in me. I don't know why he should single me out for his attentions, for he don't look like a gambler. I never saw him before that little fracas you had with him on the levee. Something up?"
"No," slowly answered Tom. "I was just wondering about something."
"Nope; he was there all the time," the merchant assured him. "Seems to me I heard about some trouble you had in Santa Fe last year. Anything serious?"
"Nothing more than a personal quarrel. I happened to get there after they had started McLeod's Texans on the way to Mexico City, and learned that they had been captured." He clenched his fists and scowled into the night. "One of the pleasant things I learned from a man who saw it, was the execution of Baker and Howland. Both shot in the back. Baker was not killed, so a Mexican stepped up and shot him through the heart as he lay writhing on the ground. The dogs tore their bodies to pieces that night." He gripped the railing until the blood threatened to burst from his finger tips. "I learned the rest of it, and the worst, a long time later."
Cooper turned and stared at him. "Why, man, that was in October! Late in October! How could you have been there at that time, and here, in this part of the country, now? You couldn't cross the prairies that late in the year!"
"No; I wintered at Bent's Fort," replied Tom. "I hadn't been in Independence a week before I took the boat down to St Louis, where you first saw me. There were four of us in the party and we had quite a time making it. Well, reckon I'll be turning in. See you tomorrow."
He walked rapidly toward the cabin, glanced in and then went to his quarters. Neither Schoolcraft nor the Mexican were to be seen, for they were in the former's stateroom with a third man, holding a tense and whispered conversation. The horse-dealer apparently did not agree with his two companions, for he kept doggedly shaking his head and reiterating his contentions in drunken stubbornness that, no matter what had been overheard, Tom Boyd was not going to Oregon, but back to Santa Fe. He mentioned Patience Cooper several times and insisted that he was right. While his companions were not convinced that they were wrong they, nevertheless, agreed that there should be no more knife throwing until they knew for certain that the young hunter was not going over the southwest trail.
Schoolcraft leered into the faces of his friends. "You jest wait an' see!" He wagged a finger at them. "Th' young fool is head over heels in love with her; an' he'll find it out afore she jines th' Santa Fe waggin train. Whar she goes, he'll go. I'm drunk; but I ain't so drunk I don't know that!"
CHAPTER IV.
Dawn broke dull and cold, but without much wind, and when Tom awakened he heard the churning of the great paddle wheel, the almost ceaseless jangling of the engine room bell and the complaining squeaks of the hard-worked steering gear. A faint whistle sounded from up river, was answered by the Missouri Belle, and soon the latter lost headway while the two pilots exchanged their information concerning the river. Again the paddles thumped and thrashed and the boat shook as it gathered momentum.
On deck he found a few early risers, wrapped in coats and blankets against the chill of the morning hour. The overcast sky was cold and forbidding; the boiling, scurrying surface of the river, sullen and threatening. Going up to the hurricane deck he poked his head in the pilot house.
"Come on in," said the pilot "We won't go fur today. See that?"
Tom nodded. The small clouds of sand were easily seen by eyes such as his and as he nodded a sudden gust tore the surface of the river into a speeding army of wavelets.
"Peterson jest hollered over an' said Clay Point's an island now, an' that th' cut-off is bilin' like a rapids. Told me to look out for th' whirlpool. They're bad, sometimes."
"To a boat like this?" asked Tom in surprise.
"Yep. We give 'em all a wide berth." The wheel rolled over quickly and the V-shaped, tormented ripple ahead swung away from the bow. "That's purty nigh to th' surface," commented the pilot. "Jest happened to swing up an' show its break in time. Hope we kin git past Clay before th' wind drives us to th' bank. Look there!"
A great, low-lying cloud of sand suddenly rose high into the air like some stricken thing, its base riven and torn into long streamers that whipped and writhed. The gliding water leaped into short, angry waves, which bore down on the boat with remarkable speed. As the blast struck the Missouri Belle she quivered, heeled a bit, slowed momentarily, and then bore into it doggedly, but her side drift was plain to the pilot's experienced eyes.
"We got plenty o' room out here fer sidin'," he observed; "but 'twon't be long afore th' water'll look th' same all over. We're in fer a bad day." As he spoke gust after gust struck the water, and he headed the boat into the heavier waves. "Got to keep to th' deepest water now," he explained. "Th' snags' telltales are plumb wiped out. I shore wish we war past Clay. There ain't a decent bank ter lie ag'in this side o' it."
For the next hour he used his utmost knowledge of the river, which had been developed almost into an instinct; and then he rounded one of the endless bends and straightened out the course with Clay Point half a mile ahead.
"Great Jehovah!" he muttered. "Look at Clay!"
The jutting point, stripped bare of trees, was cut as clean as though some great knife had sliced it. Under its new front the river had cut in until, as they looked, the whole face of the bluff slid down into the stream, a slice twenty feet thick damming the current and turning it into a raging fury. Some hundreds of yards behind the doomed point the muddy torrent boiled and seethed through its new channel, vomiting trees, stumps, brush and miscellaneous rubbish in an endless stream. Off the point, and also where the two great currents came together again behind it two great whirlpools revolved with sloping surfaces smooth as ice, around which swept driftwood with a speed not unlike the horses of some great merry-go-round. The vortex of the one off the point was easily ten feet below the rim of its circumference, and the width of the entire affair was greater than the length of the boat. A peeled log, not quite water-soaked, reached the center and arose as vertical as a plumb line, swayed in short, quick circles and then dove from sight. A moment later it leaped from the water well away from the pool and fell back with a smack which the noise of the wind did not drown. To starboard was a rhythmic splashing of bare limbs, where a great cottonwood, partly submerged, bared its fangs. To the right of that was a towhead, a newly formed island of mud and sand partly awash.
The pilot cursed softly and jerked on the bell handle, the boat instantly falling into half speed. He did not dare to cut across the whirlpool, the snag barred him dead ahead, and it was doubtful if there was room to pass between it and the towhead; but he had no choice in the matter and he rang again, the boat falling into bare steerageway. If he ran aground he would do so gently and no harm would be done. So swift was the current that the moment he put the wheel over a few spokes and shifted the angle between the keel-line and the current direction, the river sent the craft sideways so quickly that before he had stopped turning the wheel in the first direction he had to spin it part way back again. The snag now lay to port, the towhead to starboard, and holding a straight course the Missouri Belle crept slowly between them. There came a slight tremor, a gentle lifting to port, and he met it by a quick turn of the wheel. For a moment the boat hung pivoted, its bow caught by a thrusting side current and slowly swinging to port and the snag. A hard yank on the bell handle was followed by a sudden forward surge, a perceptible side-slip, a gentle rocking, and the bow swung back as the boat, entirely free again, surged past both dangers.
The pilot heaved a sigh of relief. "Peterson didn't say nothin' about th' snag or th' towhead," he growled. Then he grinned. "I bet he rounded inter th' edge o' th' whirler afore he knowed it was thar! Now that I recollect it he did seem a mite excited."
"Somethin' like a boy explorin' a cave, an' comin' face to face with a b'ar," laughed Tom. "I recken you fellers don't find pilotin' monotonous."
"Thar ain't no two trips alike; might say no two miles, up or down, trip after trip. Here comes th' rain, an' by buckets; an' thar's th' place I been a-lookin' fer. Th' bank's so high th' wind won't hardly tech us."
He signaled for half speed and then for quarter and the boat no sooner had fallen into the latter than her bow lifted and she came to a grating stop. The crew, which had kept to shelter, sprang forward without a word and as the captain crossed the bow deck the great spars were being hauled forward. After the reversed paddles had shown the Belle to be aground beyond their help, the spars were put to work and it was not long before they pushed her off again, and a few minutes later she nosed against the bank.
The pilot sighed and packed his pipe. "Thar!" he said, explosively. "Hyar we air, an' we ain't a-goin' on ag'in till we kin see th' channel. No, sir, not if we has ter stay hyar a week!"
Tom led the way below and paused at the foot of the companionway as he caught sight of Patience. He glowed slightly as he thought that she had been waiting for him; and when he found that she had not yet entered the cabin for breakfast, the glow became quite pronounced. He had seen many pretty girls and had grown up with them, but the fact that she was pretty was not the thing which made her so attractive to him. There was a softness in her speaking voice, a quiet dignity and a certain reserve, so honest that it needed no affectations to make it sensed; and under it all he felt that there was a latent power of will that would make panicky fears and actions impossible in her. And he never had perceived such superb defenses against undue familiarity, superb in their unobtrusiveness, which to him was proof of their sincerity and that they were innate characteristics. He felt that she could repel much more effectively without showing any tangible signs of it than could any woman he ever had met. He promised himself that the study of her nature would not be neglected, and he looked forward to it with eagerness. There was, to him, a charm about her so complex, so subtle that it almost completed the circle and became simple and apparent.
She smiled slightly and acknowledged his bow as he approached her.
"Good morning, Miss Cooper. Have you and your uncle breakfasted?"
"Not yet," she answered, turning toward the cabin. "I think he is waiting for us. Shall we go in?"
The plural form of the personal pronoun sent a slight thrill through him as he opened the door for her, showed her to the table, and seated her so that she faced the wide expanse of the river.
"I imagined that I felt bumps against the boat sometime during the night," she remarked. She looked inquiringly at Tom and her uncle. "Did we strike anything?"
"Why," Tom answered in simulated surprise, "no one said anything about it to me, and I've been with the pilot almost since dawn. The whole fact of the matter is that this river's dangers are much over-estimated, considering that boats of thirty feet and under have been navigating it since before the beginning of this century. And they had no steam to help them, neither."
Uncle Joe appeared to be very preoccupied and took no part in the conversation.
"I have heard uncle and father speak many times about the great dangers attending the navigation of the Missouri," she responded, smiling enigmatically, and flashing her uncle a keen, swift glance. "They used to dwell on it a great deal before father went out to Santa Fe. So many of their friends were engaged in steamboat navigation that it was a subject of deep interest to them both, and they seemed to be very well informed about it." She laughed lightly and again glanced at her uncle. "Since uncle learned that I might have to make the trip he has talked in quite a different strain; but he did suggest, somewhat hopefully, that we put up with the discomforts of the overland route and make the trip in a wagon. Don't you believe, Mr. Boyd, that knowledge of possible dangers might be a good thing?"
Uncle Joe gulped the last of his watery coffee, pushed back, and arose. "Want to see the captain," he said. "Meet you two later on deck," and he lost no time in getting out of the cabin.
"Well," came the slow and careful answer from Tom, "so many of us pass numerous dangers in our daily lives, unknown, unsuspected, that we might have a much less pleasant existence if we knew of them. If they are dangers that we could guard against, knowledge of them certainly would be a good thing."
She nodded understandingly and looked out over the tawny, turbulent flood, then leaned forward quickly; and her companion did not lose this opportunity to admire her profile. Coming down the stream like an arrow, with a small square sail set well forward, was a keelboat, its hide-protected cargo rising a foot or more above the gunwale amidships. Standing near the mast was a lookout, holding fast to it, and crouched on top of the cargo, the long, extemporized addition to the tiller grasped firmly in both hands, was the patron, or captain. Sitting against the rear bulkhead of the hold and facing astern were several figures covered with canvas and hides, the best shift the crew could make against the weather. The French-Canadian at the mast waved his hand, stopping his exultant song long enough to shout a bon voyage to the steamboat as he shot past, and the little boat darted from their sight into the rain and the rolling vapor of the river like a hunted rabbit into a tangle of briars.
"That's splendid!" she exclaimed, an exultant lilt in her voice. "That's the spirit of this western country: direct, courageous, steadfast! Can't you feel it, Mr. Boyd?"
His eyes shone and he leaned forward over the table with a fierce eagerness. In that one moment he had caught a glimpse into the heart and soul of Patience Cooper that fanned fiercely the flame already lighted in his heart. His own feelings about the West, the almost tearful reverence which had possessed him at the sight of those pioneer women, many with babes at their breasts, that he daily had seen come into Independence from the East to leave it on the West, the hardships past great enough to give pause to men of strength, but not shaking their calm, quiet determination to face greater to the end of that testing trail, and suffer privations in a vast wilderness; his feelings, his hopes, his faith, had come back to him in those few words almost as though from some spirit mirror. He choked as he fought to master himself and to speak with a level voice.
"Feel it?" he answered, his voice shaking. "I feel it sometimes until the sheer joy of it hurts me! Wait until you stand on the outskirts of Independence facing the sunset, and see those wagons, great and small, plodding with the insistent determination of a wolverine to the distant rendezvous! Close your eyes and picture that rendezvous, the caravan slowly growing by the addition of straggling wagons from many feeding roads. Wait until you stand on the edge of that trail, facing the west, with rainbows in the mist of your eyes! Oh, Miss Cooper, I can't—but perhaps we'd better go on deck and see what the weather promises."
She did not look at him, but as she arose her hand for one brief instant rested lightly on his outflung arm, and set him aquiver with an ecstatic agony that hurt even while it glorified him. He shook his head savagely, rose and led the way to the door; and only the moral fiber and training passed on to him through generations of gentlemen kept him from taking her in his arms and smothering her with kisses; and in his tense struggle to hold himself in check he did not realize that such an indiscretion might have served him well and that such a moment might never come again. Holding open the door until she had passed through, he closed it behind them and stumbled into a whirling gust of rain that stung and chilled him to a better mastery of himself. Opportunity had knocked in vain.
"Our friends, the pilots, will not be good company on a day like this," he said, gripping the rail and interposing his body between her and the gusts. "The gangplank's out, but there seems to be a lack of warmth in its invitation. Suppose we go around on the other side?"
On the river side of the boat they found shelter against the slanting rain and were soon comfortably seated against the cabin wall, wrapped in the blankets he had coaxed from his friend, the purser.
"Just look at that fury of wind and water!" exclaimed Patience. "I wonder where that little keelboat is by now?"
"Oh, it's scooting along like a sled down an icy slope," he answered, hoping that it had escaped the hungry maw of the great whirlpool off Clay Point. "They must have urgent reasons for driving ahead like that. It must be an express from the upper Missouri posts to St. Louis. McKenzie probably wants to get word to Chouteau before the fur company's steamboat starts up the river. Or it may be the urging of the thrill that comes with gambling with death."
Behind them Uncle Joe poked his head out of the cabin door and regarded them curiously. Satisfied that troublesome topics no longer were being discussed he moved forward slowly.
"Oh, here you are," he said, as though making a discovery. "I thought I might find you out here. Captain Newell ain't fit company for a savage wolf this morning. Have you heard how long we're going to be tied up?"
Tom drew a chair toward him and looked up invitingly. "Sit down, Mr. Cooper. Why, I understand we will stay here all day and night." He understood the other man's restlessness and anxiety about the wait, but did not sympathize with him. The longer they were in making the river-run the better he would be suited.
Uncle Joe glanced out over the wild water. "Oh, well," he sighed. "If we must, then we must. That river's quite a sight; looks a lot worse than it is. Hello! What's our reverend friend doing down there? Living in the hold?" He chuckled. "If he is, it's a poor day to come up for air."
They followed his glance and beheld a tall, austere, long-faced clergyman emerging from the forward hatch, and behind him came the pilot with whom they had talked the evening before. When both had reached the deck and stepped out of the rain the clergyman shook his head stubbornly and continued his argument.
"I was told to come up on this packet and examine her carefully on the way," he asserted, doggedly. "Liquor in vast quantities has been getting past both Fort Leavenworth and Bellevue; and while the military inspectors may be lax, or worse, that is an accusation which cannot truthfully be brought against us at the upper agency. If I am not given honest assistance in the prosecution of my search, your captain may experience a delay at our levee that will not be to his liking. It's all the same to me, for if it isn't found on our way up, it will be found after we reach the agency."
"But, my reverend sir!" replied the pilot, in poorly hidden anger, "you've been from one end of th' hold to th' other! You've crawled 'round like a worm, stuck yore nose an' fingers inter everythin' thar war to stick 'em in; you've sounded th' flour barrels with a wipin'-stick, an' jabbed it inter bags an' bales. Bein' a government inspector we've had ter let ye do it, whether we liked it or not. I've got no doubts th' captain will be glad ter take down th' engines, rip open th' bilers, slit th' stacks an' mebby remove th' plankin' of th' hull; but—air ye listenin' close, my reverend sir? If ye try ter git me ter guide ye around in that thar hold ag'in, I'll prove ter ye that th' life o' a perfect Christian leads ter martyrdom. Jest ram that down yore skinny neck, an' be damned ter ye!"
"I will not tolerate such language!" exclaimed the indignant shepherd. "I shall report you, sir!"
"You kin report an' be damned!" retorted the angry pilot. "Yo're too cussed pious to be real. What's that a-stickin' outer yer pocket?"
The inspector felt quickly of the pocket indicated and pulled out a half-pint flask of liquor, and stared at it in stupefaction. "Why—I——"
"Yer a better actor than ye air a preacher," sneered the pilot, glancing knowingly from the planted bottle around the faces of the crowd which had quickly assembled. "O' course, you deal in precepts; but they'd be a cussed sight more convincin' fer a few examples along with 'em. Good day, my reverend sir!"
The frocked inspector, tearing his eyes from the accusing bottle and trying to close his mouth, gazed after the swaggering pilot and then around the circle of grinning faces. A soft laugh from above made him glance up to where Patience and her companions were thoroughly enjoying the episode.
"Parson, I'll have a snorter with ye," said a bewhiskered bullwhacker, striding eagerly forward, his hand outstretched. "Go good on a mornin' like this."
"Save some fer me, brother," called a trapper, his keen eyes twinkling. "Allus reckoned you fellers war sort o' baby-like; but thar's th' makin' o' a man in you." He grinned. "'Sides, we dassn't let all that likker git up ter th' Injuns."
"Shucks!" exclaimed a raw-boned Missourian. "That's only a sample he's takin' up ter Bellevue. He ain't worryin' none about a little bottle like that, not with th' bar'ls they got up thar. What you boys up thar do with all th' likker ye take off'n th' boats? Nobody ever saw none o' it go back down th' river."
The baited inspector hurled the bottle far out into the stream and tried to find a way out of the circle, but he was not allowed to break through.
"You said somethin' about Leavenworth bein' careless, or wuss," said a soldier who was going up to that post. "We use common sense, up thar. Thar's as much likker gits past th' agencies on th' land side as ever tried ter git past on th' river. Every man up-bound totes as much o' it as he kin carry. Th' fur company uses judgment in passin' it out, fer it don't want no drunken Injuns; but th' free traders don't care a rip. If th' company ain't got it, then th' Injuns trade whar they kin git it; an' that means they'll git robbed blind, an' bilin' drunk in th' bargain. If I had my way, they'd throw th' hull kit of ye in th' river."
"That's right," endorsed a trapper, chuckling, and slapping the inspector on the back with hearty strength. "You hold this hyar boat to th' bank at Bellevue jest as long as ye kin, parson. It makes better time than th' boys goin' over th' land, an' 'tain't fair ter th' boys. Think ye kin hold her a hull week, an' give my pardners a chanct ter beat her ter th' Mandan villages?" He looked around, grinning. "Them Injuns must have a hull passel o' furs a-waitin' fer th' first trader."
"What's th' trouble here?" demanded the captain, pushing roughly through the crowd. "What's th' trouble?"
"Nothing but the baiting of a government inspector and a wearer of the cloth," bitterly answered the encircled minister.
"Oh," said the captain, relieved. "Wall, ye git as ye give. Are ye through with th' hold?"
The inspector sullenly regarded him. "I think so," he answered.
The captain wheeled to one of the crew. "Joe, throw on that hatch, lock it, and keep it locked until we get to Bellevue," he snapped. "We're ready to comply with government regulations, at the proper time and place. You and your friends can root around all you want after we get to Bellevue. The next time I find you in the hold with a lighted candle I'll take it away from you and lock you in there." He turned, ordered the crowd to disperse and went back to the texas.
It was an old story, this struggle to get liquor past the posts to the upper Missouri, and there were tricks as yet untried. From the unexpected passage of this up-bound inspector, going out to his station at the agency, and his officious nosings, it was believed by many that any liquor on board would not have a chance to get through. And why should the Belle be carrying it, since her destination and turning point was Bellevue?
"Is it true that liquor is smuggled up the river?" asked Patience as the inspector became lost to sight below.
Her companions laughed in unison.
"They not only try to get it up," answered Tom, "but they succeed. I've been watching that sour-faced parson on his restless ramblings about the boat, and I knew at once that there must be a game on. Sometimes their information is correct. However, I'll back the officers of this packet against him, any time."
"I'm afraid you'd win your bet, Mr. Boyd," choked the uncle.
"Uncle Joe! What do you know about it?" asked his niece accusingly.
"Nothing, my dear; not a single thing!" he expostulated, raising his hands in mock horror, his eyes resting on three new yawls turned bottomside up on the deck near the bow. He mentally pictured the half-dozen bullboats stowed on the main deck near the stern, each capable of carrying two tons if handled right, and he shook with laughter. This year the fur company's boat carried no liquor and its captain would insist on a most thorough inspection at Bellevue; but the fur posts on the upper river would be overjoyed by what she would bring to them. After the inspection she would proceed on her calm way, and tie against the bank at a proper distance above the agency; just as the Belle would spend a night against the bank at a proper distance below Bellevue; and what the latter would run ashore after midnight, when the inquisitive minister was deep in sleep, would be smuggled upstream in the smaller boats during the dark of the night following, and be put aboard the fur boat above.
"Uncle Joe!" said his niece. "You know something!"
"God help the man that don't!" snorted her uncle. "Look there!"
A heavily loaded Mackinaw boat had shot around the next bend. It was of large size, nearly fifty feet long and a dozen wide. In the bow were four men at the great oars and in the stern at the tiller was the patron, singing in lusty and not unpleasant voice and in mixed French and English, a song of his own composing.
Patience put a finger to her lips and enjoined silence, leaning forward to catch the words floating across the turbulent water, and to her they sounded thus:
"Mon père Baptiste for Pierre Chouteau
He work lak dam in le ol' bateau;
From Union down le ol' Missou
Lak chased, by gar, by carcajou.
"Le coureurs des bois, le voyageur, too,
He nevaire work so hard, mon Dieu,
Lak Baptiste père an' Baptiste fils,
Coureurs avant on le ol' Missou.
"McKenzie say: 'Baptiste Ladeaux,
Thees lettaire you mus' geeve Chouteau;
Vous are one dam fine voyageur—
So hurry down le ol' Missou.
"Go get vous fils an' vous chapeau,
You mebby lak Mackinaw bateau'—
Lak that he say, lak one dam day
Le voyage weel tak to ol' St. Lou!"
As the square stern of the fur-laden boat came opposite the packet the mercurial patron stopped his song and shouted: "Levez les perches!" and the four oars rose from the water and shot into the air, vertical and rigid. The pilot of the steamboat, chancing to be in the pilot house, blew a series of short blasts in recognition, causing the engineer to growl something about wasting his steam. The crew of the Mackinaw boat arose and cheered, the patron firing his pistol into the air. Gay vocal exchanges took place between the two boats, and the patron, catching sight of Patience, placed a hand over his heart and bowed, rattling off habitant French. She waved in reply and watched the boat forge ahead under the thrust of the perfectly timed oars.
"Mackinaw boat," said Tom, "and in a hurry. There's the express. There is a belief on the river that the square stern of those boats gives them a speed in rapids greater than that of the current. They are very safe and handy for this kind of navigation, and well built by skilled artisans at the boat yards of the principal trading posts up the river. They are a great advance over the bullboat, which preceded them."
"And which are still in use, makeshifts though they are," said Captain Newell as he stopped beside them. "But you can't beat the bullboat for the purpose for which it was first made; that of navigating the shallower streams. I thought you would be glad to know that we expect to be under way again early in the morning. But, speaking of bullboats, did you ever see one, Miss Cooper?"
"I've had them pointed out to me at St. Louis, but at a distance," she answered. "Somehow they did not impress me enough to cause me to remember what they looked like."
"Why, I'll show you some," offered Tom eagerly. "There's half a dozen on the main deck."
Uncle Joe squirmed as he glanced around, and arose to leave for the card room, but the captain smiled and nodded.
"Yes, that's so, Mr. Boyd. Take a look at them when the rain lets up. We're always glad to carry a few of them back up the river, for we find them very handy in lightering cargo in case we have mean shallows that can be crossed in no other way. You'd be surprised how little water this boat draws after its cargo is taken ashore."
"But why do they call them bullboats?" asked Patience.
"They're named after the hides of the bull buffalo, which are used for the covering," explained the captain. "First a bundle of rather heavy willow poles are fashioned into a bottom and bound together with rawhide. To this other and more slender willow poles are fastened by their smaller ends and curved up and out to make the ribs. Then two heavy poles are bent on each side from stem to stern and lashed to the ends of the ribs, forming the gunwale. Everything is lashed with rawhide and not a bolt or screw or nail is used. Hides of buffalo bulls, usually prepared by the Indians, although the hunters and trappers can do the work as well, are sewn together with sinew after being well soaked. They are stretched tightly over the frame and lashed securely to the gun'le, and they dry tight as drumheads and show every rib. Then a pitch of buffalo tallow and ashes is worked into the seams and over every suspicious spot on the hides and the boat is ready. Usually a false flooring of loosely laid willow poles, three or four inches deep, is placed in the bottom to prevent the water, which is sure to leak in, from wetting the cargo. In the morning the boat rides high and draws only a few inches of water; but often at night there may be six or eight inches slopping around inside. I doubt if any other kind of a boat can be used very far up on the Platte, and sometimes even bullboats can't go up."
"How was it that the fur company's boat was tied at the levee at St. Louis, after we left?" asked Tom. "Rather late for her, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," answered the captain. "The great event on this river has always been the annual upstream fur packet. She is coming along somewhere behind us, and very likely will pass us before we reach the mouth of the Kaw. They take bigger chances with the river than we do because they've got to get up to Fort Union and away again while there's water enough." He looked at Patience. "Are you going far, Miss Cooper?" he asked, anxious to get the conversation into channels more to his liking.
"Santa Fe, captain," she answered as placidly as though it were a shopping trip from her home to the downtown stores of St. Louis.
"Well, well!" he exclaimed, as if he had not known it. "That will be quite an undertaking!"
Tom Boyd was staring at her aghast, doubting his ears. The slowly changing expression on his face caught her attention and she smiled at him.
"You look as if you had seen a ghost, Mr. Boyd," she laughed.
"I'm going to do my very best not to see one, Miss Cooper; or let anyone else see one," he answered mysteriously. "I am glad that I, too, am bound for Santa Fe. It is a great surprise and pleasure to learn that you are going over the same trail."
"Why, didn't you say that you were going over the Oregon Trail this year?" she quickly asked. "At least, I understood you that way."
"I often let my enthusiasm run away with me," he answered. "Much as I would like to go out to Oregon I will have to wait until my affairs will permit me to follow my inclination. You see, I've made two trips to Santa Fe, it has got into my blood, and there are reasons why I must go over that trail again. And then, knowing the trail so well, it is possible that I can make very good arrangements this year. But isn't it a most remarkable coincidence?"
"Very," drily answered the captain. "By the way, Mr. Boyd: you and Mr. Cooper seem to be quite friendly, and neither of you waste much time in the company of your present roommates. Seeing that you are both bunked with strangers, how would it suit you if I put you together in the same room? Good: then I'll speak to Mr. Cooper, and if it's agreeable to him I'll have the change made. Sorry to tear myself away from you two, but I must be leaving now." He bowed and stepped into the cabin, smiling to himself. He distinctly remembered his conversation with the young man, only the day before, when Tom had assured him with great earnestness that he no longer could resist the call of the emigrant trail and that he was going to follow it with the first outgoing caravan. The captain was well pleased by the change in the young man's plans, for he knew that the niece of his old friend would be safer on her long journey across the plains if Tom Boyd was a member of the caravan. He turned his steps toward the gaming tables to find her uncle, whom he expected would be surrounded by the members of a profession which Joe Cooper had forsaken many years before for a more reputable means of earning a living.
The reputation of "St. Louis Joe" was known to almost everyone but his niece; and the ex-gambler was none too sure that she did not know it. While his name was well-known, there were large numbers of gamblers on both rivers, newcomers to the streams, who did not know him by sight; and it was his delight to play the part of an innocent and unsuspecting merchant and watch them try to fleece him. Not one of the professionals on the Missouri Belle knew he was playing against a man who could tutor him in the finer points of his chosen art; but by this time they had held a conference or two in a vain attempt to figure why their concerted efforts had borne bitter fruit. One of them, smarting over his moderate, but annoyingly persistent losses, was beginning to get ugly. While his pocketbook was lightly touched, his pride was raw and bleeding. Elias Stevens was known as a quick-tempered man whom it were well not to prod; and Joseph Cooper was prodding him again and again, and appearing to take a quiet but deep satisfaction in the operation. At first Stevens had hungered only for the large sum of money his older adversary had shown openly and carelessly; but now it was becoming secondary, and the desire for revenge burning in Stevens was making him more and more reckless in his play.
The careless way in which Joe Cooper had shown his money to arouse the avarice of the gamblers had awakened quick interest in others outside the fraternity, and other heads were planning other ways of getting possession of it. Two men in particular, believing that the best chance of stealing it was while the owner of it was on the boat, decided to make the attempt on this night. If the boat should remain tied to the bank their escape would be easy; and if it started before daylight they could make use of the yawl, which was towed most of the time, and always during a run after dark.
Captain Newell looked in at the gambling tables and did not see his friend, but as he turned to look about the upper end of the cabin he caught sight of him coming along the deck, and stepped out to wait for him.
"Looking for me?" asked Uncle Joe, smiling.
"Yes; want to tell you that your young friend Boyd has changed his mind and is going out to Santa Fe to look after his numerous interests there. Ordinarily I would keep my mouth shut, but I know his father and the whole family, and no finer people live in St. Louis. Who have you in mind to go in charge of your wagons?"
Uncle Joe scratched his chin reflectively. "Well, I'd thought of Boyd and was kinda sorry he was going out over the other trail. I'll keep my eyes on the scamp. Strikes me he'd take my wagons through for his keep, under the circumstances! He-he-he! Changed his mind, has he? D——d if I blame him; I'd 'a' gone farther'n that, at his age, for a girl like Patience. How about a little nip, for good luck?"
"Not now. How would you like to change sleeping partners?" asked the captain, quickly explaining the matter.
"First rate idea; th' partner I got now spends most of his nights scratching. Better shift me instead of him, or Boyd'll get cussed little sleep in that bunk."
Captain Newell leaned against the cabin and laughed. "All right, Joe; I'll have your things taken out and the change made by supper time, at the latest. Look out those gamblers in there don't skin you."
True to his word the captain shifted Joe Cooper to the room of his new friend, and sent the bull-necked, bullwhacking bully who had shared Tom's cabin to take the ex-gambler's former berth. This arrangement was suitable both ways, for not only were the two friends put together, but the two loud-voiced, cursing, frontier toughs found each other very agreeable. They had made each other's acquaintance at the camp-fire on the bank the night previous and like many new and hastily made friendships, it had not had time to show its weaknesses. One of them had stolen a bottle of liquor at the camp-fire carousal and upon learning of the change shortly after supper, had led his new roommate to their joint quarters to celebrate the event; where they both remained.
The early part of the night was passed as usual, Uncle Joe at the card tables, Tom Boyd with Patience and later mingling with the hunters and trappers in the cabin until his eyes became heavy and threatened to close. Leaving his friend at the table, he went to their room and in a few moments was so fast asleep that he did not hear the merchant come in. It seemed to him that he had barely closed his eyes when he awakened with a start, sitting up in the berth so suddenly that he soundly whacked his head against the ceiling. He rolled out and landed on the floor like a cat, pistol in hand, just as his roommate groped under the pillow for his own pistol and asked what the trouble was all about.
The sound of it seemed to fill the boat. Shouts, curses, crashes against the thin partition located it for them as being in the next room, and lighting a candle, the two friends, pistols in hands, cautiously opened the door just as one of the boat's officers came running down the passage-way with a lantern in his hand. There was a terrific crash in the stateroom and they saw him put down the light and leap into a dark shadow, and roll out into sight again in a tangle of legs and arms. Other doors opened and night-shirted men poured out and filled the passage.
The battle in the stateroom had taken an unexpected turn the moment the officer appeared, for the door sagged suddenly, burst from its hinges and flew across the narrow way, followed by a soaring figure, to one leg of which Ebenezer Whittaker, bully bullwhacker of the Santa Fe trail, was firmly fastened. After him dived his new friend, who once had ruled a winter-bound party of his kind in Brown's hole with a high and mighty hand. The trapper went head first into the growling pair rolling over the floor, his liquor-stimulated zeal not permitting him to waste valuable time in so small a matter as the identity of the combatants. He knew that one of them was his new roommate, the other a prowling thief, and being uncertain in the poor light as to which was which, he let the Goddess of Chance direct his energies.
At the other end of the passage-way the boat's officer, now reinforced by so many willing helpers that the affair was fast taking on the air of a riot, at last managed to drag the thief's lookout from the human tangle and hustle him into the eager hands of three of the crew, leaving the rescuers to fight it out among themselves, which they were doing with praiseworthy energy and impartial and indefinite aims. Considering that they did not know whom they were fighting, nor why, they were doing so well that Tom wondered what force could withstand them if they should become united in a compelling cause and concerted in their attack.
At the inner end of the passage, having beaten, choked, and gouged the thief into an inert and senseless mass, the bullwhacker turned his overflowing energies against his new and too enthusiastic friend, and they rolled into the stateroom, out again, and toward the heaving pile at the upper end of the hall. Striking it in a careless, haphazard but solid manner, just as it was beginning to disintegrate into its bruised and angry units, the fighting pair acted upon it like a galvanic current on a reflex center; and forthwith the scramble became scrambled anew.
Finally, by the aid of capstan-bars, boat hooks, axe handles, and cordwood, the boat's officers and crew managed to pry the mass apart and drag out one belligerent at a time. They lined them up just as Captain Newell galloped down the passage-way, dressed in a pair of trousers, reversed; one rubber boot and one red sock and a night shirt partly thrust inside the waistband of the trousers; but he was carefully and precisely hatted with a high-crowned beaver. He looked as if he were coming from a wake and going to a masquerade. Notwithstanding the very recent and exciting events he received a great amount of attention.
"What-in-hell's-th'-matter?" he angrily demanded, glaring around him, a pistol upraised in one hand, the other gripping a seasoned piece of ash. "Answer-me-I-say-what-in-hell's-th'-matter-down-here?"
"There was a fight," carefully explained the weary officer.
"Hell's-bells-I-thought-it-was-a-prayer-meetin'!" yelped the captain. "Who-was-fightin'?"
"They was," answered the officer, waving both hands in all directions.
"What-about?"
The officer looked blank and scratched his head, carefully avoiding the twin knobs rising over one ear. "Damned if I know, sir!"
"Were you fightin', Flynn?" demanded the captain aggressively and with raging suspicion. "Come, up with it, were you?"
"No, sir; I was a-stoppin' it."
"My G-d! Then don't you never dare start one!" snapped the captain, staring around. "You look like the British at N'Orleans," he told the line-up. "What was it all about? Hell's bells! It must 'a' had a beginning!"
"Yessir," replied the officer. "It sorta begun all at once, right after th' explosion."
"What explosion?"
"I dunno. I heard it, 'way up on th' hurricane deck, an' hustled right down here fast as I could run. Just as I got right over there," and he stepped forward and with his foot touched the exact spot, "that there stateroom door come bustin' out right at me. I sorta ducked to one side, an' plumb inter somebody that hit me on th' eye. I reckon th' fightin' was from then on. Excuse me, sir; but you got yore pants on upside-down—I means stern-foremost, sir."
"What's my pants got to do with this disgraceful riot, or mebby mutiny?" blazed the reddening captain. He couldn't resist a downward glance over his person, and hastily slipped the red-socked foot behind its booted mate.
Somebody snickered and the sound ran along the line, gathering volume. Glaring at the battle-scarred line-up, Captain Newell waved the pistol and seemed at a loss for words.
Uncle Joe stepped forward with the bullwhacker. "Captain, this man says he woke up an' found a thief reachin' under his pillow, where he keeps his bottle. I think the thief is against the wall, there; and his partner, who doubtless acted as his lookout, is in the hands of those two men. The rest of th' fightin' was promiscuous, but well meant. I reckon if you put those two thieves in irons an' let th' rest of us go back to our berths it'll be th' right thing to do. As for Flynn, he deserves credit for his part in it."
"That's my understanding of it, captain," said Tom, and again burst out laughing. "Evidently they were after Mr. Cooper's money, which he has shown recklessly, and they did not know that he had changed staterooms."
"Reckon that's it, captain!" shouted someone, laughingly. "Anyhow, it's good enough. Come on, captain; it's time for a drink all 'round!"
In another moment a shirt-tailed picnic was in full swing, the bottles passing rapidly.