Chapter XVIII BY THE CABIN FIRE

 IT was a cheerless night. The clouds, which had smothered the tops of the mountains all day, began about dusk to drip and drizzle a chilly rain. The dispiriting fall storms had set in.   Uncle Dave, forewarned, not by a “tech of rheumatiz,” for his sturdy limbs had never felt that persecution, but by his unerring weather instinct, was prepared for the gloomy spell. An ample supply of meat and other provisions was in his larder; the woodshed was full; so he could rest by his inviting fireplace, as now he did, in cozy content.   He sat in his big rustic chair, his long gray beard adrift over his breast, a far-away look in his half-shut eyes, as he gazed into the dancing flames. Faithful Tobe lay dozing near him. On the wall above hung his old Kentucky rifle, long unused, but kept for memory’s sake. It held a store of tales of trying times when it had been his tried and indeed his only friend.{197}   But to-night the old mountaineer’s thoughts went back farther than even those long ago tales. He was dreaming of his boyhood days, when he lived with his pioneer parents in the woods of the Buckeye country—days of hazel and hickory nuts, and maple sugar, of husking parties, and “spellin’ bees,” when Hannah’s bright eyes lighted the only flame of love his heart had ever known. What had become of them all? How different his life might have been had the wanderlust not seized his heart! He poked the fire to change the pictures in the flames, and he was just settling back again when Tobe, giving a low growl, jumped up and faced the door.   The old man listened. His sharp ear caught the sound of footsteps. The dog growled again more threateningly, as a gentle rap came at the door.   “Be still, Tobe,” said his master. “Who’s there?”   “It’s Fred.”   The old man rose and threw open the door. “Come in, boy, come in. What brings ye here this drippin’ night?”   “I’m in trouble, Uncle Dave”; the voice trembled slightly.   “What’s wrong?{198}”   “I’ve left the ranch—discharged, I guess.”   “Hev ye been doin’ mischief?” The tone was incisive.   “No, I haven’t,” Fred looked squarely into the calm eyes that searched him. “Perhaps I’ve made mistakes, but I did the best I could.”   “None of us kin beat that; but why d’ye come to me?”   “Because I have no other friend I can trust with my trouble. I haven’t any money—they wouldn’t pay me—but I thought you might take me in till I can find a way to get back home. I’ll make it right some way.”   “Wall, boy, you’re welcome.” The voice was tender. Fred’s eyes filled.   “There, now, fergit yer troubles. We’ll figure them out in the morning. Get off that wet jacket and dry yerself—but take care of your pony fust.”   “I haven’t any.”   “You come afoot?”   “Yes, my little mare was killed in the roundup.”   “That’s more trouble. Wall, never mind, set down and thaw out while I git somethin’ ready to comfort yer insides. Yer hungry, I reckon.”   “Not so very.{199}”   “Frettin’, I warrant. Stop it, boy, stop it. We can’t allus hev our way in this world. If we did, we’d get so cranky people couldn’t live with us.”   He stirred the coals to warm up the coffee, then he cut some slices from a haunch of roasted venison and put these with bread and butter on the rustic table.   “Here, set up to this and pitch in. You’ll feel better after you git a cup o’ this smoking coffee down. This fall rain soaks to the bones.”   “I’m hungrier than I thought,” said Fred, as he began to eat. “This venison is fine.”   “That’s a piece o’ the yearlin’ buck I got the other day—shot him right from the door. It seemed kind o’ mean to kill him, he looked so perty; but I was needin’ the meat; he’s as fat as a butter ball; that’s the kind that makes good eatin’.”   “Do they often come close to your cabin?”   “I see ’em every few days. This storm will bring a herd o’ ’em down, I reckon. They winter in the foothills, you know. Elk and moose like to browse on the willows along the creeks.”   “Which meat do you like better, elk or moose?{200}”   “Oh, moose beats elk way yender, to my notion; but nary one’s got the taste of tender buffalo—or maybe my appetite’s growin’ old.”   “Did the buffalo ever roam over this valley?”   “Yes, herds of ’em. Ain’t you seen their skulls lyin’ round?”   “I wonder if that was one I picked out of the creek the other day when I went to take a drink. It was a big thick one with short horns.”   “That’s the kind; they’re scattered all over here. I used to hunt ’em with the Shoshones on them rollin’ hills over west thar. One time I was with Washakie’s band when we killed nigh on to thirty of ’em. That old robe in the corner come from that hunt.”   “You knew Washakie, then?”   “Like a brother—mighty good Injun, too. Got lots of white sense in his head; but he likes whisky too well. That cursed stuff’ll end his trail one of these days, I’m afraid. Why I see him one time down at Bridger come into the tradin’ store with a bunch o’ braves and lift the feller in charge clean over the counter; then he helped himself and his bucks to a barrel o’ whisky that stood in the corner; took all they wanted—didn’t touch another thing—and they paid for the whisky, every cent, after their spree was over. But it was warm times for the{201} squaws and papooses while it was on, I tell ye. We didn’t know what minute they’d cut loose and lift our scalps. You never kin tell what’ll happen when an Injun gits full o’ whisky.”   “Yes, we found that out when that band got drunk down by the creek a month or so ago.”   “What band?”   “I don’t know—Old Copperhead, I believe the boys called their chief. They seemed to be a hunting party, but they acted sulky and disappeared about as suddenly as they came.”   The mountaineer’s face looked puzzled for a moment. “I reckon that’s the bunch that’s holed up in that cove to the south o’ here. I caught sight of their tepees a few days back when I was out prospectin’ fer beaver. I can’t quite make out why they’re hidin’ thar; looks like some deviltry to me; and what makes me think it more is that bunch I seen sneakin’ up the creek a little while back—’bout a dozen young bucks. There was a half-breed, or a dirty white with ’em. They didn’t see me, but I watched ’em as they skulked along through the willows. Had their ponies loaded with meat. Struck me at the time they hadn’t come by it honestly.”   Fred’s face lighted with the thought that flashed through his mind. “I’ll bet those devils did it.{202}”   “Did what?”   “Killed my cattle.”   “You lost some?”   “Yes, two head were missing. I found one shot dead. The other never turned up. That was one reason I left the ranch. The boss got mad because I wouldn’t give away one of the boys that had roped and killed another.”   “Maybe so, boy, maybe so.”   “You say a white was in the band?”   “Yes.”   “How did he look?”   “He was dressed in Injun toggery.”   “That’s the devil. I’d like to help lynch that black cur.”   “Why?”   Fred hesitated, as he recollected his promise to Alta. “But,” he thought, “I owe it to her to clear this business up.” Then he opened his heart and told Uncle Dave the whole story.   The old trapper followed with eager interest. He studied a moment when the boy had done, then said quietly, “Looks like we’ve found the snake’s trail, boy; looks like it. But it’s too late to foller it to-night. Let’s get some sleep to clear our eyes.”   He rose stiffly as he spoke and walked over to the cot in the corner.{203}   “You’d better tumble in here,” he said; “I’ll pitch this old robe and a few blankets on the floor.”   “No, indeed, I’ll sleep on the floor; you must keep your bed.” Fred’s objection was not to be overruled, so Uncle Dave yielded. They tucked themselves cosily under the covers and lay there listening to the patter of the rain till it sang them both to sleep.