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THE LAND OF STRONG MEN
BY A. M. CHISHOLM
AUTHOR OF _"Precious Waters" and "The Boss of Wind River"_
ILLUSTRATED BYFRANK TENNEY JOHNSON
New YorkTHE H. K. FLY COMPANYPublishers
Copyright, 1919, byTHE H. K. FLY COMPANY
_Before the heavy snows these bunches were rounded up anddriven to the ranch._]
CONTENTS
I Lost and Found
II A Death Bed
III Angus Asserts Himself
IV Judge Riley--Drunk and Sober
V Angus in Love and War
VI Gain and Loss
VII The Frenches Again
VIII Old Sam Paul Makes a Proposition
IX Dorgan
X Before the Race
XI A Hold-up
XII The Race
XIII Mainly About Chetwood
XIV A Fight with a Grizzly
XV Faith Winton Turns Up
XVI A Talk with Judge Riley
XVII A Crisis
XVIII Christmas at the Frenches
XIX Introducing Mrs. Foley
XX An Enemy at Work
XXI Watching
XXII Brother to Brother
XXIII Faiths's Farm
XXIV A Demand and Answer
XXV Cross Currents
XXVI Conspiracy
XXVII While Shelling Peas
XXVIII Mrs. Foley on Marriage
XXIX Sudden Death
XXX Strangers Ask Questions
XXXI The Auction
XXXII Chetwood Unmasked
XXXIII Another Surprise
XXXIV A New Complication
XXXV Braden Misses Some Papers
XXXVI Turkey Plays a Hand
XXXVII Duplicate Deeds
XXXVIII Garland Plays a Hand
XXXIX The Turning of the Screw
XL Signs and Omens
XLI Terror
XLII Outlaws!
XLIII Taking the Trail
XLIV The Red Avenger
XLV The Great Show-Down
XLVI Strong Men
XLVII Peace
ILLUSTRATIONS
Before the heavy snows these bunches were rounded up and driven to theranch
He turned the corner, and came full upon a huge, old-man grizzly
Angus swung his arm against it, and it roared in his ear
To Faith these trips were a novelty, opening a world new and wonderful
The Land of Strong Men
CHAPTER I
LOST AND FOUND
It was light, but not yet day. The shadows of the night seemed tolinger, to retreat with reluctance; and as they were beaten back by thesun, still far below the eastern curve of the earth and furtherblockaded by giant mountain ranges also to the eastward, the clinging,gray morning mists of early Fall came to replace them. In the pallidlight, a-swim with vapor, objects loomed gigantic and grotesque.
The house which stood among the mists was of squared timbers, mortisedand fitted. It was unpainted, and the interstices were neatly filledwith plaster. The main part was two stories in height, but back of thisand joined to it was another log building, long and low. Evidently thishad been the original dwelling, to which the more pretentious structurehad been added. From one window of this rear building a light glimmered.
The house was surrounded and in summer would be shaded by trees,cottonwoods and soft maples; but these had shed most of their leaves andthe ground was yellowed with them. Close beside the house ran anirrigation ditch in which clear mountain water purred and gurgledsoftly. To the south loomed the roofs of stables, sheds, high corralsand stacks of hay and straw. Beyond these were cleared, level fields. Tothe northward, protected to some extent by the buildings and trees, wasa small orchard in neat rows.
Now, the light in the rear window went out, and a moment later a dooropened and a boy emerged. He was apparently about eighteen, butunusually tall and long of limb. At a casual glance he seemed to run tolegs and arms, but a second look would have shown that his chest wasbroad and deep, and that his apparent ungainliness was due to agemerely. His face, naturally dark, was tanned to the color of an oldsaddle. The cheekbones were high, the nose prominent, the mouth straightand the boyish jaw firm. The eyes were dark, steady and sombre, shadedby black eyebrows which slashed straight across the face, meeting abovethe nose. The darkness of complexion, the heavy brows, the straightmouth conveyed an expression almost of grimness. The boy wore a batteredfelt hat, a fawn mackinaw coat, pants thrust into high socks and a pairof moosehide moccasins. In his right hand he carried a rifle, in hisleft a small cotton bag. The wooden handle of a knife stuck from ajam-sheath in his belt.
For a moment he stood sniffling the morning air like a dog, and thenwith a light swiftness which gave the lie to his apparent ungainliness,made for the stables. In a few moments he led out a brown pony. He tiedthe cotton bag to the cantle, thrust the rifle into a saddle holster andswung up.
As he did so there was the sound of running feet, and a girl sped towardhim from the house.
"Angus! Wait a minute!" she cried. She was apparently a couple of yearsyounger than the boy, slim, brown of hair, eye, and face, delicate offeature. She held out a paper-wrapped parcel. "Here's some doughnuts foryour lunch," she said.
But the boy frowned down at her. "I've got my lunch," he said tappingthe cotton bag. In it there was bread and cold meat, which he esteemedmanly fare.
"But you like doughnuts," said the girl, "and I thought--I thought--"
Her eyes filled with moisture which was not that of the mists, and theboy either because of that or affected by the silent argument of thedoughnuts, relented.
"Oh, well, give 'em here," he said, and dismounting untied the bag,thrust in the doughnuts, made all fast again and remounted. "Tell fatherI'll be back in time to feed the stock to-night."
"Yes, Angus. I hope you'll get a deer."
"Sure, I'll get one," the boy replied confidently. A thought seemed tostrike him. "Oh, thanks for the doughnuts."
The girl beamed at this belated recognition. She felt fully repaid forboth the cooking and the early rising. For when a brother is goinghunting naturally his thoughts are far above such things as doughnutsand younger sisters. Recognizing the propriety of this she turned backto the house.
The boy rode fast. He passed the boundaries of the ranch, followed aroad for a mile and then, turning into a beaten cattle trail, headedeastward toward the flanks of a mountain range showing beneath theskirts of the rising mist.
The trail wound sinuously, rising from benchland to benchland, but theboy stuck to it, for he knew that cattle invariably choose the easiestway. Also he knew the country so near home like a book, or rather betterthan he knew any written books. To him the land, lying as yet much as itcame from the hands of the Creator, carried more messages and held moreinteresting things than any printed pages. Grouse scuttled aside or rosewith a roar of wings, and the boy eyed them regretfully. Once he caughtsight of a coyote, an arrogant, bushy-tailed youngster which, apparentlyknowing that he was in a hurry, stood in full view watching him. Once hestopped short at a momentary glimpse of something in thick bush. But ashe did not see it again, he rode on.
While he still rode in the shadow of the eastern hills, the sun frombehind them struck the face of the western range ten miles or moreacross Fire Valley. Behind that again it glinted on peaks still
cappedwith the snows of the previous winter. The sunshine moved downward tothe valley and eastward across it in a marching swath of gold. In thatclear, thin air to the keen eyes of the boy, peaks and rocks and eventrees miles away were sharply defined. Below him was a lake, pale silverwhere the mists that still clung to its surface had parted. Half an hourlater it would take on the wondrous blue of mountain waters. But the boydid not care for that, nor just then for the great unfolding panorama ofrolling, timber-clad hills, bare, gray peaks and blue sky. He was anhour late and, as everybody knows, the early morning is the best time tohunt.
He had intended to enter a pass leading into the hills and turn from itup a big draw which he knew held blacktail, but he gave up the idea andturned along the base of the mountain. He was now in a country ofjackpine with huge, scattered, gloomy firs and chumps of cottonwood.Numerous little spring-fed creeks ran through it, and there were rockycoulees and small ponds. It was an ideal country for whitetail. Therethe boy dismounted, hung his saddle from a tree out of the reach of apossible porcupine, and put his pony on a rope. He glanced aroundmechanically, noting the exact position and registering landmarks. Thenhe levered a cartridge into the chamber of his rifle, dropped the hammerto half cock, tucked the weapon under his arm and struck off parallelwith the base of the mountain.
In motion the impression of awkwardness vanished. He walked with thepeculiar straight-footed, bent-kneed slouch which is the distinctivemark of the woodsman and moccasin wearer; and is, moreover, extremelyeasy because the weight of the body cushions on the naturalshock-absorbers, the ball of the foot and the bend of the knee, and sois quite a different method of locomotion from the ordinary heel-jarringstride. Also it is much faster than it looks. And so the boy movedeasily and silently, his moccasined feet automatically avoiding sticksand loose stones.
He did not hurry. Now and then he stopped, his eyes keen as a younghawk's fixed on some ill-defined object, and he remained absolutelymotionless until it defined itself to his gaze. Occasionally heinspected the soft ground, but though he saw many impressions of thehoofs of deer he paid little attention to them. He followed the onlypractical method of still-hunting, prowling along quietly andwatchfully.
But luck seemed against him. Twice, in spite of his care, he heard thethumping beat which told that deer, alarmed, were making a get-away, buthe did not see them. Being pardonably proud of his eyes and his abilityto move quietly, the boy was disgusted. Noon came and he had no meat. Hesat down by a spring which gushed cold from the base of a hill, and atehis bread and meat and two doughnuts. Of the latter four remained. Thesehe saved against an emergency, and stretching himself on a patch ofyellow, sun-dried grass went to sleep like a young dog.
In an hour he awoke, stretched himself, drank from the spring andcircling toward the mountain began to work back toward his pony. He hadcovered perhaps half the return distance when he came suddenly upon ayoung buck. At the same time the buck caught sight of him and set sailfor the protection of thick brush.
Though taken by surprise, the boy was unflurried. He planted his feetsolidly, swung his rifle swiftly but without hurry, caught the leapingform fair with the bead and squeezed the trigger. A second time therifle rapped on the heels of its own echo, and the buck pitched forwardsprawling, the stiffening gone from his slim limbs which kickedconvulsively.
But instead of running forward eagerly, the boy scarcely shifted hisposition as he pumped another cartridge into place. As the deer did notrise he fed two fresh shells to the magazine methodically. There was noyouthful triumph in his face. Instead it showed a certaindissatisfaction.
"Ought to have downed him first shot," he muttered, and went forward. Heturned the deer over finding that the first bullet had stuck too farback. Laying the rifle aside he stuck the animal and proceeded to dresshim. Completing his task he rose and scanned the brush thirty yards awayfor a convenient sapling on which to hang his meat.
As he looked, his eye was arrested by a movement in the bushes ofsomething dun or brown. Without taking his eyes from the spot he stoopedfor his rifle, cocked it and advanced slowly.
When he was within thirty feet of the bushes they shook, and the boyhalted, throwing his rifle forward, the butt halfway to his shoulders.Then, from the shelter of the bushes out stepped a girl.
She was apparently several years younger than the boy, slight, straight,fair of hair, with clear blue eyes which, however, seemed a little puffyand reddened. Her face, too, was streaked as with tears, and one sheerstocking was torn so that the flesh peeped through. She held her armsstraight by her sides, her fists gripped tight. Plainly she wasfrightened, but though her mouth quivered a little she looked the boystraight in the face.
If it had been a grizzly he would have been less surprised. The girl wasa stranger and, moreover, her dress of neat brown linen, her shoes, andeven the sheer, torn stockings, showed that she did not belong in thatneighborhood.
"Hallo!" he said. She gave a little, gasping sigh of relief.
"Why," she said, "you're just a white boy." She spoke with a faintlittle lisp, which was really enticing. But her words did not please theboy who privately considered himself a good deal of a man.
"What did you think I was?" he asked in as gruff a voice as he couldattain.
"I thought you were an In-di-an," she said, pronouncing the word insyllables; "a growed-up--I mean a grown-up-In-di-an."
Having known Indians all his life the boy found her words unflattering."What made you think that?" he queried.
"Because you looked so black and bloody," she told him frankly.
The boy was disgusted. What business had this girl to call him black?"What's a kid like you doing away out here?" he demanded severely. Andhe added wickedly: "Don't you know these woods are full of grizzlies andcougars and wolves? It's a wonder you weren't eaten alive."
The girl shivered and glanced fearfully back into the gloom of the firs.
"I didn't mean to get lost, really."
"Lost, are you?"
"I was," she said, "but now, of course, you've found me. I'm not afraidnow, because I know you wouldn't let anything hurt me."
At this belated tribute to his manhood the boy's expression softened.
"Well, I guess you're safe now," he admitted. "How did you get lost, andwhere from?"
"I got lost from Uncle Godfrey's ranch."
"Do you mean old Godfrey French's ranch?"
"I mean Mr. Godfrey French's ranch," she corrected him. "You'll take methere, won't you, like a nice boy?"
The boy snorted. The ranch in question was nearly ten miles distant. Ofcourse she would ride his pony. He did not in the least mind thewalking, but it meant that he would have to leave the deer until thenext day, and meat was needed at home. However, there was no help forit.
"I suppose I'll have to," he said with the candor of his age. "How didyou get lost?"
Her explanation was commonplace. She had gone for a ride in the morning,and the mountains had seemed closer than they were. Tiring she haddismounted, and had been unable to catch her pony. She had followed himuntil finally he had disappeared, by which time she was hopelesslyconfused.
"Then," she said, "I walked and walked, and I found a lot of paths, butthey didn't seem to go anywhere. I--I was frightened. And then I heardtwo shots and I ran as hard as could, and when I saw you I wasfrightened again. But now of course it's all right."
The boy grunted. It was just like a girl to let her pony get away, andget lost, and follow cattle trails all over the country instead oftaking her bearings and striking for home as any intelligent being wouldhave done. Girls were fools, anyway. They were always getting intotrouble, and dumping themselves down on a man to be looked after. If oldGodfrey French was her uncle, why in blazes didn't some of the Frenchboys take care of this kid? They hadn't anything else to do.
The boy had little or no use for the French family, which held itself alittle aloof from most of the inhabitants of the district. It consistedof Godfrey French, his four sons and one daughter. T
he sons were youngmen. They were all big, powerful young fellows, and one of them, Gavin,was reputed to be the strongest man in the neighborhood. The daughter, along-limbed slip of a girl who rode like a cow-puncher, was about theboy's age. Though Godfrey French had a ranch it was worked scarcely atall. The boys did not like work, and apparently did not have to. GodfreyFrench was reputed to have money. His ranch was a hang-out for what wereknown as "remittance men", young Englishmen who received more or lessregular allowances from home--or perhaps to keep away from home. Therewere rumors of gambling and hard drinking at French's ranch.
"Well, I'll take you home," the boy said. "You can ride my pony. He's ona rope a mile from here. But I'll have to hang up this buck, or thecoyotes will chew him."
He found two small saplings close together, bent them down, trimmed themand lashed their tops. Over these he placed the tied legs of the buck.With a little search he found a long dry pole. With this he had atripod. As he hoisted with the pole the spring of the saplings raisedthe buck, which dangled clear, out of reach of all four-footedmarauders. The girl watched him, wide-eyed. To her it seemed amarvellously clever piece of engineering.
"Well, now we'll be going," the boy announced. He started at hisordinary pace, but reduced it immediately because she seemed very tired.Coming to a creek she hesitated and stopped.
"Won't you wash your face and hands, please?" she said.
The boy stared at her, but washed obediently. So did she, and began todry her face with a tiny handkerchief at which the boy cast a glance ofcontempt. He drew forth his own, which was two feet square, andoriginally had been figured in red and yellow, but unfortunately the twocolors had run together.
"Here, take this," he said. But the girl looked at the variegated squaresuspiciously.
"No, thank you. I'm afraid it's not san--sanitary."
"It ain't--what?" the boy queried.
"I mean it's not clean."
"Sure it's clean," he returned indignantly. "You're mighty particular,seems to me." Struck by a sudden thought he took the remains of hislunch from his pocket and opened it, exposing four sadly crusheddoughnuts. "I don't s'pose you'd eat these, would you? Maybe they ain'tsanitary enough."
But the girl who had had nothing to eat since morning, eyed thedelicacies longingly.
"I--I'll take one, thank you."
"Eat the bunch," said the boy generously. "I've had all I want. Sit downand rest. There's no rush."
The girl sat down, munching the crushed doughnuts with keen enjoyment,while the boy stretched on the grass, his head pillowed in his lockedhands watched her curiously. Looking up she met his gaze.
"They're awfully good," she said. "Did your mother make them?"
"My mother is dead. Jean made 'em. She's my sister."
"What is your name, please?"
"My full name is Angus Struan Mackay."
"How do you spell it?"
"M-a-c-k-a-y."
"But k-a-y spells 'K'. Why do you pronounce your name 'McKi'?"
"Because it is," young Mackay replied with finality.
"How many brothers and sisters have you?"
"There's just father, and Jean and Turkey and me."
"'Turkey'!" she exclaimed. "What a funny name! Is it a boy or a girl?"
"His real name is Torquil," young Angus explained, "after mygrandfather. He's just a kid, like you. What is your own name?"
"I am Faith Winton."
"Faith Winton French?"
"No, just Winton. Uncle Godfrey isn't really my uncle. That is, he is mymother's uncle by marriage. My mother is dead, too. My father is SewellWinton."
She stated the fact proudly; but the boy was unimpressed.
"What does your father do for a living?" he asked.
"My father is a great artist."
"Is that so," said young Mackay. "You mean he paints pictures?"
"Of course he does--great pictures. But I suppose, living here, you'venever seen them." Her tone expressed pity.
"I've never seen painted pictures that looked like anything at all,"Angus Mackay returned with contempt. "There was a teacher at our schoolthat painted things, but you could not tell what it was all about. Shewould paint what she would call a cow, but it would look like a horse,all but the horns, and a poor horse, too. Has your father come here topaint?"
"No, he isn't well. He thought the change might do him good, but itdoesn't seem to. We are going away in a few days."
But young Mackay was not interested in the painter's health, nor was hespecially interested in the painter's daughter. His immediate object nowthat she had finished the doughnuts was to get her off his hands. And sohe set a good pace toward his pony, saddled, shortened the stirrups andhelped the girl up. No longer restrained by her inability to keep upwith his stride, he struck a swift, swinging gait which was faster thanthe pony's walk. He paid little or no attention to girl or pony. It wastheir business to keep up with him. He led the way without hesitation,around sloughs, down coulees, through timber. When they had beentraveling thus for an hour or more he stopped suddenly.
"Somebody is shouting," he said. "It will be your people looking foryou, likely. We will just wait here. You had better get down, for I amgoing to shoot and he might not stand still."
He fired three shots close together, and after an interval three more.Soon afterward they could hear a distant whoop. Mackay answered, and ina few minutes the search party which had been strung out combing benchesand coulees, began to converge upon them.
First came Kathleen French, a dark-haired, blue-eyed girl sittingastride a slashing, blaze-faced sorrel, and following her, her threebrothers, Blake, Gerald and Lawrence, the latter leading the pony whichhad evaded Faith Winton. The pony had come in, it appeared, with thesaddle twisted down under its belly and kicked to flinders, and theFrenches had united in blaming Larry, the youngest, who had given Faiththe pony and saddled it for her.
"And lucky for you she wasn't hurt," Blake told him. He was a big,powerfully built man, with a heavy, florid face which was alreadybeginning to show signs of the life he led. "If she'd been smashed upyou'd have got yours."
Larry, a rangy, hawk-faced youngster, eyed his brother insolently. "Iwould, hey! Well, not from you, and you can make a note of that."
"Shut up!" said the sister. "Quit your scrapping. We may as well bedrifting. Climb up on this pony, Faith."
Faith Winton held out her hand. "Good-by, Angus Mackay. And thank you somuch for finding me, and for the ride, and for the doughnuts."
Young Mackay shook hands limply. "That is all right," he said,embarrassed. But Kathleen French was reminded of an omission.
"We're a nice lot!" she exclaimed. "Not one of us has thanked him forlooking after Faith. Well _I_ do, anyway. It was good of you, AngusMackay."
"Oh, sure," Gerald French concurred carelessly. Not so heavily built ashis brother Blake, he was as tall and finer drawn. His face was oval,his eyes dark and lazy, and his voice a drawl. "Thanks, Mackay."
"Ditto," said young Larry.
Blake French, reaching into his pocket pulled out a roll of currency andstripped off a bill. "No, no, Cousin Blake!" Faith Winton exclaimed, buthe held it out to the boy.
"Here you are, Mackay. That's better than thanks. I guess you can useit."
But the boy made no movement to take the money. "I was not bringing herhome for money, nor for thanks either," he said uncompromisingly.
Blake laughed loudly. "I never heard of a Mackay refusing money."
The boy scowled at him. "There will be other things you have not heardof," he said coldly.
Blake French stared at him, and laughed again.
"Well, give him a kiss, Faith. Maybe that's what he'd like. Or has hehad it?"
"Cousin Blake, you're horrid!" the girl cried indignantly.
"The kid isn't used to talk like that, Blake," Kathleen told him. "Havesome sense."
"Where would he get it?" young Larry asked insolently. For answer hisbrother cursed him.
"Cut that o
ut, Blake," Gerald drawled, but his tone was edged.
"Then let that young pup keep a civil tongue in his head," Blakegrowled.
"Pup, hey?" said young Larry. "Well, I'll never make a yellow dog,anyway." The insinuation was obvious. Blake's face blackened with fury,but wheeling his horse he rode off after the girls. Gerald and Larrywith brief nods to young Mackay, followed.
The latter stood looking after them, his heavy brows drawn in a frown.Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he lengthened his stirrups andswung up on his pony.