ALONE ON THE CLAIM
Joe glanced at the clock as we re-entered the house, after the cart had disappeared down the road. “Now, if yo’ gits right to bed, Leslie, chile, yo’s gwine git right sma’ht ob sleep afore yo’ has to git up ter holp me git stahted,” he said.
It was past one o’clock. “I don’t know, Joe,” I returned. “It seems hardly worth while to try to sleep at all; we must get up so soon.”
“Hit’s wuf while ter git sleep w’enebber, an’ wharebber yo’ kin,” the old man insisted, with the wisdom of experience.
Accordingly, I lay down on my bed without taking the trouble to undress—I was so fearful of oversleeping. For a long time I lay thinking of Jessie, on her hurried night ride, of old Joe, and the blessed relief that his coming had brought us, and, above all, of Mr. Horton and his machinations. I meant to be awake when the hour that Joe had suggested for rising struck. The hour was five o’clock, but it was well past, when a gentle tap on the door awoke me, and Joe’s voice announced: “Hit’s done struck fibe, Miss Leslie; yo’s bettah be stirrin.”
My reply was forestalled by a delighted cry from the crib, where Ralph was supposed to lie asleep: “Oho! Mine Joe is tum ’ome! Mine Joe is tum ’ome!”
I heard the negro shuffle quickly across the floor, and the next instant Ralph was in his arms and being borne triumphantly into the kitchen. The friendship between the two was mutual, and it was not at all surprising that Ralph was beside himself with joy at Joe’s return. He hurried through his own breakfast, watched Joe, gravely, through his, and then announced his intention of accompanying the latter, “in ’e waggin.” He had gathered from our conversation that Joe was going somewhere, and, wherever it was, he was willing to bear him company.
“W’er my ’at?” he asked, trotting about in search of that article, as Joe drove up to the door with the horses and light wagon.
“Your hat is under your crib, dear, but you can’t go with Joe to-day.”
“’Ess; me doin’,” he returned, obstinately, securing the hat, while I was carrying the Bible out to Joe.
“Now, Joe, take good care of it!” I counseled him, as he stooped down to take the bulky volume from my arms.
“Keer? Ha! I reckons I’se boun’ fur tek’ keer ob dat book! Lots ob folks w’at done all sorts ob t’ings, shet up ’atween de leds ob dat book. Some good t’ings dey done, an’ a mighty lot o’ bad ones, an’ I ain’ goin’ let none ob ’em git out! Leslie, chile, I’se gwine sot on dat book, an’ keep dem folks squelched ’til we all roun’s up in front ob de ’lan’ office; yo’ kin count on dat!”
Placing the book on the wagon-seat, he spread a blanket over it, then planted himself, squarely and with emphasis, upon it. “Dere, dey’s safe!” He gathered up the lines; the outfit was in motion when its progress was suddenly arrested by a piercing cry from Ralph:
“’Top, ’top, Joe! Me’s doin’ wiv’ ’oo, me is!”
The little fellow was standing beside the wagon, his arms upstretched to be taken, and the tears streaming down his cheeks. Joe looked at him, and scratched his head in perplexity. “I’se wisht’ yo’d stayed asleep till I’se done got away, honey, chile—I does so!” he muttered, ruefully.
“Me’s doin’!” Ralph insisted, taking advantage of the halt to swarm up over the wheel-hub, and to get his white apron covered with wagon-grease.
“Me is doin’!” he repeated.
“Train up a chile in de way w’at he wants ter go, an’ w’en he is ole he won’t depart from it!” Joe quoted, with fatal aptness. “Dat chile cain’t be ’lowed fur ter run t’ings dish yer way; he cain’t be ’lowed ter go to town, noway; but I tell yo’ w’at, honey, yo’ might jess slip er clean apern on ter him an’ let him ride down ter Wilson’s ’long ’er me. Dat Mis’ Wilson, she always bein’ tickled when she see Ralph.”
“’Ess; me do see Mif’ ’Ilson,” Ralph declared, brightening. It was true that the good ranchman’s wife had always made much of him, and was glad to have him with her, and I had a particular reason for being glad of the temporary freedom that his going over there would give me. I made haste to change his soiled dress and get him ready. “Tell her,” I said, as I lifted him into the wagon, “that I’ll come over after him some time this afternoon; it isn’t far, and if I start early enough he can easily walk home with me before night.”
“Dat’s right; we’s got dat all fixed,” Joe responded cheerfully. He started the team again, while Ralph, his good humor restored, threw me kisses as the wagon rattled away.
I had mentioned it to no one, but I was secretly a good deal worried over the non-appearance of Guard. In the present absorbed interest in other matters, I think none of the family, save myself, had taken note of the fact that the dog had not been seen since his noisy scramble up the hillside in pursuit of some animal, the evening before.
Only hunters, or those who dwell in remote and lonely places, can realize how fully one’s canine followers may become, in certain surroundings, at once comrades and friends. I missed the dog’s shaggy black head and attentive eyes as I hurried through with the morning’s milking. He was wont to sit beside me during that operation, and watch proceedings with absorbed and judicial interest. I missed him again as I heard a fluttering and squawking that might mean mischief, near the poultry yard. Above all, in the absence of the other members of the family, I missed his companionship. So, as I hastened with the morning’s tasks, I resolved to take the opportunity afforded by Ralph’s absence, and go in search of him. Disquieting recollections of the wildcat that he and I had dared, and of the wildcat that had dared Mrs. Lloyd, came to my mind. It seemed to me by no means improbable that Guard had treed one of these creatures and was holding it until help came or until the cat should become tired of imprisonment and make a rush for liberty; a rush that, if it came to close quarters, would be pretty certain to result disastrously for Guard. So thinking, I took father’s light rifle—which was always kept loaded—down from its place on the kitchen wall, buckled a belt of cartridges around my waist, and, locking the door behind me, started on my quest.
Guard’s vanishing bark, on the previous evening, had led up the hillside, behind the house. So, up the hillside I went, scanning the ground eagerly for tracks, or for any sign that might indicate which direction to take. The ground was thickly strewn with pine needles and the search for tracks was fruitless; an elephant’s track would not have shown on such ground as that. After a little, though, I did find something that puzzled me. Lying conspicuously near the cattle trail that led upward into the higher hills, was a large piece of fresh beef. Stopping, I turned the meat over cautiously with the toe of my shoe, wondering greatly how it came to be just there. It was cut—not torn—so it could not have been dropped there by any wild beast, but by some person. As I looked attentively at it, some white substance, lying half hidden in a deep cleft in the meat, attracted my attention. I stood still for a long time, studying that bit of beef. That the white substance was poison I had not a doubt. If some one were anxious to kill a dog—like a flash the recollection of Guard’s indiscreet charge on Mr. Horton’s horse, and of Mr. Horton’s speechless rage thereat, came to my mind. An attempt to poison Guard did not strike me, at the moment, as an act indicating anything more than a determination to be revenged on him for the trouble that he had already given Mr. Horton. Afterward, I understood its full significance. A little beyond the spot where I found the poisoned meat, well out of sight from the house, or of any chance passers-by, I came to a tree under which a horse had evidently been recently tethered, and that, too, for a long time. I wondered at this, for, among us, people seldom tether a horse; it is considered an essential part of a cow pony’s training to learn to remain long in one place without being fastened in any way. Still, as I reflected, the matter was not one to cause wonder. The ground was torn and trampled by the impatient, pawing hoofs, and I knew very well what horse it was that, for his recent sins, might have been compelled to do penance in this manner.
Something over half a mile from our house there was a break in the hills—the beginning of a long and dark ravine that, trending southward, led, if one cared to traverse it, in a tolerably straight course to the far lower end of the valley, near where the Hortons lived.
It was an uncanny place—dark at all times, as well as damp, and so uninviting in its wildness, even as a short cut to a brighter place, that it was very seldom entered. As I stood on the hill above it, peering down into its shadows, a great longing took possession of me to know whether Mr. Horton had really gone to town as he threatened. Besides, if Guard were really standing sentinel over a wildcat, no more promising place to search for him could be found. So thinking, I readjusted my cartridge-belt, swung the rifle muzzle to the front, ready for instant use, should occasion demand it, and, not without some unpleasant, creepy sensations at the roots of my hair, I dropped down into the ravine.