CHAPTER VII BUCKSKIN DAN
"What are ye doin' here, young man?"
The words startled Grey, and caused him to look quickly around. Twice had this man asked that same question, and each time there was a peculiar warning note in his voice.
They had entered a small cabin, and were seated upon rough stools. The place was clean and neat, a striking contrast to the disorderly room they had just left. Two narrow bunks, one above the other, stretched part way across the south end of the room, while on the opposite side, and near the door, stood a small sheet-iron camping stove. Nearby was a rough table of whipsawn boards, over which, fastened to the wall, was a rude cupboard, containing a few iron plates, cups, saucers and knives. On the floor in the centre of the room a large bearskin was spread, while the principal adornments of the walls were snowshoes, rifles and traps, suspended on wooden pegs driven into the logs. Not until the owner of the cabin had started a fire in the stove, for the evening was cool, did he blurt forth his question, "What are ye doin' here, young man?"
"Just travelling," Grey replied.
"Travellin'; jist travellin', are ye? But isn't it rather risky bizness?"
"In what way? What do you mean?"
"Oh, nuthin' much. It only depends upon what yer travellin' fer that makes the difference."
"I don't understand. Will you please explain?"
"Wall, some people travel fer their health, some fer pleasure, an' some fer bizness. Now you ain't out fer yer health, that's sartin, fer ye've got more'n yer share, it seems to me. As fer pleasure—wall, folks don't ginerally come to a place like this. Tharfere ye must be out fer bizness, an' I reckon it's mighty delicate bizness at that."
"What makes you think so?" questioned Grey, somewhat amused at these shrewd remarks.
"I dunno exactly," and the old man scratched his head. "But somehow I feel ye're here in kernection with that gang over yon. If so I say ag'in that it's mighty delicate bizness."
"What makes you think so?" and Grey looked keenly into the calm eyes before him.
"Yer one of them Reds from Big Glen, are ye not?" and the old man jerked his stool a little nearer. "Thar now ye needn't git excited," he continued, noticing Grey about to interrupt him. "Buckskin Dan hasn't studied the gentle art of observation all these years fer nuthin'. In towns, cities an' sich places yer nat'ral senses peter out. Ye don't have to look much, fer yer streets are nuthin' but grooves, like a hull bunch of sluice boxes, an' ye jist foller yer nose. Somethin' gits wrong, too, with yer hearin' gear, fer I've had men tell me that right down thar in New York on Broadway, they never hear a sound, they're so used to the noise. As fer the smell, it almost drives me mad, an' yit folks wot live thar never smell anythin'. Now that ain't nat'ral. The good Lord when he gave me my senses meant me to use 'em. Fer some time past I've been seein' an' hearin' things over in yon store which made me sorter suspicious. Now, when I see a chap like yerself wanderin' about here in a vague sort of a way I begin t' see more things, an' surmise that thar's somethin' crooked afloat. I may be wrong, but guess not. So if ye'll take a word of caution ye'll go keerful, an' if I kin help ye a leetle, don't be afeered to ax me."
At first Grey was somewhat annoyed at Dan's words, and felt like rebuking him for his interference. This resentment, however, was quickly replaced by a very different feeling. It was impossible not to be impressed by this quiet man. He realised the truth of his words, and knew how serious was his own position, and how important it was to have such a sturdy ally in Buckskin Dan.
"You've lived some time in the North, I suppose?" he at length remarked.
"Nigh onto fifteen years," was the reply.
"And you know most of the people here?"
"Sartin. Know 'em all, an' some too well fer convenience."
"Do many miners live here?"
"'Bout fifty. But they're all out in the hills now prospectin'. They're comin' and goin' most of the time. Mark my word, thar'll be a big strike made about here one of these days. The gold's thar jist waitin' fer some lucky chap to find it."
"I suppose you know Siwash Bill and his gang," remarked Grey.
"Y' bet. Remember the fust time they struck this place, an' they've been raisin' Cain ever since, especially with the Injuns."
"How many are there in the gang?"
"Five, an' they stick together like tarred feathers."
"Are you sure there are five?"
"Sartin. Never more so."
"Well, I think you'll find there are only three now."
"Three! Only three! What d'ye mean?"
"That two of them went down last night in Klikhausia Rapids, when their canoe struck a sunken rock."
At this Dan sprang to his feet, and laid his hand heavily upon Grey's shoulder.
"What! What!" he whispered in a hoarse voice. "Say that over ag'in. Mebbe I didn't hear ye aright. D'ye tell me that two of 'em have gone down?"
"I believe so."
"What! Shorty an' Tim?"
"I don't know their names, but if you sit down I'll tell you all about it."
And there in that little cabin Grey told about the stolen child, the fight with the grizzly, the wreck in the rapids, and the rescue of the boy. To all this Dan listened with wide open eyes, at times interjecting a word of surprise.
"My God!" he exclaimed, when Grey had finished. "So them poor divils have gone down! Yes, I'm sartin it's them, fer I savvey things now which I couldn't afore. It's all clear to me as day. I see through their game—to steal the poor lad from his mother's arms, an' make the old man cough up the dough. Oh, them villains! It jist sarved 'em right, fer they war mean skunks. But I do pity the ones who'll have to look after 'em in t'other world. Parsons an' sich like may talk about goin' to hell, but Shorty an' Tim have taken their own hell fire along with 'em, an' don't ye fergit that."
"I wonder if the rest of the gang know about the accident," Grey remarked, gazing thoughtfully at the little stove, which was sending out its genial heat.
"Can't tell fer sartin," was the reply. "But they'll savvey about the lad at Old Meg's over yon, an' that'll be enough fer them."
"Will they try to do anything now, do you think?"
"Do? They'll never stop doin' as long as life's in their nasty bodies. Ye don't know them varmints. They're after money, an' they're bound to git it."
"And so you think the child's in danger yet?"
"Think it? I don't think anything about it. I know it."
"And what is to be done?"
"Git that youngster out of this as soon as he's able to be moved."
"But will they let us?"
"Not if they kin help it. But thar are always ways, don't ye fergit that. Thar are ways. But come, lad, ye're dead beat an' need some rest. So curl up in yon bunk while I stroll around outside a bit."
Grey was tired, very tired, and the bed soft and comfortable. For some time, however, he lay there thinking over the events of the day. His principal thoughts were of Madeline. How strange that after such a long separation he should find her in such a desolate region—and in that house! The sight of her had brought back the old memories of happy days, when they had strolled together, talked, and loved. Thinking thus he drifted into a restless sleep in which he was besieged by wild dreams. He was surrounded by the "gang." They were trying to throttle him. Then he saw Madeline, with face as white as death, struggling in the grasp of Siwash Bill. Her eyes were full of terror as she reached out to him appealing hands for help. For an instant he had not the power to assist her. He was bound by chains which held him fast. With a great cry he made one mighty effort. The chains snapped and he was free. At once the scene faded and he awoke. The room was fairly light, for the bright moon was shining in through the little window. How late it was he could not tell. Overhead he could hear Buckskin Dan's deep breathing. For some time he lay quietly in the bunk, hoping that he would soon drop off to sleep again. But try as he might his eyes would not close. The dream had been too real, and ever before his mind rose Madeline's tearful face, while her cry of fear rang incessantly in his ears.
At length he could bear it no longer. The bunk seemed like a prison. Slipping quietly to the floor, he softly opened the door, and left the building. It was a glorious night, and the moon, almost full, was drifting through masses of fleecy clouds. The air was cool and a long, filmy fog hung over the trees down by the river. Grey stood for a while outside the door, and looked around. Not a sound broke the intense stillness of the night. The chill air cooled his flushed face. He looked toward Old Meg's house, and moved by a sudden impulse started down the trail. A walk, he thought, would do him no harm; he would sleep the better after it. He wished to look again upon the cabin which sheltered Madeline. It did not take him long to reach the little clearing in which the dwelling stood, and, not wishing to pass out into the open, he stepped aside from the trail a short distance.
Seating himself upon a fallen tree at the edge of the forest he could obtain a good view of the house, while he himself was hidden. He was somewhat surprised to see a light shining in one of the windows facing him. Then he thought of the child. Perhaps someone was watching by its side. Was it Madeline? Was she sitting there in that room keeping faithful ward over the little one? It was just like her, he knew that, to give up her own comfort for others, especially for children. He looked carefully around. Not a living thing could he see. Suppose he stepped across to the house and peered in through the window. It could do no harm, and he did so long to see her face again.
He was about to step out into the open, when an object arrested his attention, which caused him to shrink back behind a small fir tree. The object soon proved to be a man, creeping guardedly toward the house from the right. Although he kept somewhat in the shade of the trees he was exposed to full view. Almost breathlessly Grey watched him as he proceeded slowly by the side of the building until he came to the window from which the light shone. Here he paused, and looked cautiously into the room. What he beheld Grey could not tell, but presently he went to the door and gave a gentle tap. Ere long it was slowly opened, and someone appeared. At that distance he could not hear what was being said, although several minutes elapsed as Grey stood there straining his ears in an effort to distinguish the words. Then the sounds grew louder, and occasionally an intelligent word drifted toward him. It was a woman's voice he heard, and now there was no doubt about it—it was Madeline's. What was she doing there at that time of the night? He recognised the man by his voice. It was Siwash Bill—and what was Madeline doing there with him? Was it his custom to meet her thus? These thoughts and others of a similar nature surged through Grey's brain.
"I tell you no! It can never be!"
How decisive were the words which now reached him clear and distinct. Then they sank lower, and listen as he might he could not distinguish their meaning.
"Leave me, and never come here again!"
Ah, he could hear these, and they thrilled the heart of the concealed listener. She did not wish him to come. A weight was lifted from his mind, and he breathed more freely. It was only for an instant, however, for at once a cry fell upon his ears—a cry for help—and it was Madeline's! No longer now did he hesitate. She was in danger, and needed him. He sprang from his hiding place, and bounded across the open, straight toward the spot where the two were standing.