CHAPTER XXIX. A VOICE FROM THE SNOW-DRIFT.
It was a clear, cold afternoon in February. School had just been dismissed, and among those who came down the stairs, and paused to put on their gloves and pull the collars of their overcoats about their ears before venturing out into the frosty air, were Sam Hynes and Leon Parker.
These two were often seen together now, and we may add that the former had twice been kept after school since Leon came home, and reprimanded for fighting.
But Sam declared that he had never had a fight in his life. Perhaps he hadn't; but it is nevertheless true that he had shaken one boy until every tooth in his head rattled, and washed another's face in the snow.
It is hard to tell what Oscar would have thought if he had known how faithfully Sam was carrying out his wishes.
The two boys walked together until they arrived at Mrs. Preston's house, and there they separated—one turning in at the gate, and the other keeping on his way toward home.
Sam, followed by Bugle, who came out to meet him, went into the woodshed, and proceeded to fill his arms with stove-wood.
This done, he walked into the kitchen without ceremony, and deposited the wood in the box.
Mrs. Preston, hearing the racket he made, came out to see who was there.
"Now, Sammy," said she, "I wish you wouldn't put yourself to so much trouble."
"No trouble at all," answered Sam. "I happened to pass through the woodshed, and thought I wouldn't come in empty-handed. Heard anything from Oscar lately?"
"No, I haven't; and I begin to feel very uneasy."
"No use feeling uneasy," said Sam cheerfully. "They have had some hard storms out there, and of course the roads are blocked. When the letters do come, they'll come in a bunch."
While Sam was speaking, he was looking about the room, and, seeing that the water-bucket was empty, he went out and filled it at the pump.
Mrs. Preston again protested, but Sam silenced her by declaring that he happened to be thirsty, and didn't know any easier way to get a drink.
It was a singular fact that somehow Sam always "happened" to pass through the woodshed about the time the box was empty and the kindling-wood getting low, and that he always "happened" to be thirsty when he came out of school and the water-bucket had to be filled.
Mrs. Preston had not lived alone since Oscar's departure. She had two young lady boarders for company; and as Sam had a way of dropping in and saying something cheerful just at the time when she was growing downhearted and longed to see Oscar, she managed to keep up pretty good spirits. Sam always brought sunshine with him, and the lonely mother felt the better for his visits.
Having satisfied himself that there was nothing else he could do, Sam departed, with the remark that he might happen around to the post office that evening, and if he did, he would bring up Mrs. Preston's mail, should there chance to be any.
He went there as straight as he could go, and, to his great delight, three letters, addressed to Mrs. Preston in Oscar's well-known hand, were pushed out to him.
With the muttered threat that if he did not find at least one letter for himself from the same source somebody would hear from him, he walked to the other end of the office and looked into his father's box.
It happened that there were two for him, and so Oscar escaped a blowing up. One of the letters was bulky—it took three stamps to bring it through—and the other was much smaller.
"I'll read the mean little one first," thought Sam, as he tore open the envelope after putting the other letters into his pocket, "and save the best for the last."
Sam took the letter out of the envelope and read it as he walked along—that is, he read a few lines near the end of it. Then he stopped, and stood motionless for a few moments, looking the very picture of astonishment.
Suddenly arousing himself, he crammed the letter back into the envelope, jumped up and knocked his heels together, at the same time uttering a suppressed whoop, and started off at a rapid run.
The longer he ran the faster he ran, and the consequence was that when he reached Mrs. Preston's house he was nearly out of breath.
"I've got three letters for you!" he exclaimed, as he burst into the sitting room. "There they are!"
"And you have run all the way from the office?" said Mrs. Preston.
"Yes'm. This cold weather makes one pretty lively."
Sam banged the door again and set off at the top of his speed. He ran past his father's house, and, mounting the steps that led to Mr. Chamberlain's door, rang the bell furiously.
The summons was answered by the principal, who looked at the boy in great surprise.
"Oscar has gone and done it, sure enough!" exclaimed Sam, who was so full of news, and so eager to communicate it, that he couldn't wait to be questioned. "You remember the last evening but one that we spent with you, do you not? You asked Oscar if he would have the courage to hunt the savage animals we were talking about. Well, he has; and he has proved himself a hero, too. I just got the letter out of the office, and brought it around here, thinking that perhaps you would like to hear it."
"Certainly I would," answered the principal. "It was very kind and thoughtful of you. Sit down."
While Sam was talking, he and the principal had been walking along the hall, and now turned into the library.
The boy, taking the seat pointed out to him, slammed his cap down upon the floor, drew Oscar's letter from his pocket, and read as follows:
Camp in the Foot-Hills,
January 25, 18—Dear Sam: I wrote you a long letter last week (I know you haven't received it yet, for it is at this very moment lying snugly stowed away in one of the pockets of my saddle-bags), but I want to write just a few lines more, for I have something to tell you.
I have but a very few minutes to tell it in, because my guide is getting ready to make another attempt to reach the fort. He tried a few days ago, but the snow was so deep and soft that he was obliged to turn back before he had gone five miles. He has made a pair of snow-shoes since then, and will travel on them until he strikes the prairie, where he hopes to find the snow all blown off the trail. I tell you, Sam, you don't know anything about storms or snow or drifts in Eaton. You ought to be here now; and I really wish you were, for I hardly know what I shall do with myself while my guide is gone. Of course, I might hunt, but I think I shall be safer in camp. I saw something the other day, and since then I have lost some of my enthusiasm.
The valley in which our camp is located is so effectually protected that there is very little snow in it, and I have been able to go shooting every day. I have secured a very fine pair of mule-deer (called black-tails out here); but, although I have shot sixteen elk, I have not yet found a specimen, the horns not being as perfect as I wish they were. I have stalked one old fellow, who carries a magnificent pair of antlers, more than a dozen times, making use of all the caution and skill I was master of, but he has always been too smart for me. I have a rod in pickle for him, however, and in my next letter I shall tell you that I have got him.
But if I have failed in one thing, I have been remarkably successful in another. Give me a good grip and shake, old fellow, and then go and look at that skin hanging up there. A black bear? No, sir! You never saw one of that species with claws eight inches long. It's a grizzly, and my guide says he never in his life saw but one larger. I killed him myself with a single bullet. How I did it, or how I had the courage to shoot at him at all, I can't tell for the life of me. It seems more like a dream than a reality. He was close upon my guide, who had wounded him and could not run fast enough to get out of his way, and in a minute more there would have been sad work in that little grove of scrub oaks, had it not been for my lucky snap-shot which broke the bear's neck. I don't hunt alone any more, and now you know the reason why.
Sam, not a word to mother about this. While I shall keep you posted in everything, I shall be careful what I write to her. Don't mention it to anybody who will be likely to repeat it.
But my guide is ready and waiting. I am going to see him a mile or two on his way, and won't I be lonely when I come back to camp! Remember me to all my friends in Eaton, pat Bugle for me, and believe me, as ever,
Faithfully yours,
Oscar Preston.
THE END.
