The shaft-house of the Gray Eagle was the last but one at the upper extremity of the ravine along which Crusoe straggled. Father and I, hurrying past the cabins, had nearly reached it, when a loud call from the open doorway of one of the larger cabins brought us to a halt.
“There’s old Joe!” father said, glancing at the individual who had shouted; “I was in hopes that I could slip past without his seeing me.”
“No such good luck as that,” I said, with what I felt to be uncharitable impatience; “I almost believe that Joe sits up nights to watch for you. It’s a shame, too, for him to try to work in the mines. Just look at him!”
“I’ve looked at him a good many times, Leslie, dear, but he would be in a ten times worse position if I were to tell him that I am old enough to take care of myself. Since the day I was born he has spent his life in watching over me.”
From all accounts that was strictly true. The white-wooled old negro who, in his shirt sleeves, now came limping down the pathway toward us, had once been a slave on grandfather Gordon’s estate. When freedom came to all the slaves, old Joe—who was young Joe then—declined to accept of any liberty, or to follow any occupation that might take him away from his master’s oldest son, Ralph Gordon, our father. The negro’s mission in life, as he understood it, was simply to keep an eye on the young man, for the young man’s good. The flight of years did not lessen his sense of responsibility any more than it did his devotion, which was immeasurable. But, curiously enough, he seemed to prefer, on the whole, not to reside with the object of his adoration. It was enough for him if he could but hover around in father’s vicinity, and this he did with such tireless persistency that in all the changes, the shifting scenes of his Western life, the one thing that father owned to being absolutely sure of was, that no matter where he went, or how quietly, the place that knew him presently became familiar also with the white wool and shambling figure of old Joe.
“I ’clar ter goodness!” groaned Joe, reaching us at last, and hobbling on beside us, “I didn’ ’low fur t’ wuck ter-day; my rheumatiz is tuck dat bad!”
“Don’t work, then, Joe; the mine is as wet as a sponge. You’ll be the worse to-morrow for going into it,” remonstrated father, kindly.
“No; I reckons I’s wuck ef yo’ does; hit ain’ out o’ place, noway, fur me ter crope inter a hole like dat; but w’at fur yo’ keep w’alin’ at wuck in de mine? ’Pears like a gen’leman might fin’ more fittin’ kine o’ wuck dan dat.”
“The kind of work neither makes nor unmakes one, Joe,” returned father, good-humoredly; “but I’m not going to do this sort of work much longer. I’m calculating on opening up the ranch in fine shape, with your help, when I get the title to it.”
“W’en yo’ ’low fur ter git dat titull?”