The entrance to the cave was merely a large opening in a pile of rocks close beside the cattle trail, and the cave itself was famous throughout the valley solely because of its imagined history and its actual equipment. Because of its nearness to the trail there was little danger of its becoming a lair for wild beasts. People said that the spot had been the dwelling place of a man, educated and wealthy, who had chosen to live and die alone in the wilderness. How they came to know this was never quite clear, for the furnishing of the cave was there, offering its mute history to the first venturesome hunter who had penetrated these wilds years and years ago, just as it was offered to the curious to-day. The educational theory could probably be traced to the torn and yellowing fragments of a book that lay on the rude table opposite the cavern entrance. How many inquisitive fingers had turned its baffling pages, how many curious eyes had vainly scanned them in the course of the slow moving years in which the cavern held its secret? The book was written in a language quite unknown to us simple folk. For the theory of wealth the rusty, crumbling old flint-lock musket, leaning against the wall beside the table, was silver mounted and heavily chased. Beside the table was a rude bench made from a section of sawed pine. That was all, but impressive legends have been handed down, from one generation to another, on less foundation than the cave furnished to our valley romanticists. It was not even odd to us that no one in all these years had stolen or desecrated the pathetic mementos of a vanished life. People on the frontier have a great respect—a respect not necessarily enforced with lock and key—for the belongings of another. The mountings of the gun were of solid silver, but I doubt if even Mr. Horton could have justified himself to himself in taking it. I had been in the place once or twice and had turned over the untelling leaves with reverent fingers, but I had never felt any inclination to linger within the gloomy walls; the sunlight on the cattle trail outside had greater allurements, but now, beaten by the hail, I rushed in headlong, and in doing so nearly fell over the body of a man lying outstretched on the stone floor, just within the entrance. The man was evidently sleeping, and very soundly, for my tumultuous rush roused him so little that he merely turned on one side, sighed, and again relapsed into deepest slumber. I stood in my tracks, trembling, undecided whether to dash out into the storm or run the risk of remaining in the cavern. The fierce rattle of the hail beating on the rocks outside decided me to do the latter. Noiselessly, step by step, I stole backward into the darkness of the cavern. My backward progress was checked at last by the corner of the table against which I brought up. I glanced down at it. It was laden with a regular cowboy equipment of spurs, quirt, revolver, cartridge-belt, and the too common accompaniment of a bottle of whiskey. If the sleeping man on the floor were called on to defend himself for any cause he need not suffer for want of ammunition. I had less fear of his awakening since seeing the half-emptied bottle, but far greater fear of what he might do when he did awake.
Surely, there never was a wiser dog than Guard! He had not made a sound since our entrance, although he had certainly cocked a disdainful eye at the recumbent figure on the floor as we passed it. Now, in obedience to the warning of my uplifted finger, he crept silently to my side. He watched my movements with an air of intelligent comprehension as I quietly took possession of the bottle, revolver, and cartridge-belt, and then followed me without a sound as I stole breathlessly into the deepest recess of the cavern. The rocky roof sloped down over this recess, until, at its farthest extremity, there was scarcely room for a person to crouch under it, close to the wall, and it was so dark that I could barely make out the form of the dog crouching beside me. Safe hidden in the darkness, I determined to rid the sleeping man of at least one of his enemies. Pulling the cork from the bottle, I poured its contents on the rocks, thereby, as I found, running imminent risk of a sneeze from Guard, who rolled his head from side to side in distress as the pungent liquor penetrated his nostrils. The danger passed, luckily, without noise. We crouched in perfect silence, waiting for the hail-storm to pass. It was too violent to be of long duration, yet I could not tell, after some minutes of anxious listening, when it ceased, for the hail was followed by a fresh deluge of rain. It was comfortable in the cavern—warm and dry. The man, as his regular breathing testified, slept soundly, and I thought, while I waited, that I, too, might as well make myself easy. Softly pulling off the wet coat, I turned the dryest side outward, and, rolling it into a compact bundle, placed it under my head for a pillow. With the sleeper’s armament between myself and the rock at my back, with Guard vigilantly alive to any motion of anything, inside the cavern or out, I felt entirely safe, and wearily closed my eyes. It was pleasant lying there so sheltered and guarded, to listen to the heavy rush of the rain—or was it hail?—or the far-heard cry of wolves, or the rushing swirl of the river. I had not slept well the night before, but I could not have been asleep many minutes when I was awakened by a low growl from Guard. Brief as my nap had been, it was, nevertheless, so sound that at first I was bewildered and unable to recall what had happened. I started up quickly, bumping my head against the rocky roof, and so effectually recalling my scattered senses and the necessity for caution.
The sleeping cowboy had also awakened and was wandering aimlessly about the cavern. He was muttering to himself, and his incoherent talk soon told me that he was in anxious quest of the bottle that I was at that moment sitting upon.
The sound of his own voice had, apparently, drowned that of Guard’s. Seeing this I put one hand on that attendant’s collar and shook the other threateningly in his face. He had been standing up, but sat down, with, I was sure from the very feel of his fur, a most discontented expression. In the silence the stranger’s plaint made itself distinctly audible:
“Leff’ ’em on a table; ’n’ whar is they at now? Reckon I must ’a’ been locoed, or, like ’nuff that ar ole hermutt’s done played a trick on me. S’h’d think he’d have more principle than t’ play a trick on a pore feller what’s jest stopped t’ rest in his hole for a few hours.”
He overturned the bench to peer inquiringly at the place where it had stood, then, straightening himself as well as he could—which was not very well—he looked slowly around the cavern. “It stan’s to reason,” he muttered thoughtfully, “that if airy one had come in whilst I was asleep I’d ’a’ woke up, so the hermutt must ’a’ done it. What a ghost kin want of a gun beats me, too! Why in thunderation didn’t he take his ole flint-lock, if he was wantin’ a gun so mighty bad, instead of sneakin’ back t’ rob a pore feller in his sleep! I wonder if the ole thing is loaded, anyway. There’s a pair of eyes shinin’ back yon in the corner; I ain’t afeared of ’em, but I wisht he’d ’a’ left my gun. Who’s agoin’ t’ draw a bead on a pair of eyes in the dark with a ole flint-lock that you have to build a bonfire around before the powder’ll take fire?”
Clearly, as his drunken muttering told, he had caught the gleam of Guard’s angry eyes, yet, it was evident, as he had said, that he was not at all afraid. Wild beast or tame, it was all one to him, that I well knew, for now that he was on his feet, and standing in the shaft of pale light streaming in at the cavern entrance, I recognized him as Big Jim.
Big Jim was a cowboy with a more than local fame for reckless daring, as well as for his unfortunate appetite for strong drink. I had seen him but once before, but I had been able on that occasion to render him a slight service. It did not seem to me, however, as I crouched trembling under the rock, watching his irresponsible movements, that the memory of that service would aid my cause with him just now, even if I were daring enough to recall it. People said that Big Jim never forgave any one who came between him and his whiskey bottle. Recalling this gossip, as the man staggered toward the corner where the rusty old musket stood, I decided that it was time to act. The flint-lock, even if loaded, would probably be as harmless in his incapable hands as any other iron rod, but under the circumstances it did not look particularly safe to linger.
As the man’s back was turned I sprang suddenly to my feet. “Seek him, Guard! Take him!” I cried, and Guard literally obeyed. Startled and sobered by the sound of a voice, Big Jim whirled around, facing the direction whence the voice came, to be met by the dog’s fierce charge. Guard’s leap was so impetuous that the man staggered under it, and, losing his balance, fell to the floor. Guard fastened his teeth in the skirt of his coat as he fell. There was a momentary struggle on the floor. While it was taking place I darted out of the cavern, revolver, cartridge-belt, and even the empty whiskey bottle in my hands. Safely outside, I halted, and with what little breath I had left whistled for Guard. A load was off my heart when the dog came bounding to my side, none the worse for his brief encounter with an unarmed cowboy.
I had hoped to get out of sight before Big Jim discovered me, but he came out of the cavern on Guard’s heels. Evidently quite sobered, he stopped when he saw me. He glanced at the armament in my hands, at the empty bottle, and, lifting his hat with its great flapping brim, scratched his head in perplexity. It was still raining, a fact which Big Jim seemed suddenly to discover.