It was on a bitterly cold night—just how cold no one cared to say; the experience of that winter was sufficient for any tenderfoot on the prairie—that the cowboys at Oxley ranch were gathered around a roaring fire recounting their individual exploits. The mail-wagon had been detained somewhere by the deep snow; literature, always scanty, was thus scantier than ever, and the boys had no other source of entertainment.
"Five years ago I wus working on a ranch in the Bitter Root valley, when I had a pretty close shave," said Tom Jones, an industrious, strong-limbed, strong-minded young man, who was as true and daring as he was strong. "Those wur the Indian times, and I wus green at the business. I didn't know when to shoot an Indian and when to let him alone. Wall, the boss was going away fur a month, an' he put me in charge, an' I was getting good pay, so I says to myself, I'm going to do my level best fur him, an' let him see that I can work better for him behind his back than when he's here allus a watchin' us. I wus in the saddle from mornin' to night, an' you bet I got pretty tired; but I wus a bit afeard the Indians would play sharp on me when the boss wus away. The cattle wur strayin' pretty hard, an' I got it into my head that there wus some mischief goin' on, fur after I had got them all bunched up an' on the range feedin' quiet an' contented, next day they wud all be scattered, an' I had to go after them again.
"There wus five of us on the ranch, an' after talkin' the thing over we made up our minds that we wud get all the cattle in again an' then we'd keep a watch on them. We started out after layin' our plans, an' after a lot o' hard work we got them on the range. We wur used up, but we wur so angry at havin' to do so much that we determined to ketch the fellow that gave us the trouble. One o' the boys took the first part o' the night, an' at twelve o'clock it wus my turn to be on herd. Wall, I wus tired an' not in the best trim fur doin' any fightin', if there wus Indians about; but I wus in fur it, an' of course I couldn't back out; besides, I wus takin' the place o' the boss, an' I had to see that everythin' wus right. I had a good strong cup o' tea at the ranch an' rode out to take my partner's place. When I got up to the spot where we had agreed to watch, I saw him sittin' on horseback, never movin'. I called out low so as no one else wud hear, but he didn't answer. It was dark; I rode up near to him. My mare began to snort, and then she gave a terrible spring an' bolted. I held on fur a minute when, whiz! whiz! came two bullets after me. Had my partner turned traitor, or did he think that I was an Indian? In another minute an Indian came rushin' past me. He gave a wild warwhoop an' made a swoop at me with his big knife, but in the darkness he missed me. I kept a sharp lookout fur my partner, but I couldn't find him. I wus lookin' round with my sharpshooter in my hand, when I saw a tall object comin' toward me. I grasped my revolver firm an' kept my eye on the movin' figure—"
Tom had reached this part of his story when the cowboys, who had been listening intently, started and turned their heads. There was an unusual noise outside. Still affected by the story and their minds full of Indians and enemies, they drew their revolvers and made for the door. After a momentary hesitation, the first one to reach it threw it wide open. It was no enemy, although the noise made by the new-comers was of so unusual a nature as to startle the cowboys almost as much as if it had been the discharge of half a dozen revolvers. Upon an Indian travaille, wrapped in a buffalo robe, lay a man apparently dead or dying. The sound of the travaille, as it was dragged over the frozen snow, and the loud voices and shouts of the two horsemen who accompanied it, was very different from the merry laugh or song of the cowboy and the swift rush of his horse's feet over the prairie to the door of a ranch.
The three men had been out hunting cattle, and late that afternoon while passing some Indian lodges at the edge of the wood, several ugly curs rushed out and snapping at the heels of the horses had made them rear and plunge. The horse which Sam Lynch had ridden was frightened by the sudden onslaught of the dogs, had kicked and plunged, and, rearing, had fallen over backwards with his rider under him.
Sam's companions thought at first that he was killed, and the Indians had rushed out to see the victim of the calamity. They carried him into one of the lodges and the medicine-men gave him some of their remedies; but his comrades, fearing that he might have sustained some internal injuries, thought it would be unwise to trust to the knowledge of the Indian doctor. As soon as he recovered consciousness, they secured the loan of a travaille and started, hoping to find better medical aid and care for him at one of the ranches. They travelled several weary miles and reached the Oxley ranch, as we have seen, after dark.
The lads lifted the injured, apparently dying man, and carried him into the shanty. They laid him on the best couch they possessed, thinking only of making him as comfortable as their means and the accommodation at their command would permit. Although the storm was still severe, one of them set out in search of a doctor, riding fifty miles to reach one and procure his services.
When Sam had been obliged to seek his straying cattle his wife was ill, and his only child, a little girl five years of age, had succeeded in finding an Indian woman to take care of them during his absence; but the boys, knowing how dependent they were upon Sam, felt that every effort must be made to restore him to the wife and child who needed his care and protection. When the doctor had examined Sam's injuries he shook his head, and told the men that though he would probably recover he would be a cripple for life.
During the three or four weeks that Sam lay at the Oxley ranch he was well cared for by the rough but kindly cowboys, and when he was able to move they took him home. Sam was not able to ride, so a buckboard was called into requisition for his conveyance. He was very grateful to them for all their care, and when one of them put fifty dollars into his hand, telling him they had made it up among themselves to help him to keep hunger from his door until he was able to fight it himself, he knew not how to express his thanks. Rough, kindly lads, they proffered their gift in so unostentatious a manner that the value of it was enhanced tenfold both in the heart of the recipient and in the sight of the Giver of all good gifts.
Sam found his wife very low, but she seemed to be comfortable. When he went round the house and into the out-buildings he was struck by the neatness and evidence of care and comfort he found everywhere. There were several cords of wood piled neatly in one place, and a quantity split up and laid in the yard. The stables were clean, the small storehouse had been repaired; there was an abundance of food provided, and there were several hand-made articles of furniture in the house Sam did not remember having seen before. Someone had certainly been taking a deep and helpful interest in his affairs during his absence. Who it was he could not tell. His wife was unable to answer any questions he might ask; she seemed to be at the point of death, and he needed no experienced eye to tell him that her hours were numbered. He was still so weak from the effects of his accident that the little exertion wearied him. Sitting down in a chair by the fire, unable to do anything except to watch the dying woman, he let his thoughts dwell upon his many troubles, while he wondered from whom the strange help had come.