Part 57 (1/2)
CHAPTER x.x.xI
”I been thinkin' we might as well move on a ways,” said McHale. ”Here's old Simon drops in on us. Somebody else might. I don't feel right about it. I want to git some place, like up in one o' them basins, where strangers won't be pa.s.sin' by every day.”
”Well, I'll go you,” Sandy agreed; ”but there's an old bear that I want first. He's got a foot as big as a fiddle; I'll bet he weighs as much as a steer.”
”What'll you do with a bear? We don't want to go packin' a green hide about with us. The horses hate the smell of it.”
”Let 'em get used to it, then,” Sandy returned. ”I'm starting after that bear now. Better come along. If I don't get him I'll go to-morrow.”
But McHale refused to accompany him. He hated climbing. If he could go on a horse that would be different. Therefore Sandy set out alone.
He ascended a shoulder of the mountain, working his way upward to where he had located the range of the big bear. It was steady climbing, and rough as well, but Sandy was in hard, lean condition, with the limitless wind and springy muscles of youth. He arrived at his objective point, a spot which gave him a clear view of the mountain side for a mile on either hand. Somewhere in that area, he had already decided, the bear would be feeding. He settled down for a long, careful inspection; first with the naked eye, which yielded nothing, and next with a pair of binoculars. Sandy, when hunting, possessed unlimited patience. He settled himself comfortably, and kept the gla.s.ses at work.
Finally his patience was rewarded. A mile or more up the hillside a huge, brown shape shambled into view.
”Lord! he's a big brute,” Sandy muttered. ”That's a hide worth getting.
I'll wait till he settles down for keeps.”
Apparently the bear had found food to his liking. He was busy with paw and tongue beside a rotten log. Sandy mapped out a route in his mind, and decided to make a start. It was then noon. As he rose he happened to look up the valley.
It lay below him, as.h.i.+mmer in the summer sun, a panorama of green, light and dark of shade, with the silver ribbon of the Klimminchuck appearing and disappearing down its length. It was, perhaps, as beautiful a mountain valley scene as eye ever beheld; but Sandy McCrae would not have looked at it twice save for a thin, gray thread which appeared above the treetops some miles away. It became a column, ballooned, and then was invisible. But he knew that somebody had just started a fire.
He picked out the spot with the gla.s.ses. Smoke was plainly visible through the powerful lenses. It was close to the river--beside the bank, in fact--and he could catch glimpses of one or two horses. But, because of the trees, he could see little more.
”Darn the luck,” said Sandy. ”There's the biggest hide in the whole range waiting for me, and somebody has to come b.u.t.ting in. Well, there's only one thing to do.”
That thing being to get back to camp as fast as possible, Sandy proceeded to do it. He went downhill at a pace that would have shaken an older and heavier man to pieces; for going downhill is, contrary to the popular idea, much harder on the human frame than going up. He broke into camp and roused McHale from a state of somnolence and tobacco.
”I could 'a' tanned your young hide when you bulled off after that bear,” said the latter. ”Now I seem to see what them salvation scouts calls 'the finger of Providence' in the play. In other words, it's plumb safe to keep one eye skinned. Do I look like I was scared, Sandy?”
”Nah!” said Sandy contemptuously.
”Well, you're going to see me act like I was.” He rose swiftly, his laziness falling from him now that there was work to do. ”Go and fetch in them cayuses. I'll break camp.”
The horses being on picket caused no delay. When Sandy brought them in, McHale had their entire outfit in two heaps, ready to pack. With the skill and swiftness of experience they made the packs, threw the hitches, drew the lash ropes tight. The result was two compact bundles which could not work loose.
”I dunno who our friends are,” said McHale, as they rode out of camp, ”but if it's this here Dade bunch, say, what a surprise they'd have give me all by myself. I can just see me gettin' up in time to fall down.”
”They've got no license to chase us all over,” said Sandy. ”We don't have to stand for it, do we? How'd it be if we held up their camp? Or else we could lay for them as they came along, and settle it right there.”
”Bushwhack 'em?” said McHale. ”No, I reckon not. We want to keep out of trouble. If we held 'em up what'd we do with them? We couldn't tie 'em and leave 'em; and we couldn't pack 'em around. Nothing for it but to run like men. The country's big enough for both of us.”
Sandy grunted disapproval, but said no more. Personally he would have welcomed a fight. He was a marvellously quick and accurate shot with either rifle or revolver, and he was ready to make a friend's quarrel his own. However, he deferred to McHale's views.
Farther down the Klimminchuck they turned up a nameless tributary creek, following its course with difficulty, for the way was choked with down timber and slides, until they reached a beautiful little basin high up above the valley. There the creek had its source or sources; for the drainings of the basin were collected in a little lake lying beneath bare cliffs. The water was swarming with trout, so that one supply of food was a.s.sured.
Beside the lake and the cliffs they made camp. They could not see the valley, neither could they be seen thence; but by walking half a mile they could look down into it. Sandy, mindful of his disappointment, began to prospect for bear.
McHale relapsed once more into a mora.s.s of sleep and tobacco. But while Sandy was ranging afield he lay on the edge of the basin drowsing and watching the valley, for he did not intend to be taken by surprise.