Danny's partner

CHAPTER I HERE lay a fine old mossy log in the

A deep woods. It was hollow and Ne¬ buchadnezzar barked and barked at a big hole in the end of it.

This was Nebuchadnezzar's chief joy of life. He hadn't many, for he was the poor-farm dog. A little boy about nine years of age sat on the log. He hadn't many joys, either, for the only home he had was the poorhouse and no other little boys lived there; only old men, all dressed alike in faded blue jeans; and a few old women in alpaca gowns.

The little boy might have been christened Julius Caesar, for all anybody knew, but he went by the name of Daniel on the town books. A big deep voice calling, “Danny! Hey, Danny!" stopped the dog from barking and set his tail to wagging, as a great, sturdy old man came hobbling through the woods on one sound leg and a very rude wooden one.

“Have you come back home to stay, Mr. Barney?"

At the word “home" a curious look came over Mr. Barney’s face, but he replied very cheerfully, “Yes, my leg got bad again and I couldn’t work any longer, and the town won’t get me a decent wooden leg, so I’ve come back to my little Danny and Nebuchadnezzar.”

Just for a minute as he sat down on the old mossy log, a single tear rolled down Barney’s cheek. Danny saw it, but he didn’t understand —all he knew was that his only real friend outside of the poor-farm dog had come back to stay.

Had anybody taken the trouble to ask Bar¬ ney if he were really an old man that day (he was just forty-five years of age), he would have replied that he was old and feeble.

A wooden leg badly fitted and an inch too short made a helpless cripple and pauper out of a man whose heart was stout and independent. Not a day would Barney stay on the poor farm while he was able to work, but pain too great to be borne had driven him back at last.

Nebuchadnezzar jumped on the log and rubbed his cold nose up against old Barney’s cheek while Danny was feeling in the pocket of his jacket of many patches for something very precious which he wanted to show his old friend. At last he got it out. It bore some resemblance to a top, only it was a good deal larger than tops usually are. It was, in fact, the finial of an ancient bedpost—one that lay in a pile of lumber back of the barn.

Danny had sawed it off, driven a nail into the point of it, found a bit of string and an old coat button, and he held it up very proudly now for Barney to see.

“I got a top, Mr. Barney; lookee at it. ’T’s a really top, it 'll spin."

“Where in the world did you get the money to buy it, Danny?" Old Barney grinned behind his hand.

“I didn’t buy it, I made it," and Danny smiled to think that Barney didn’t know it wasn’t a store top.

“Well, well, boy, you ’ll be making boats and steam engines next thing we know! How’s the multiplication table coming on? Can you do the nines yet?"

“I can do the elevens an’ part of the twelves, Mr. Barney. Ol’ Miss Partin hears me, only she can’t hear ’zackly, an’ sometimes I make mistakes. Now you’re back home, I can learn faster. Hey! there goes the bell! Come on, Mr. Barney. Come on, Nebuchadnezzar. Din¬ ner! dinner!" and the little boy danced ahead as though he were going to a feast, while Mr. Barney pegged slowly after, more like a man going to a dreary pauper’s meal of a thin and greasy stew and a bowl of lukewarm coffee.

Nebuchadnezzar’s hopes were not very high, either, but he ran with Danny and barked and wagged his stump of a tail because his little master was happy. Once out of the wood, they crossed a ragged field where a few vegetables were struggling with the weeds; and looming up before them stood a gloomy brick building with a few small windows, the lower ones barred.

A little old man with a scraggy beard and very much twisted about with rheumatism made an effort to rise from a wooden bench which rested against the rear wall of the house. Barney helped him on his feet, but the little old man did not seem very grateful; for all he said was: “‘Well, Mr. Barney, so ye got tired of being a gentleman, eh? Goin’ t’ be a pauper ag'in jes’ like us wot ain’t got no ambition!” and three dismal croaks came out of his old cracked throat which were intended for laughter.

Mr. Barney turned away just as the poormaster, who looked like a well-to-do farmer, stepped around the corner of the house.

“You back, Barney? Leg give out again? Too bad, too bad. By the way, I’ve got a letter for you; it’s been here a week or more. Didn’t know where you were, so held it. Come in the office after dinner and I’ll give it to you.”

So after dinner Barney stumped into the office for his letter. It was in a long envelope and on the corner were printed the words,

“Brant & Brant, Attys. at Law,” with their address.

“Guess it's about my claim against the U. S. ’count of my leg,” and slowly, for he had little hope of any action in the matter, Barney tore off the end of the envelope.

Then he unfolded the letter. It was brief, but the color, as Barney read it, slowly mounted to his bronzed cheeks; and then, as he started to speak, suddenly left his face. He had to hold fast to the desk as he handed the letter to the poormaster.

With eyes opening wider and traveling back and forth from the paper to Barney’s bewil¬ dered face, the poormaster read:

“Brant & Brant, Attys. at Law,

“Offices, etc., etc.

“Mr. Abel Barney,

“Poor Farm,

“Bankville, Ohio.

“Sir :

“We beg to inform you that we are advised by the executors of the estate of the late Jane Elizabeth Barney of Alleghany, Penna., that you are named in her will as the sole heir to her estate, consisting of $ 10,000 in United States bonds and the deed to a property, value unknown, formerly owned by her brother, Timothy Barney, in the Territory of Colorado. If you will call on or communicate with us with proper identification this property will be turned over to you at once.

“Respectfully,

“Brant & Brant.”

When Mr. Durbin had read the last line of the letter he rose from his seat.

“Barney,” he said, as he grasped the trem¬ bling hand of that bewildered man, “this is the greatest thing ever happened here since I have been poormaster. And there’s never been a man on this poor farm that deserved good for¬ tune more than you have. I’ve watched you trying to keep at work outside, and now, as we’ll probably never meet again after you leave here, I want to say I tried my best to get the overseers to get you a proper wooden leg, so you could keep out of this place, but never could get them to act.”

“You did just that, Mr. Durbin. I overheard you trying to persuade them to do the right thing by me, and I’ll never forget it. Now, if you will go over to town and identify me at the lawyers’ I can get things started.”

When Mr. Brant, senior, saw the kind of man who was to receive the legacy in his charge, he was surprised. He had expected to see a decrepit old pauper, perhaps blind and incapable of caring for, or enjoying, his belated good fortune. But here was a fine, sturdy specimen of manhood, handicapped, to be sure, by the loss of a leg, but capable of making good use of the estate for many years to come. Mr. Brant was too old a lawyer to betray his thoughts, but proceeded at once to the business of putting the new heir in possession of the estate of the late Jane Elizabeth Barney.

It was arranged that the actual transfer was to be made through the local bank one week from that day. Meantime, should Mr. Barney wish a temporary loan of one hundred dollars so that he could leave the poor farm at once, Mr. Brant would accommodate him.

But Barney’s mind was fixed on a certain little boy whom he had left spinning his big top back of the poorhouse kitchen.

This would be his last week ever to see his little friend. No, he did not care to borrow. He would like to have his good fortune come clear, and in a big lump all at once. On the way back from Brant & Brant’s office, Mr. Durbin and Barney agreed it would be better not to tell anyone at the poor farm of the inheritance. Poverty had soured most of the inmates and, while “misery loves company,” it has no great use for the company of those who have riches.

But a rumor, that strange carrier of news which comes from no one knows where, got about that Barney was going to have a new artificial leg with silver bands around it, and old Nidol gave three croaks when he heard it and twisted his way over to where Barney sat, one morning, sunning himself on a bench by the wall.

“I hear ye’ve ordered a silver leg, Barney, with a shoe on the end of it. Oh, the pride of these paupers! Next thing they’ll be order¬ ing gold teeth.”

Old Barney only smiled, and then he said: “If you had your way, Nidol, you’d have a set of steel claws instead of fingers. Then you could hook them into any of your friends. It would save your sour tongue,” and Barney whistled to Nebuchadnezzar and hobbled away to the woods. The birds were singing out there. They didn’t know it was the poor-farm woods. Spring had come and they were trying out their voices.

There on the old mossy log, Barney found Danny lying outstretched on his little stom¬ ach. The boy had a very shabby, dog-eared book open before him. It had many leaves missing, but the “twelves” were all there and Danny was so busy with “twelve times eleven,” repeating it over and over, that he did not hear his old friend until the iron peg on the end of his wooden leg struck a stone in the pathway.

Then Nebuchadnezzar, who had no respect for learning, began to wag his tail joyfully at sight of his young master and, taking his station at the hole in the end of the log, barked and barked, as has been the duty of all good dogs since the world began.

“Danny,” asked Mr. Barney, “how many can you count?”

“Oh, I can count most a thousand without missing.”

“Do you think you could ever count ten thousand?”

“That’s an awful lot, Mr. Barney!”

“Seems to me like an awful lot, too, Danny! Do you know all the states and territories in the Union? Where’s Colorado?”

“Let’s see, Mr. Barney. Guess I know. It’s bounded on the north by Wyoming an’ on the east by Kansas and Nebraska, and—I just for¬ get what is on the south, but that’s near enough to tell where Colorado is.”

“Yes, Danny, that is pretty good. What’s it noted for?”

“In the east for cattle and sheep, in the west for gold and silver.”

“Right! Danny, gold and silver—and scen¬ ery. They say the mountains out there are two miles high and some of them are bright red, some orange, and some pure white, and the snow lies on their tops all summer.”

Old Barney’s eyes were shut, for he was seeing strange things far away from the poor farm, but when he opened them there was a little curly-headed boy dressed in an old faded suit of blue jeans, his trousers patched and far too short, and his shoes big and rough; but in spite of all he had a merry little face, and if his,

IO lot was an unfortunate one he didn’t know it. All the old people who paid any attention to him at all were kind to him, except Nidol, who gave him a sly cuff now and then when his rheumatism made him more cross and crabbed than usual. Barney was the one person who really took an interest in little Danny; and, finding him quick to learn, taught him as much as other boys of his age generally knew.

And now Barney was going away and would never see the little chap again—where he was going he didn’t know, only away, far away from the poorhouse.

The week passed quickly and the day came for Barney to meet the lawyers and take his departure. His heart was divided—joy at the prospect of independence and distress at part¬ ing from Danny. Not a word had he said to the little boy about his new fortune. Every time he tried to tell him, something seemed to choke back the story. So when the morning came and he was ready to leave the poor farm, Danny and Nebuchadnezzar danced about him and Danny asked if he might go to town with him.

Glad enough to put off the parting, Barney went into the office, bade good-by to the poormaster, and with an old carpet-bag in his hand motioned Danny that he was ready to start.

“What ye doin’ with yer bag, Mr. Barney?”

u asked Danny, as he took Barney’s other hand.

“Oh, just going to send some clothes away, Danny.”

“What y’ goin’ to wear if y’ send yer clothes away?”

To Danny one suit of clothes meant all any¬ one was supposed to have. Mr. Barney began to whistle and Danny’s question remained un¬ answered. Nebuchadnezzar ran into all the fence corners after imaginary rabbits and chased, at a respectful distance, all the real cats which were met on the road.

Meanwhile there seemed to hover over the roadway, half a mile or more back of them, a great cloud of dust. It was late in April and warm and dry for the season. By and by out of the dust appeared a couple of horsemen who passed them at a swift canter.

“How far’s the town?’ one of them called.

“ ’Bout a mile,” answered Mr. Barney. “Guess they’re ‘movers’; must be wagons back there.”

In due time the man, the boy, and the dog arrived in front of the lawyers’ office. “You wait here with my bag, Danny, while I go in and see the men in the office, and then we will go and buy you a baseball bat and a ball.”

Danny waited what seemed a very long time. As he stood there with the bag, the two horse¬ men galloped by and one of them stopped at the corner and seemed to be making signals, waving his hat and pointing down the street past where Danny stood. By and by a wagon came in sight. It was a huge, queer-looking craft, very high in front and back, painted blue, much the color of Danny's blue jeans. Over it was a white canvas cover; a bucket of tar or grease hung from the back axle. It was drawn by four good-looking horses, a man in the saddle of one of the wheel horses driving. Out of a round hole in the front of the canvas cover peeped a young woman and a baby. Under the wagon a big yellow dog looked out and, seeing Nebuchadnezzar, growled savagely. No sooner had the great wagon turned the corner than another appeared directly behind it, and one after another, sometimes close together and at other times some distance apart, wagon after wagon passed on through the town to the westward.

It was a movers' caravan, one of the last to go west from the Middle and Eastern states.

s.

Chapter II

T HE Civil War, in which Barney had fought for four years, had been over for nearly two years and the task of building up the great West was now on. Little as Danny knew of the real intent of these people, he was thrilled by the sight of all these great wagons and hundreds of horses rumbling and clatter¬ ing on the stony road. While he was still look¬ ing bewilderedly at the great caravan passing by, Mr. Barney and the lawyers came to the office door.

“This is the biggest emigrant train that has ever passed through the town in my time,” said Mr. Brant, senior. “I understand it took three hours to pass through Columbus yester¬ day. Well, Mr. Barney, we wish you well. You have your check book and your certified checks, and letter of introduction to the bank and all the papers. I should advise depositing the papers with the bank as well as the money. It looks as if your ill fortunes had left you for good.”

Barney thanked the old lawyer for his good wishes. The door closed. There, his eyes rapt in deep attention to the never-ending line of passing wagons, stood the little lonely boy in faded blue jeans, his only friend the poorhouse dog: and he, Barney, a big, strong man, rich beyond anything he had ever dreamed of, about to leave that little fellow to the tender mercies of the overseers of the poor. “Never, never, never!” He couldn’t do it. Just at that moment a wagon pulled out from the line and into the shade of a tall maple tree.

Mr. Barney was loading the pockets of his old blue-jeans coat with the various long en¬ velopes in which the lawyers had placed the deeds, certified checks, and other legal docu¬ ments which went to make up his fortune.

The owner of the wagon approached and in¬ quired if there was a sales stable or livery stable in the town.

Barney asked him if he wanted to buy a horse.

“No, I don’t want to buy; I want to sell— the whole outfit—horses, wagon, everything. I’m going to go back East. None of this gypsy life for me. My wife hates it. She’s got the chills and we’re going to take our loss and go back home by rail.”

“You want to sell out?” asked Barney, slowly. “You really want to quit and go back? Where were you making for? . . . What, all the way to Colorado? Colorado! I’ve got some property out there.”

i5

A laugh, not a pleasant laugh, interrupted him. “You got property out there, hey? Why, man, you can’t guy me! I know the rig of a poorhouse pauper when I see it. You and the youngster—blue jeans—property in Colorado. ’Melia, come out an’ see the millionaire from Colorado!”

“Now just before you go any further, friend, what ’ll you take for your outfit—four horses in harness, one led horse, wagon, blankets, etc. —what ’ll you take?”

“I’ll take five hundred dollars. Now let’s see you produce the cash.”

“I’ll give you four hundred,” said Barney, looking the man in the eye.

“No, sir; five hundred is my figure, no less.”

“All right. Call it five,” replied Barney. “The bank is down here two blocks. Come on.”

“Am I dreaming?” asked the man, “or do they have bank accounts in the poorhouses these days? Well, let’s have a show-down at the bank.”

Cautioning Danny to stay where he was with the old carpet-bag, Mr. Barney and the man who wanted to sell out walked down to the bank. Barney was expected there. He was known by sight to the cashier, who, as well as many other people in the town, had noted Barney’s efforts to support himself in times past.

After he had made his arrangements to de¬ posit his papers, valuable documents, and checks with the bank, he made out a check for $500, payable to John Madison Pardee, the owner of the wagon and horses, in considera¬ tion of a bill of sale for five horses, “a wagon and appurtenances/’ to be delivered immedi¬ ately. The transfer on paper being completed, Mr. Pardee and “ ’Melia” packed up their few personal belongings and made their way to the railway station. Little Danny looked open eyed at all these strange proceedings.

When he had watched Mr. Barney stump around the wagon and its four harnessed horses and one led horse half a dozen times, he ven¬ tured to ask when they were going to get his baseball bat and ball and go home to dinner. With that Mr. Barney stopped in front of Danny, picked him up in his arms, and hugged him tight.

“Danny, we’re going to get the baseball and bat, but we aren’t ever going back ‘home’ to the poorhouse. We’re going to Colorado!” Setting the boy carefully on the big seat across the front of the wagon, he pulled himself up after, unwound the reins from the whip-stock, and started his team westward. By this time the other wagons were several miles ahead of i7 them, and one of the horsemen who seemed to oversee the caravan came riding back and was greatly astonished to see a new man driv¬ ing the Pardee wagon.

Mr. Barney soon satisfied him by showing the bill of sale and other identification papers from the bank. As they traveled along, Dan¬ ny, who had crept back into the canvas covered wagon body, appeared at the opening in front with his face well plastered with bread and jam. He had, with true boy instinct, found the shelves where “ 'Melia" kept her store of provisions and he handed out a generous sup¬ ply from time to time to Barney on the driver's seat.

“ 'Minds me," said Barney, “of war times, Danny, when w’e always drove mules, only we didn't have bread and jam. Anybody can drive horses; but mules—you've got to get acquainted with them, so’s they know you. They're wiser than horses. You can't impose on a mule. Take a look at that led horse, Danny. He looks like a poor lot. Maybe he's getting tired." Danny climbed over the bed¬ ding in the back of the wagon and looked out through the little opening made by a draw¬ string which almost closed the canvas cover at the back of the wagon. The poor led horse seemed in a bad way, only the stout halter was keeping him from falling. Barney thought i8 they had better not try to catch up with the rest of the caravan that night, but go into camp when they came to the next brook or river.

Half a mile farther along they came to a place where a beautiful clear stream tumbled out over a gravelly bed. Back from the road a little patch of meadow surrounded by low limestone cliffs made an ideal camping ground. Barney drove in here and backed up his wagon to within twenty feet of the cliff. Then he unharnessed his horses and they took a roll in the grass before he watered them.

While Barney was looking after the poor led horse, Danny gathered dry sticks and as large logs as he could carry to make a camp fire.

"Put your fire about six feet from the cliff, Danny,” was Barney’s advice. "Then you can sit sheltered from the wind and with a place to lean your back against. Get out the tin plates and the coffee pot and the frying pan and the bacon and bread and butter. That Mr. Pardee was a good provider. I give him credit for that. There’s a good piece of dried beef in the wagon, and potatoes and a lot of jars of apple butter—and sugar and tea and smoked hams. What did we have last night for supper, Danny? Was it stew or beans? Well, some day I’ll make a stew that won’t be i9 three quarters greasy water, and when we’re in camp for more than a night I’ll cook you some beans in a hole in the ground. Then vou’ll know what beans are.”

When Danny got his fire started and his coffee pot filled with water he went back to the stream with a piece of soap and scrubbed his hands and face until he felt clean and cool. It was so hard to keep clean at the poorhouse, and now Danny could have all the soap he wanted and a clear brook to wash in.

At the next town he and Mr. Barney were going to get new clothes out of a store, and a baseball bat and ball. One thing troubled Danny a great deal. He had really run away. The poormaster would surely come after him, and then Mr. Barney would be arrested. But Mr. Barney was calling him. The bacon was sizzling, some brown toast was ready on his tin plate, and there was coffee—“really coffee” —made out of new grounds never used before. It was not until Mr. Barney had lit his pipe and, rolled in a big blanket, was leaning back against the cliff, enjoying the fire, that Danny ventured to ask if Mr. Barney didn’t think the poormaster and the overseers of the poor would be coming after him before morning. Mr. Barney laughed so loudly at this that Nebu¬ chadnezzar woke up and began to bark, and then, seeing Danny so troubled, began to whine and rub his nose against the cheek of his little master.

“Why, Danny, they’ll know by this time about me buying the outfit, and they will sense that I took you and Nebuchadnezzar along with me. The overseers will say this is a dis¬ pensation of Providence to reduce expenses of the poorfarm, but maybe they’ll come after Nebuchadnezzar. He is a valuable dog, and I guess we had better send him back.”

“Oh, no!” cried Danny, hugging the little dog closely. “No, no, don’t let them take Nebu¬ chadnezzar!” And the poor dog began to whine again as though he knew they were talking about sending him back to the poorhouse.

“Well, well, Danny, I suppose it’s very wicked of us to carry off such a valuable dog as Nebuchadnezzar, but if you are willing to take the risk we’ll keep him with us to protect us at night.”

Never had Danny, since he could remember, slept in so luxurious a bed as he had that night. Mr. and Mrs. Pardee had believed in comfort. Mr. Pardee had built two berths with mat¬ tresses in the sides of the wagon and Danny had two blankets to roll up in all to himself.

Barney had a comfortable bed, too, but he had to get up and look after his horses now and then, and the sick horse had to be taken care of. But to an old soldier this was all in the day’s work, and to feel that he had rescued little Danny from a pauper’s life made his heart swell with a deep joy. Long before the sun was up Barney had fed his horses—a handful of oats for each and plenty of good yellow corn. Danny was busy, too, carrying wood and roasting potatoes in the hot ashes.

“They’ll be good cold for a bite at noontime. We must hurry up, Danny, and catch up with the others.”

It wasn’t long before one of the horsemen rode up.

“You’d better sell that sick horse of yours, Mr. Barney, for what you can get. He’ll keep you lagging and we must all keep together. The people around here are all good people, but we’ll strike some pretty rough folks out on the frontier.”

“I been thinking just that way myself, Cap¬ tain,” Barney replied, “and the first chance I get the sick horse ’ll change owners. He’s a good animal and all he needs is rest and quiet. This noise and confusion of the caravan makes him nervous.” Barney’s early start brought him up with the others before noontime.

A motherly-looking woman who wore a big sunbonnet drove the next wagon ahead all by herself. She could handle a team of horses as well as any man in the caravan, but having her cooking to do, as well as the care of her team, kept her at the end of the line most of the time. When they stopped to rest the horses at noon, Mr. Barney and Danny sat down by the side of a little stream and ate their cold potatoes.

“They taste pretty good, don’t they, Mr. Barney?”

“They’re fine, Danny.”

Of course they were burnt to a crisp on one side and a little bit raw on the other, but at any rate they weren’t boiled and allowed to soak in lukewarm water, as usually happened at the poorfarm.

Danny had finished two, and was thinking about attacking another, when the woman in the big sunbonnet, who had been watching him, came over from her wagon with a round sugar cookie in her hand. Her face was bronzed with the wind and sun and she wore a pair of man’s boots and carried a big blacksnake whip under her arm, but she smiled with her eyes at the little boy in his blue jeans, and when he saw the cookie he smiled back.

“You’re a little mite of a boy to be away from your mother,” she said as she handed him the cookie.

“I haven’t never had any mother or father or anybody,” Danny replied. “Only Mr. Barnev and Nebuchadnezzar. They’re all the folks I got. My name is Danny.”

“So. Mr. Barney’s not your father, Danny? And who’s Mr. Nebuchadnezzar?”