The boss of the bighorns

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I First Sight of the Boss. 9

II The Clew of the Golden Nugget... 25

Chapter I Fibst Sight Of The Boss

I may some day see a stranger sight, but I doubt it. You may say this is because I am only nineteen years old and easy to excite, or that I am pretty green as a hunter. Neither theory fits. I had been in the mountains for forty days, hunting big game on at least thirty of them. I had been awed by deep gorges and chasms, tum¬ bling waterfalls and sheer precipices; I had taken my shot at a grizzly and lived through — with unshaken nerves — that dread moment when, wounded, he turned on me and my rifle jammed!

So, I say, IVe had thrills a-plenty, yet I have never witnessed a stranger sight than that lone fight atop — but there, best let me give you the whole story and you can be the judge.

Big Jim had gone to Tartel for supplies, leav¬ ing me to guard camp, forage for small game, or do what I pleased. We had been in this same spot for three days, as Big Jim was in the dumps and had lost all desire to go farther. About once each week a fit of despondency came upon Jim, nor would you blame him for this if you knew his errand in the Rockies. Big Jim Raily was the best hunter, keenest shot and surest trailer that I ever expect to see. Yet he had no great interest in any four-footed beast that roamed these mountains. His deep-set eyes were peer¬ ing for a more subtle trail than was ever made by bighorn sheep or slinking mountain lion.

Jim had left for town at sun-up. After spend¬ ing the early morning hours in cleaning up equip¬ ment, I decided to take my rifle and cross over the big gully that lay directly before our camp. Although we had been here for three days and the gully looked none too forbidding, so far I had stayed on the camp side, chiefly because each new day brought a promise from Jim that “ to¬ morrow’’ he would take me across into the big¬ horn country. Then he would launch into a tale of bighorn hunting that set my blood to racing.

Jim would not be back before sundown, even if he did not decide to stay all night in Tartel, and the three days’ stay in camp had just about exhausted all the possibilities of the low hills to eastward. Unless I crossed over to the hills beyond there was a dull day before me. A two hours’ climb, down and up, would take me to the crest of the low ridge opposite. What lay beyond that I did not know, and throwing my 30-30 into the crook of my arm, I started on a trip of discovery.

The route to the bottom of the gulch was easy enough, but the brook that dashed between steep banks and over black boulders was far deeper, wider, and colder than I had expected. For a hundred yards or so the opposite slope was very steep, but after that the going was easier.

Well within the two hours I stood under the scrubby pines that topped the ridge, and these so shut off my view that I could not determine whether there was another ravine ahead, or whether this was the first stage on the slope of a mountain.

Taking my bearings carefully, I began to pick my way through the pines. For half an hour I pushed forward, bearing due west. The ground was rough, strewn with great boulders on which grew moss and stunted cedars. Occasionally there would be a low hill or a shallow basin, but for the most part there was no noticeable change of altitude.

Then I came to the Big Drop. I named it that myself, standing there, awestruck, at the brink of a thousand foot chasm. It was as if a giant cheese knife had sliced away a prodigious help¬ ing of mouldy old Swiss.

Surprised as I was at this freak of nature, I was still more astonished a moment later. As I looked to the south where the wall angled back toward me I saw that, steep as the cliff was, some living creature had been bold enough to scale it. Faint in the distance, but unmistakably a trail, a tiny thread-like path traced back and forth, but ever upward.

Remembering Big Jim’s promise, and knowing something of the wild folk dwelling in the Rockies, I decided that such a difficult feat of mountain climbing could have been accomplished by but one creature — the bighorn sheep. With the thought came the desire to see the top of that trail.

Staying as close to the edge as I dared, I began picking my way along. The footing was not always the best and my progress was slow. It was a loose, stony slope, and a slip meant a thou¬ sand foot drop. Added to my uncertainty was the feeling that at any moment I might come face to face with the maker of the trail.

Then, as suddenly as the big moment flashes on the screen at the movie show, I ran plump into the scene that prompted the excited remark at the beginning of this story.

In the first view there was nothing so very strange or startling about the peaceful sight that met my eyes. It was just a big sheep, the big¬ gest, finest buck I have ever seen. If you have ever seen a bighorn sheep in his own homeland, you will understand the thrill that went through me. Here at the top of the world, nothing above us but blue sky, a sheer thousand foot drop at our feet, a background of scrubby pine and mossy boulders, only me and the bighorn — well, it gives a fellow a feeling!

He was standing quietly enough, not having scented me as the wind was blowing full in my face, but he was not feeding. It was as if he had just been disturbed, and having satisfied him¬ self that all was well, was taking a quiet moment to think over the many false alarms of the past.

Minute after minute he stood there, hardly seeming to breathe, so motionless that he seemed a part of the rock on which he stood. I began to wonder if his thoughts were not still on the present alarm rather than the ones he had lived safely through.

I began looking about to see if my human eyes and ears could detect the disturbing element in the peaceful scene. Look as I might I failed to see anything unusual, unless it was a brown patch of leaves just back of a great boulder. A brown patch of leaves? Queer I should have called it that! What would a patch of leaves be doing in a pine forest?

Did it move? My eyes were beginning to ache from the close watch. Perhaps that twitch was only in my tired lids, perhaps only imagination. To rest my eyes I looked away for a moment, then looked back.

The brown patch was gone!

As I have said, I had been hunting in the moun¬ tains for forty days, with the best teacher in the world as my constant companion. There had been many camp-fireside lessons, in story form, and nature’s book was open to me on many pages. There is one foe the bighorn dreads above all others — the mountain lion!

That patch of brown which had so suddenly disappeared was a mountain lion. It was evi¬ dent now that the bighorn knew it. He had faced about and with head down stood waiting the attack. This puzzled me. Accord¬ ing to Big Jim the mountain sheep prefer to trust to their legs rather than their horns, know¬ ing that no mountain lion will dare the dizzy heights, the wide chasms, the breath-taking leaps of which the bighorn is master.

Big Jim had said that the buck will show fight only when guarding his herd. Ah, per¬ haps that was the answer; he was guarding his flock. I was sure of it an instant later. Rising suddenly on his hind legs, the buck came down with a jerk, three times in rapid succession, his hoofs clicking sharply on the rock. I heard a far sound of scurrying hoofs, then all was still. The buck once more lowered his head, his front guarded from easy attack by his won¬ derful horns.

“ But where is the lion? ” I asked myself. “ He knows the buck is wise to him, and there ’s nothing to be gained now by caution. Why doesn’t he spring? ”

A mountain lion’s mind isn’t like yours and mine, and for a full five minutes he kept me wait¬ ing there, standing still as a statue. Finally I decided that the big cat, keener-eyed than his quarry, had spied me in that unguarded moment when I had first caught sight of this mountaintop drama. I kept this thought only an instant; the big buck had wheeled.

Standing on ground somewhat above the buck, I had the better view. Once more that patch of brown marred the scene. On the other side of the boulder now, just a half turn from where the big buck was facing. I had a half impulse to shout a warning, but it would have been too late.

I saw an unmistakable quiver in the patch of brown; a brown marked with yellow and black, which, as I keened my eyes, took the form of a blocky head, eager forepaws and powerful chest. A second tremor like the pulse of chain lightning and then, without a sound, the great bulk rose in the air.

The lion’s judgment of distance was good and the spring was perfectly timed. The buck whirled, but an instant too late.

As I rushed forward, not thinking of the danger, I saw the red blood spurt out of the bighorn’s shoulder from a gash that ran all the way across the back. The buck went down, but as the two rolled off the rock he managed to pull free of the tearing claws and rending jaws and square himself for another attack.

It was easy to see that the lion was far from disappointed. His cat-like strides as he circled his prey, the lashing tail, the low, purring growls and snarls, all told more plainly than words that lie was well satisfied to have won first blood. He knew that it was only a matter of time until the buck, weakened by the loss of blood, would prove an easy victim of some cunning trick that would catch him off his guard.

In the meantime he must keep moving. The lion’s mind was ciever enough to see the advantage in that. He would dash in, halting just short of the menacing horns and the stamping feet; both equally dangerous weapons. One moment he would charge in a mad circle, trying to force the buck into tying himself in a knot; then he would slink along, crouched low, making quick darts and springs to cut past the buck’s swordpoint horns. More than one record he left of such half-hearted attempts, his claws ripping deep gashes on flank and shoulders. Each time the big¬ horn would shake his ponderous head, click his nimble feet and offer to charge, but the impulse was restrained. He was too wise to be tempted into such an unequal battle. His was a waiting game. The lion was playing the same game, and due to the success of his first attack he had the better of it.

After that first wild impulse to interfere I had stopped behind a clump of small rocks, my rifle ready for any need, but firmly decided to let the battle go to the better fighter. Who was I to interfere with nature’s workings?

The contest showed signs of developing into a fair imitation of one of thosei “ kid fights,’’ where “ one’s afraid and the other daresn’t ,f . The lion paused to lick at a spot where evidently some tick had found a home, and the buck relaxed his vigilance long enough to nurse the few wounds he could reach. Came a flash of tawny brown; then a snort of mingled fear and defiance from the buck. He had foiled the lion’s first trick.

It was only the first. It was plain to see that the buck was growing weaker, and he met each successive attack with less and less vigor. If the fight was to last much longer it could end in only one way — mountain mutton for dinner.

However, the lion, too, was growing weary of the fight. Once the buck had sunk the tip of a horn deep into his haunch, and once he had met a charge head-on, with at least some injury to the lion’s nervous system. They had been working closer and closer to where I stood, the lion forcing the way, seemingly with some advantage in mind. In a flash I saw what it was.

Four rocks stood in a group with a narrow pass between them. If the buck attempted to go through, his sides and rear would be exposed and he could not turn to protect himself. The lion, the less courageous but more cunning of the two, saw the possibilities of such a situation; the buck merely saw the rocks as a temporary shelter.

At this point the scene changed with pulse¬ stirring rapidity, and you will perhaps agree with the statement made in the opening sentence of this story. I said: 4 ‘ I may some day see a stranger sight, but I doubt it.”

The same instant in which the poor buck real¬ ized that he was trapped; the same second in which the lion crouched, his jaws dripping in anticipation of a long-expected feast, another ac¬ tor entered the scene.

At first I thought it was the mate of the lion. There was the same tawny brown fur, the same panther-like slink of the body. But the head— there the resemblance ended.

It might be a wolf; I was not sure. He was no wolf breed that I had ever seen; neither the gaunt gray timber wolf, the prairie wolf, nor his cous¬ in, the coyote. For all the hunting glare in his set eyes, there was a look there that I had never seen in any save a dog.

A dog on top of this monutain!

I had no time for speculation; things were happening too fast.

The lion sprang. A squeal of mortal agony rent the air as he landed squarely on the haunch of the terrorized buck. The buck tried to turn, to throw this snapping, clawing creature from his back. In vain. The lion wanted lifeblood and he was not to be denied.

Then it happened!

A deep-throated growl, so full of hate that it put my hair on end, then a flash of dusky yellowbrown, followed by a thud as a heavy body landed.

The events of the next few moments were too swift for me to relate. Almost too swift to see. I have witnessed many fights, but nothing to compare with this smashing, slashing, snapping, snarling combat of frenzied flesh and blood.

22 The Boss of the Big Horris

Beneath the two struggling bodies lay the poor buck, too far spent to offer combat in his own de¬ fense; too weak, indeed, to note whether the newcomer was friend or foe. Occasionally he made an attempt to struggle to his feet, and his horns inflicted more than one wound, but neither of the two contestants was favored.

For several minutes the battle hung in the bal¬ ance. First one was uppermost then the other, though it was hard for me to see which was yel¬ low-brown and which was brown-yellow.

Silently I stood there, wondering what it was all about. Were the two, the mountain lion and the dog — for I felt sure it was a dog — ancient enemies, or had the dog, too, been stalking the ,sheep f

All things must end, even a battle royal, and like most hard fights this one was finished almost as suddenly as it had begun. There was a mo¬ ment’s lull in the struggle; the two warriors sprang apart, glaring at each other, baring men¬ acing fangs. Then the lion crouched, his muscles twitching for the spring. As his body left the .ground the dog launched forward to meet the attack. They met in mid-air — a dull thud as their bodies collided and fell to the ground, locked to¬ gether. Neither stirred.

I saw at once what had happened. True to his nature the dog had leaped underneath, full at the throat of his foe. The battle was over; only death would shake that grip.

Satisfied at last that the mountain lion had stalked his last bighorn, the dog unlocked his jaws and dragged himself from beneath the heavy body. His mouth dripping bloody foam, he staggered dizzily a few steps, then squatted on his haunches to lick his wounds.

“ Good dog! ” I exclaimed, coming to life and stepping forward from behind my rocks.

My congratulations did not meet the welcome I had expected. Startled by the unexpected sound, the bighorn leaped to his feet and darted drunkenly away, in an instant lost to sight among the rocks and trees. The dog’s attitude was less re¬ tiring. His lips curled back in a snarl that was distinctly unfriendly, his hair bristled along his scruff and his jaws chattered in a way that said, gun or no gun, he would not give an inch.

We eyed each other. I advanced my hand in friendly fashion and took a step toward him. No use. The jaws ceased their chatter and the snarl became a growl.

“ All right, old fellow,” I said with a langh, “ have it your own way. If we can’t be friends, we’ll just try to be good strangers. And I’ll hold on to my gun.”

I am afraid he did not understand my remarks, but he carried out a part of the program by pro¬ ceeding to make himself a stranger. Giving one sniff to the inert form of the mountain lion, and a backward, distrustful look at me, he trotted away.

“ Now what in thunder do you know about that! ” I said to myself with a low whistle. 4 4 He’s nobody’s dog, I’ll gamble on that, but what in the world is he doing alone up here in these moun¬ tains? ”

Chapter II

Reaching camp some two hours later, I thought at first that Big Jim had already returned; things did not seem to be where I had left them. But he was nowhere in sight and I concluded that I had had a visitor. Since nothing of any conse¬ quence had disappeared, I concluded that the few missing trinkets had engaged the attention of a family of pack rats that had been making us frequent visits. This question settled, I set about cooking a snack. After I had satisfied my hearty appetite I rearranged camp and settled down for a nap.

I was aroused none too gently, but even before I was awake I realized it was Big Jim.

“ So this is what I find when I return home unexpectedly, Tod Vance! Thought I told you I’d like some broiled black bass with drawn but¬ ter dressing for dinner, served hot as soon as I arrived! ”

“ You should have wired me and made reser¬ vations,” I answered, wriggling out of his strong hand and jumping to my feet. “ Did you bring that pink ice cream I told you to get in town? You did not,” I asserted sternly, “ and for that you shall eat bacon, beans and black tea for sup¬ per — if you cook it yourself. Thank you, I have already dined.”

“ Good! ” exclaimed Jim jovially. “ Glad to hear it. I brought frankfurters and a mess of potatoes, and I was afraid there wouldn’t be enough to go around.”

“ Now that I think of it,” I remarked easily, “ it must have been yesterday that I ate that meal.”

“ All right, Tod, hop to it then and skin these ’taters. We’ll eat the franks with the hide on.”

“ Let’s roast ’em over the fire,” I suggested. “ They’re great that way.”

The potatoes, baked in the ashes, were a wel¬ come treat, for we had not had any for weeks. All through the simple meal I caught Jim look¬ ing at me in the curious way he had when he was turning things over in his mind — much as if he were measuring me up, inside and out. A dozen times I had it on the tip of my tongue to tell him about my excursion across the gulch and my curious adventure there, but something in Jim’s look made me hold back. Finally, as the last frankfurter disappeared and the last flaky bit of baked potato was licked from fingers none too clean, he began:

“ How tall are you, Tod! ” i ‘ Five-ten; one sixty-seven in my socks the day after washday.’’

“ Almost a man. And how old might you be, if you’ll pardon an old man’s curiosity! ”

“ Nineteen next month.”

“ Three nineteens is fifty-seven. Fifteen years more and I’ll be three times as old as you are.”

“ Nix! ” I exclaimed, making a rapid calcula¬ tion. “Two years more and I’ll be just half your age.”

“ How quick he are! ” chuckled Jim. “ Now that you know my age, let me ask you one more question: How long since you left home! ”

“ Since home left me, you mean. I’ve been an orphan since I was six, living with my Aunt Jen.

She married four years ago and her husband and I weren’t made to live under the same roof. A fine fellow, too, and nice as pie to Aunt Jen, but our minds simply didn’t track. Mostly my fault, I guess. When I wanted to play baseball and football and basket ball, he thought I ought to be studying or doing chores. I kind of thought the dose ought to be mixed — a little play and a little work. One day we had it out. He thought I was < sassy ’. Guess maybe I was, but I really didn’t mean it that way. Then he wanted to thrash me — got mad when I told him he’d have to lick me first. We were good friends again next day, but I’d had a chance to think things over all by my lone and that night I told Aunt Jen that in the future I’d fight my own battles.

“ I stayed at home for nearly six months after that, but I got a job for after school and even¬ ings and Saturdays, and I paid board. When I’d saved up a hundred, and school was out, I got a real job. After a few years of that you came along— ”

“ And here we are, high and dry in the Rockies, and you wondering all the time what we ’re here for — what you are here for, at any rate.”

“ I must admit I have rather won— ”

“ Young man, your sole reason for being here is to keep me from going batty with loneliness.”

“ Why didn’t you get yourself a parrot or a phonograph? It would have been cheaper.”

“ A phonograph can’t work nor could it have pulled the trigger when that old grizzly had me backed up against the edge of a cliff! ”

“ Forget it,” I suggested with a laugh. “ I had buck fever so bad I didn’t know which was you and which the bear. So I just shut my eyes and shot, figuring you’d dodge if I picked the wrong one.”

“ Awful glad the bear didn’t dodge. Have you ever wondered why I was here! ”

“ Well, yes, at times. I knew all along that you weren’t just hunting; not for game, at least. But what you were hunting for — well, that wasn’t any of my business.”

“ Tod Yance, you have one quality that I ad¬ mire— you keep a close mouth. You remind me of a sentence I once read somewhere or other, on a postcard I reckon it was: ‘ A simple, silent, selfless man is worth a world of tonguesters. ’ That’s the one big reason I picked on you to gang along with me. I hate a jabberwock. So many people talk without saying anything.”

“ Then you’d have loved a boy they tell about back home,” I said, laughing. “ Dumb, he was, from birth. Never spoke a syllable. Bright enough, too, and a great worker. Folks were farmers, so it didn’t make much difference whether he could talk or not. One day he and his father were out in the timber cutting poles. They discovered a bear cub, lost from its mother and whimpering like a baby. Father decided to put it in the wagon and take it along home — they were about ready to start. Just then the mother bear missed her cub and came charging through the brush. She was almost upon the father, stumbling along with his struggling load, and he did not hear her.

“‘Father! Father!’ shouted the dumb boy. ‘ The mother bear is right behind you! ’

“ The father was so astonished to hear his son speak that he dropped the cub, and mother and cub quickly disappeared in the woods.

44 4 Son, son,’ exclaimed the happy parent, 4 you can talk! But why have you not spoken before ? ’

4 4 4 Nothing to say/ replied the dummy.”

44 Humph,” said Jim. 44 Seems to me I heard that story back home in England about a Scotch boy.”

44 Back home in England! ” I exclaimed, for¬ getting that Jim liked me because I asked no questions.

44 Yes, England. Thought I was a Yankee, did you! Almost am. Haven’t seen England in ten years and don’t expect to again. This country's good enough for me — after I find what I’m look¬ ing for. Oh, I’ll tell you all about it,” as he saw the question that fairly popped out of my eyes.

44 I’m a Britisher, or was. I enlisted from Canada during the big scrap and went all through without a scratch. One of the few, I can tell you. The rest of my time for the past ten years has been spent here in the West, hunting. No, not bunting for game, though I’ve seen my share of that, too. Hunting a man. My brother — younger brother, Tom.

44 You see, Tom and I had always been chums when we were youngsters. I was four years the older, hut Tom grew up early — bigger than I was after he was fifteen. A bit wild, Tom, but square as a die and a good sport. Took his medicine like a man and paid his way in every pinch. But wild, yes, wild as they make ’em. Partly my fault, because I indulged him; cov¬ ered up his scrapes after he’d got out of them by himself. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t have done for him.

“ Nothing one-sided about it, either. I won’t soon forget that day at Aldersly when he paid with a broken leg for the risk that should have been mine. Eotten timbers caved in in an old mine we were exploring. He was nineteen then, the year before he put on his country’s uniform. India service, five years of it. Earned promo¬ tion and got it, then lost it through a wild prank that pretty near started a native war.

‘‘ Came back home then, same old Tom, and we went in business together. Four years of that, and then we fell in love with the same girl. Dear old sentimental Tommy! Got the notion that the girl cared for me — so he cleared out to give me a full chance at winning her!

“ Maybe I had the idea that I was the lucky fellow, too, but it was just the other way around. She’s still hoping that Tom will come back. He wrote me regularly up to the close of the war but he never stayed long enough in one place to get any of my letters. I wrote him often enough, goodness knows, but the letters all came back.

“ Just before the war I came to the States to trail him, and as soon as I took off the uni¬ form I was at it again. I’m counted a good hunter, but I have been a miserable failure at the only game I ever really wanted to run down. Just before I met up with you I struck the freshest trail I have ever found, and it was six months old. We’ve been criss-crossing this neck of the woods, you and I, for over a month r^w, and not a sign did I find till to-day.’’

“Gee whizz!” I exclaimed. “Where? Tartel ? ”

“Not exactly. I don’t really know that it’s a clew at all. Probably not, but it’s the closest I’ve come to one in such a long while that I’ve tried to make myself believe that it’s a real one.’’

“ Where’d you find it, if not at Tartel? ”

“ Here in the hills. Ever hear of a claim¬ jumping antelope by the name of Rawlins — Thatch Rawlins? Hardly thought so. Been everything, I guess; cattle rustler, whiskey run¬ ner, bootlegger, card sharp and miner. A miner when his other jobs got too hot for him. 1 pulled him out of a tight hole once, for which I ought to be strung up by the thumbs, but the old sinner’s got a soft spot for me.