Read Ebook: Ross Grant Tenderfoot by Garland John Boyer Ralph L Ralph Ludwig Illustrator

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Ebook has 1628 lines and 67333 words, and 33 pages

Hank yawned and reached for the poker and a stick of wood. "I ain't aimin' to inquire fer into his history--unless I could inquire of some one else besides himself, that is. Hello!" he interrupted himself suddenly with the stick held over the stove. "Who's that hikin' over the Creek?"

Ross arose with alacrity and went to the door. The first snow had fallen on the bad lands, but in an hour it had been whisked away by a warm northwest wind, leaving the ground soft and a little stream of water in Dry Creek across which rode a man who proved to be a prospector from the mountains.

"Must have had a bit of snow here," he called as he turned his horse into the corral. "Up t' Miners' Camp it's two inches deep and driftin'."

As this prospector was eating his dinner, he most unexpectedly gave Ross his first news of Weimer. The boy, finding Hank both intelligent and sympathetic, had talked freely concerning his mission in the mountains and his desire to return East at an early date. To the latter subject, in all its details of study and college-attendance, Hank listened and questioned in open interest. But, when Ross touched the subject of Weimer and the McKenzies, the other was non-committal and guarded, as became a landlord who might be called upon any day to serve flapjacks and coffee to all of the parties under discussion.

"I hope," he had observed cautiously on two or three occasions, "that you'll get on all right with Uncle Jake Weimer."

And, although his tone implied a doubt, Ross could not prevail on him to explain it.

But the prospector, who had ridden through from the mountains, and knew nothing of Ross or of his origin, spoke more freely. He had passed along Meadow Creek but a few days before.

"Dutch Weimer," he told Hank as he bolted boiled cabbage and flapjacks, "was settin' at the door of his shack, a-smokin' as though his claims was all patented and secure. He says that Eastern pal of hisn is a-sendin' some one t' help 'im out."

Hank coughed behind his hand, and motioned toward Ross, busy with his patient; but at first the prospector was too intent on his food to notice.

"And there," he observed with a chuckle, "are them two McKenzie boys a-settin' on their claims next door and waitin'." He gave another chuckle. "Curious how that snow-blindness should have touched Dutch Weimer."

Then he saw Hank's restraining gesture, and paused. Glancing down, he met Lon Weston's veiled brown eyes and Ross's wide gray ones; but the prospector had suddenly become as non-committal as Hank himself, nor did Ross's persistent questioning wring from him any further details. He had but passed that way, he assured Ross, had stopped but a moment in front of Weimer's cabin and that was all.

But what he had said was enough to leave Ross troubled, and impatient to start for Meadow Creek and his delayed work.

Finally the plaster of Paris came. The stage from Cody brought it one noon, and Ross's spirits arose at the prospect of release from his unwelcome charge.

"If it wa'n't fer yer Uncle Samuel's long arm of the law, Doc," the stage-driver informed him as he was disposing of potatoes and pork, "I'd leave my stage right here and see ye wind all them stiff rags around that there leg. I'd like t' see th' finish s' long as I seen the beginnin'. But the trouble with bein' stage skinner is, ye've got t' hike along no matter what shows ye come acrost on the trail. Hand them spuds acrost, Doc, will ye? Hank, if ye'd let 'em smell fire a minute 'r two mebby I could drive my fork int' 'em."

A few minutes later, he arose from the bench, drew the back of his hand across his mouth and addressed Weston. "Wall, I suppose you'll be ready t' be boosted onto the stage when I come back in th' mornin'? S' long."

Scarcely had his four bronchos topped the hill on the further side of Dry Creek before a procession, the like of which Ross had never seen, appeared on the trail the other side of the dugout. It was a pack outfit on horses accompanied by a man and a boy. It slowly rounded the shoulder of the hill behind the corral. The man rode ahead whistling gaily, his sombrero pulled low over his eyes, a purple tie knotted under the turn-over collar of his flannel shirt. His horse's tail was tied to a rope which, in turn, was tied loosely about the neck of the first pack animal. In similar fashion the five bronchos were held together on the trail, and after them came a horse ridden by a boy about Ross's height. On the pack animals were wooden saddles piled high with supplies for a camp, boxes and bags securely roped to the saddles.

"It certainly is," confirmed Ross.

He arose from his seat on the floor where he was working in the plaster and stepped to the door. But Hank was before him holding up the platter of food.

"Hey, there, Wishin'! Here's some come-backs hot fer ye! Where'd ye come from? Where ye goin' and what fer and how long and why and all the rest?" Evidently the newcomer was one of the kind that could safely be questioned, for Hank turned himself into a great interrogation point as he set the platter down, and rushing out, pulled the stranger from his horse, shaking him in familiar bear play.

Ross watched while the train filed slowly up to the dugout, bringing the boy's mount to rest in front of the door.

The young rider wore a new brown corduroy suit, and a long fur coat, the skirts of which were drawn up awkwardly above a pair of high riding boots and tucked under the rider's legs. A pair of shining silver spurs adorned the heels of the boots, while a sealskin cap crowned a head covered with closely cropped hair darker than Ross's. His eyes also were darker and his figure, although of the same height, was more slender than Ross's. He was also, apparently, a couple of years younger.

The two boys nodded at each other, Ross with awkward cordiality and interest, the stranger carelessly and with unmistakable condescension. Swinging himself out of the saddle he said pleasantly but commandingly:

"Take my coat inside, please."

He shed his fur coat and pulled off his fur-lined gloves and tossed both into Ross's arms, while Hank, watching the proceeding out of the tail of an amused eye, talked with Wilson.

Ross, biting his lips, backed into the shack and tossed coat and gloves on the end of the table near Weston. The boy, following his moves from the doorway, pointed at the prostrate man, asking in a surprised and subdued voice:

"What ails him?"

"Broke his leg," responded Ross shortly, not relishing the touch of lordliness in the other's manner.

"How did he do it?" demanded the stranger.

"Horse fell on him," answered Ross, and returned abruptly to his work with the plaster.

Weston lay with his blanket drawn up to his chin and one arm thrown over his face and ear, his face turned to the wall. He was breathing regularly as though in sleep, although Ross knew he was wide awake. This was a favorite position with him when Hank was entertaining guests. It saved him the trouble of responding to inquiries, and, as Ross had come to suspect, might also serve to avert a chance recognition.

Presently Wilson approached the dugout, leaving the boy in the corral rubbing down his mount. One arm was thrown in rough affection over Hank's shoulder while the two pulled each other about like two boys at play.

"Sh!" interrupted Hank tiptoeing into the shack. "Guess he's asleep, ain't he?" He explained over his shoulder in a hoarse whisper. "Chap named Weston that come this way three weeks ago and bust his leg out in front, here. Hoss fell on him."

Wilson, who followed at Hank's heels, looked Weston over with friendly but detached interest. "On the mend, is he?" asked the newcomer subduing his voice with difficulty.

Hank forgot to continue his whisper. "You bet!" he exclaimed heartily. "Doc here is a-mendin' him t' beat anything I ever seen from a full sized doctor." He jerked his thumb toward Ross. "Doc's goin' to have him all plastered up and out of here to-morrow."

Wishing looked at Ross with a pleasant nod, stepped over the bench and was about to seat himself at the table when he bethought him suddenly of his riding companion. Leaning forward he looked out of the doorway. Then with a nod he sat down and forgetting that Weston was supposedly sleeping, raised his voice again to its normal high key.

"Fetch on them come-backs, Hank. My pard'll be here in a minute. I need t' git the start of him in eating always, fer he ain't long on grub such as we shake out here. I expect," with an amused chuckle, "that it ain't exactly what he's used to."

Hank slapped his knee and leaned forward. "Say, Wishin', how d'ye come t' be hikin' over the country with Queen Victory's youngest? My eyes! Ain't he a reg'lar ornament t' th' landscape?"

Wishing Wilson laughed softly and then glancing hastily from Ross to Weston, shook his head at Hank. "Less is all right!" he declared cautiously. "He's young yet. Lots of time to learn--more time 'n you and me have, Hank."

Hank set coffee before his guest, asking, "Who is he and where does he hail from?"

Wilson squared himself before the table, both arms resting thereon and began to eat noisily, talking between knifefuls.

"Luckiest thing for me that ever struck the trail, that young feller is," he began. "I was stranded down in Omaha without a red cent in my pocket and no way of raisin' one. If you'll believe me I couldn't find a man in Omaha with brains enough to believe in them claims of mine, no, not with the ore assay report before their eyes. I tell ye, Hank, times have changed down in Omaha. There wa'n't no grub-stakers waitin' around like there used to be fer prospectors to snatch up--no, not one. And just as I was gettin' plum used up talkin', this young feller, Less Jones, fell onto me outer a clear sky. It was in a hotel where I went t' talk with a drummer, but not t' eat. Why, Hank, yer Uncle Wilson didn't have the price of a hotel dinner handy, and that drummer never treated me! Well, I stood tryin' to persuade him that his salary was burning fer investment in my claims, when in comes Less and lined up 'longside me listenin'. I hadn't any kind of objection to his hearin', but he looked like such a cub that I never paid no attention t' 'im, but when the drummer said a final 'Nix,' Less he stepped up and asked me about the claims, and, t' make a long story short, before the end of the day I was hikin' over town hot footed on the trail of supplies with Less at my heels with an open pocketbook."

"Does he stay up t' the Creek with you?" asked Hank wonderingly.

"Says he will," laughed Wilson. "Says he's wanted for years t' try his luck with quartz!"

"Must 'a' begun wantin' then when he was a baby," remarked Hank succinctly. "Where's his ma and pa?"

Wishing shrugged his shoulders and balanced a quantity of pork and potatoes on the blade of his knife. "Search me! He says there's no one to hender him doin' what he pleases, and so I take it he's dropped out of some fairy orphanage som'ers where they have gold t' burn. I'm fallin' on his neck more'n I'm askin' him questions that he don't want t' answer. Less is an all right sort, you'll find, but he ain't long on information."

At this point Wishing's garrulity suffered an interruption from the entrance of his young partner.

Leslie Jones walked with the erect bearing that Aunt Anne coveted for Ross. Buttoning his short corduroy jacket over a soft flannel shirt, across the front of which was suspended a large gold chain, he ran his fingers around inside his collar and looked about impatiently.

Ross, attending strictly to his work, did not look up. Hank, sitting on a bench opposite Wilson, spread his elbows yet further apart on the table and indicated a place beside him.

"Set down and fall to, young feller!"

"I'll wash up first," returned Leslie in a tone which had a decided edge. His manner plainly indicated his desire to be waited on.

Hank raised his eyebrows and waved a hand vaguely toward the stove. "There's pans 'n' water. Help yerself. Guess there's a towel hikin' about som'ers in the corner. My dozen best handmade 'uns ain't come in yet from the laundry!"

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