Kiddie the Scout Page 2

  Watching him in astonishment, Gideon saw that he had singled out the Indian chief, and was riding down upon him. He saw the lariat shoot out from the uplifted hand like a wriggling snake. The wide loop opened like a wheel, grew suddenly tense and smaller. Then it dropped clean over Broken Feather's head and shoulders, and in an instant the chief's two arms were pinioned to his sides.

  CHAPTER II

  THE UNIFORM OF THE PLAINS

  It was some five hours later when Gideon Birkenshaw, Abe Harum, and Isa Blagg returned to the camp at Sweetwater Bridge. After a sharp fight in the gulch, they had recovered the larger number of their stolen ponies, and the rest of their company were still out, rounding-up others abandoned by their captors.

  Greatly to Gideon's annoyance, his precious Arab mare had not yet been restored to him, and he had no knowledge of what had happened to the Indian chief.

  Leaving Abe and Isa to corral the horses, Gideon dismounted at the side of the trail and walked slowly and wearily up the woodland path to his homestead.

  Abreast of the well in front of the veranda he came to an abrupt halt, staring with amazed eyes at a great bay horse that was tethered to the tie post. Young Rube had removed the saddle and was in the act of spreading a blanket over the animal's perspiring body.

  "Where in thunder did that hoss come from?" Gideon demanded to know.

  "A real beauty, ain't he?" said Rube. "A thoroughbred, sure. An' look at the saddle and bridle. Ain't they just wonderful?"

  "It's the identical hoss that I seen in One Tree Gulch only a few hours ago," declared Gideon. "Thar's no mistakin' it."

  "It's the same as I seen racin' down the trail just before the Indians came along," added Rube.

  "But who brought it? Who rid it?" Gideon asked. "Who does it belong to?"

  "Dunno," Rube answered, shaking his head in perplexity. "Can't make him out nohow. Never seen him before. He's just a stranger. A stranger, an' yet he seems ter know his way 'bout this yer camp most as well as I do meself. He's in the house right now, jawin' with mother. Seems he kinder knows her."

  "Knows her? Knows your mother? Knows Mee-Mee? I'm amazed! Your mother ain't bin outer this yer camp, not for years an' years. How c'n any stranger know her? What's the man's name? Where does he come from?"

  "Dunno, Boss; dunno." Rube shrugged his shoulders. "Guess th' best way fer you ter straighten out all them things is to step indoors an' 'vestigate."

  Gideon straightened the wide rim of his hat, arranged his scarf, and tightened his belt. The horse's furnishings told him that the stranger was not a low-down prairie loafer. He strode to the veranda steps, and, crossing to the open door, looked furtively within the living-room.

  Mee-Mee, Rube's Redskin mother, stood with her back to the cooking-stove, stirring a cup of steaming coffee as she smiled at the stranger, talking to him in the Pawnee tongue, which Gideon did not understand. The stranger sat on the edge of the table, facing her, boyishly swinging a loose leg. He took the proffered cup of coffee and rested it beside him on the table, almost touching his revolver.

  Gideon noticed that the ivory butt of the revolver, projecting from its holster, was silver-mounted. He also noticed that the man's leather belt was new and brightly polished, that his red shirt was of very fine flannel, and his spotted blue scarf of fine soft silk. His short hair was black, and his complexion as dark as that of an Italian.

  The stranger did not look round until Gideon was close up to him. Then he stood up from the table and turned.

  "Well, Gid, old man," he said very quietly, "d'ye know me?"

  Gideon drew back, staring into the stranger's handsome, clean-shaven face, trying to recognize it. His visitor smiled, showing his even white teeth. Then, dropping his hat on the floor, Gideon leapt forward with eager, outstretched hands.

  "Kiddie!" he cried. "Kiddie!—you—back here! Here to th' old shack?"

  Kiddie took the old man's head tenderly between his hands, drew it to him, and kissed the straggling grey hairs.

  "Yes, Gid," he said. "It's me, sure; come back to the old shack and the old man—back like a wild coyote to its lair among the rocks."

  "And it was you, then, as came gallopin' along the trail this mornin', time the Injuns crept up to the corral? It was you as fired all them shots from behind the willows? You that raced like mad inter One Tree Gulch an' dropped your lariat over Broken Feather? Oh, Kiddie, Kiddie, I might ha' known—I might ha' known. But I never thought, never guessed it c'd be you. My! how you've growed! how you've—improved! And you ain't wearin' your earl's coronet, nor your robe trimmed round with ermine skins? You've come just like one of ourselves."

  "Yes," Kiddie laughed—"in the uniform of the plains, like a simple frontier scout, leaving all the useless fashionable fixings behind me in England."

  "Didn't yer like it, then?" Gideon questioned. "Didn't yer cotton to it, bein' a English nobleman with a pile o' dollars an' vast estates? Didn't yer find that seat in the House of Lords altogether comfortable?"

  Kiddie sipped at the cup of coffee.

  "I never even entered the House of Lords," he explained. "It wasn't really necessary. As to my being an English nobleman—well, that was all right; nobody ever objected; everybody was tremendously kind and considerate. But somehow I didn't exactly cotton to it, Gid. I was never at my ease, except when out riding, or shooting, or yachting. You see, the blood of the wilds is in my veins. I didn't like the whirl and gaiety and excitement of London. It seemed somehow hollow and insincere. I yearned for the freedom and simplicity of life on the prairies; couldn't put myself on a level with men who had been to public schools and universities, or talk with elegant ladies who were maybe criticizing the way I ate and spoke and moved. I even felt myself inferior to my own valet, who addressed me as 'your lordship' while teaching me the proper way to wear my fine clothes."

  "Ah!" sighed Gideon. "In them circumstances nat'rally you occasion'lly thought of the old trail here, an' of me an' the boys, eh?"

  "Always," Kiddie answered him. "Always in the social rush of London I heard the dear old tune of the Sweetwater River, the musical murmur of the pine trees, and all the familiar voices of the wilds, and they for ever called to me, 'Kiddie, Kiddie, come back, come back! This is the life for you, not that.' And so, old man, I've come back."

  "And haven't delayed none in droppin' inter your old ways," added Gideon. "Hadn't been back in camp ten minutes 'fore you was at your old graft of shootin' law-breakin' Injuns."

  "Did you recover your ponies?" Kiddie asked.

  "Some," Gideon nodded. "But not the Arab mare—the best of the bunch. She's took."

  "Oh, but the Arab is all right," smiled Kiddie. "You'll find her in the old stable back of the timber stack."

  "Eh? You captured her? Then what about Broken Feather—the Injun that rode her? Did he give you the slip, or——?"

  "Oh, he's captured, too," said Kiddie. "I towed him along in the loop of my lariat, and fixed him up in one of your lean-to sheds. He's in need of some sticking plaster for a cut on his leg. If you'll come along, we'll go and attend to him, while Mee-Mee gets ready the breakfast."

  They went out to the shed. Kiddie loosened the padlock, flung open the door and looked within. The place was empty. Broken Feather had escaped.

  CHAPTER III

  A DANGEROUS ENEMY

  Broken Feather had certainly made his escape. There could be no doubting it. With a quick glance Kiddie searched within the empty shed; he even exercised his sense of smell, sniffing inquiringly.

  "Seems he's bunked," he said, turning round to Gideon. "I'm puzzled to know just how he managed it. The door was securely padlocked on the outside. There's no other exit." He looked at the ground for new tracks of the Indian's moccasined feet, but saw no sign.

  "That's kind o' queer," reflected Gideon. "It's a strong shed. You helped ter build it yourself, years ago, as a storehouse for pelts and ammunition. Thar's no chimney, no winder; only the door. You may well ask how did he quit? Say"—the old
man clutched Kiddie's arm in consternation—"d'you reckon he's vamoosed on th' Arab mare?"

  Kiddie shook his head decisively.

  "That's not possible," he averred. "For one thing, he could hardly have mounted her with that bullet wound in his leg. For another thing, the mare's still safe in the stable where I locked her. I heard her snorting as we passed, a minute ago. Here's the key, if you like to go and have a look at her."

  "Then you figure he's gone away on foot?" pursued Gideon, ignoring the proffered key. "In that case he sure ain't very far off. We c'n foller on his tracks. Don't you worry 'bout the way he escaped."

  "That is just what I am worrying about," returned Kiddie. "It's a problem that interests me a heap. He didn't go by the door, that's plumb certain. He didn't turn himself into air and escape through the cracks."

  "Hold hard!" exclaimed Gideon. "I was forgettin'. The shed was strong as a prison when you an' me built it. But it ain't just the same as 'fore you quitted fer Europe. Young Rube Carter got mussin' around, usin' it as a kennel fer his bear cub. Amazin' fond of animals, that boy is; same as you was yourself at his age, Kiddie. Say, you didn't happen ter let out a bear cub, time you shoved Broken Feather inside, did yer?"

  "No," Kiddie chuckled. "There was no bear there, only the rancid stink of one. Nearly knocked me down. Don't wonder at Broken Feather wanting to quit."

  "Then I guess Rube let th' beast out early this mornin', while we was at the gulch."

  Gideon led the way beyond the corner of the shed and pointed to a well-concealed trap-door in the lower timbers.

  "Thar y'are," he went on. "That's sure the way he got out. Clear as print, ain't it?"

  "Yes," Kiddie nodded, contemplating the moist ground, which the sun had not yet reached. "There are his footprints, covering the boy's smaller ones. Rube's footmarks were already crushed by the bear's pads, and he didn't turn back to bolt the door as the Indian did. Quite a baby cub it seems. But it will soon need a heavier chain than the one it has now."

  "Eh? How d'you know Rube led it out by a chain an' not a rope?"

  Kiddie glanced downward.

  "Bear trod on it and left an impression," he indicated, as he strode to the trap-door. "The links are thin and small, hardly strong enough to hold in a collie dog, let alone a growing young grizzly."

  "Grizzly?" repeated Gideon. "But you've not seen th' critter. Might be a brown bear, or a cinnamon."

  "Never knew any but grizzlies to breed about here," explained Kiddie, moving the loose door along its grooves. "And I presume Rube caught it himself. Yes," he continued, "this is where the fellow got out. What perplexes me, however, is why Rube thought it necessary to have a second door at all."

  "Padlock was too high for him to reach," returned Gideon, "an' Rube didn't notion t' have truck with keyholes, winter nights, when he c'd shove the cub's grub in by a trap he c'd slide open in the dark."

  "Well, there's no great harm done, anyway," smiled Kiddie. "Your mare and the corral ponies are safe; none of your men are wounded. As for Broken Feather—we couldn't have kept him a prisoner, you know. We have no warrant for his arrest."

  "Isa Blagg, the sheriff, is here, right now," Gideon told him. "Isa c'd have arrested him, legal, I guess."

  "Even so," resumed Kiddie, "you would soon have had another raid. The Redskins would have been here like a shot to liberate their chief and to retaliate on you for having foiled them in One Tree Gulch."

  "Sure," acknowledged the Old Man, leading the way to the stable. "An' even as matters stand, I'm figurin' as Broken Feather 'll notion ter have revenge on you fer puttin' the lasso on him. He'll try ter git level with you somehow, Kiddie, sure's a steel trap. You've made him your enemy—a dangerous enemy—an' he ain't no tenderfoot in villainy. He's cunnin' as a coyote, he's unscrup'lous, an' he's clever. Real clever, he is."

  Kiddie's glance was roving over the land in search of the fugitive. He was not seriously concerned at the disappearance of the Indian chief; nevertheless, his pride was hurt and he did not conceal his annoyance that his prisoner had escaped so easily.

  "Yes," he responded to the Old Man's remarks. "I'd already discovered that he's not an ordinary lazy and small-minded Redskin. There's something unusual about him which I don't quite understand. He's a chief, wearing a chief's war bonnet, with heaps of feathers in it to show the great things he has done; yet he's hardly more than a boy. He's a full-blooded Sioux, yet he has many of the ways and habits of the white man. When I slowed down on Laramie Plain and went back to slacken the lariat about his arms, I spoke to him in his own tongue. He answered in clean-cut English. 'Thank you, stranger,' he said, looking me full in the face as if summing me up. 'That is very much better. And, since you are so considerate, perhaps you will allow me to smoke a cigarette.' Naturally I decided that he was going to do without that smoke. His six-shooter, whether loaded or empty, was too close for me to let him have his hands free to draw it."

  "Not but what you'd have been in front of him with your own," wisely commented Gid. "He's alert, he's slick; but not the same as you are, Kiddie."

  "You appear to have had experience of him, Gid. Has he molested you before this morning?"

  "Not exactly." The stable door was now open and Gideon was patting his restored Arab. "Not exactly. I've heard about him. He's the son of your old-time enemy, Eye-of-the-Moon. He's a man of tremendous ambition. Thinks a heap of hisself. Notions ter become the boss war chief of the hull Sioux nation, same as Sitting Bull. Ever since his earliest youth he's held that ambition in front of him, devotin' himself to attainin' it; aimin' at excellin' in horsemanship, in military exercises, and in the knowledge of strategy. 'Fore he'd gotten outer his childhood, he'd reco'nized that the white man has many advantages over the red, an' he'd made up his mind t' acquire intimate knowledge of the ways of civilization, addin' a college eddication to the trainin' of a nat'rally sly an' crafty Injun. I'm told he attended one of the big American universities. Guess that's how he come ter speak what you calls clean-cut English. But Isa Blagg c'n tell you a heap more about Broken Feather 'n I can. Here's Isa comin' along, with Abe. They'll be glad ter see you."

  While Abe and Isa were heartily welcoming the unexpected return of Kiddie, and plying him with a multitude of questions, young Rube Carter watched them from the doorway of the bunk house.

  Rube was painfully bashful of this newly-arrived stranger, whom he regarded merely as a traveller passing along the Salt Lake Trail. Yet he was curiously fascinated by the man who owned such a beautiful horse and who knew his way so unerringly about Birkenshaw's camp.

  The more he watched, the more the boy was perplexed.

  By all appearances the stranger was a person of very great importance; and yet there were Gideon, Mr. Blagg, and Abe Harum talking and laughing with him familiarly, as if he were their intimate friend and they his equals!

  Presently all four of them glanced towards the doorway where the boy was standing. Abe Harum left the little group and strode forward in advance.

  "Rube," he called, "you gotter come along right now an' be interdooced ter Lord St. Olave. He's just pinin' ter know you."

  "Lord Saint Olave?" repeated Rube. "Gee! that's a mouthful! A lord, is he? I was guessin' he couldn't be no real frontier scout, spite of his outfit. Say, what'm I ter call him? Have I gotter say 'your highness,' or 'your ex'lency,' or what?"

  "No, nothin' ceremonious," Abe assured him. "You drop in a 'sir' now an' again, like; an' you takes off your hat when he puts out his hand. Come along!"

  He drew the boy forward. Kiddie advanced. Rube took off his hat and dropped it.

  "This is Rube," said Abe, and to the boy he added: "This is the Right Hon'rable the Earl of St. Olave—better known along this yer trail as Kiddie—Kiddie of Birkenshaw's—Kiddie of the Camp."

  Rube drew back in astonishment.

  "Kiddie?" he cried. "Oh, that's diff'rent; that's a whole lot diff'rent. Why didn't yer put me wise at first? I know th' name of Kiddie. Ought to. I've heard it often 'n
ough. Real proud ter see you, sir," he added, taking Kiddie's outstretched hand.

  "What d'you know 'bout him, boy?" inquired Isa Blagg.

  "Heaps, sheriff," returned Rube. "Best horseman on all the Salt Lake Trail, best rifle shot, best swimmer an' trapper—best all round scout this side the Rocky Mountains; never told a lie, never said a bad word, never done anythin' he was ashamed of."

  Kiddie laughed outright.

  "Who's been feeding you up with all that silly rot, Rube?" he asked. "If that's the reputation you judge me by I shall have a jolly hard task to live up to it."

  "'Tain't a whole lot wide o' the truth, for all that, Kiddie," interposed the Boss. "But never heed it fer the present. Come right in an' have suthin' ter eat. We're all hungry."

  Kiddie walked with young Rube, with a hand on the boy's shoulder.

  "No, you mustn't think I'm all that, Rube," he said. "I've made many a false step, fallen into many a mistake I ought to have avoided. Only this morning, you know, I made the mistake of shoving Broken Feather into the lean-to without looking if there was a loophole for his escape."

  "My fault as much as yours, sir," said Rube. "I oughter ha' fastened the trap-door."

  "Well, anyhow," resumed Kiddie, "you and I are going to be good friends. You see, we have a good deal in common. You've spent your boyhood in this camp, so did I mine. Your father was an English gentleman, so was mine. Your mother is a Pawnee Indian, so was mine."

  "It's a proud day fer me, sir, your comin' back here, an' me walkin' alongside o' you," faltered Rube. "An' if you're shapin' ter stay here for a while, I shall learn a lot. You c'n teach me heaps about trappin' the wild critters, an' livin' in the woods, an' scoutin'; about horses, too, an' buffaloes an' Injuns."

  He paused, surprised at the length of his speech.

  "Yes," nodded Kiddie. "We'll go on the trail together. We'll go trapping and fishing and shooting. You shall be my boy scout."

  "But thar's one thing as I'm hankerin' to learn more'n all else, sir," Rube went on boldly. "You was sayin' right now as my father was a English gentleman. Well, 'tain't possible fer me to be that, seein' as I was born here in th' United States; but I guess thar's such a thing as a 'Merican gentleman, an' maybe you'd teach me how ter be one o' them."