A SHORT STORY.

Waikato Independent, Volume III, Issue 183, 25 January 1906, Page 7

A SHORT STORY.

WHAT WAS IT, THEN ?

(By I. Darling.)

Graham and Fletcher had been partners and friends through many a prospecting trip and many a “ clean up ” in the early days when friends count, so what could be more natural than for the friendship to continue, even after the “ dark magician ” had laid on Fletcher the spell of invisibility ? Graham did not argue about it when the others persisted in saying that Fletcher was dead and done for ; he only went up and down, back and forth, as usual, and when in a hard place, called Fletcher to help him, also as usual, and by and bye the men about camp began to hint that Graham was “ getting off his base.” Then, early one morning, he surprised them by saying : “So long, boys ! Luck to you I” “ Same to you,” they answered, but asked no questions. He was sitting on Timmy and holding one end of a short picket rope. Old Bill was at the other end. Graham tied the rope to the horn of Timmy’s saddle, and said “ Come on, Bill 1” and in five minutes all three had passed the first turn in the trail, and were out of sight; then the men looked at each other, declared that they would “ be hanged,” etc., and turned their sizzling bacon. That was the last of him so far as he affected them. Little Timmy led along the dusty trail; Graham rode and Old Bill followed, easily and monotonously, as one moves in dreamland, where self is absosolute centre to the small circumference. Once in a while, at some narrow place where the trail clung to the almost overhanging hillside, Old Bill was careless and let the end of his pack rub against a yerba santa bush or bump into the shelving bank, dislodging a handful or two of pebbles that pelted his heels as he passed kicking at them in return. The sun was late in its rising that morning, for after that abrupt turn the canyon came down from the north, and its sides were steep and high, so the course of the snaky trail mimicked the windings of the river, or what always was a river in the winter time, but in midsummer was merely a string of little pools and uncertain dribbles. As the air grew hotter toward noon, birds, squirrels and rabbits sought the shade and moisture, watching and listening alike for friends and enemies. He, too, listened, in a half-conscious way scarcely realising that he did so, and he could even hear the manzanita berries falling with a soft little click among the dry leaves, and now and then catch in his nostrils a floating breath of the yerba buena as it was touched by tiny, pattering feet, but that was all. Ho other thing was moving, not even a cloud ; for in that dry air no clouds form, and the canyon walls, with their wooded tops, shut out the wind. The ears of the man fairly ached with the outward stillness pressing in upon them, and, to forget it, he began to sing the songs of field and camp and home that he had often sung with Fletcher in the time before men began to call him queer. But after they reached Rattler’s Pass, where the canyon turned to the east, and they took the sun on their backs, he sang no more, but again listened for a sound of something moving, hearing only his heated blood hissing and roaring in its channels in burlesque imitation of the sleeping river. For an hour or two Old Bill had been laggingi tightening and slackening the rope as he snatched at glossy mouthfuls of the poison oak beside the trail, then plodding on again, munchmg it in martyrlike, reproachful silence. Finally, a stronger jerk and an unyielding strain on the rope telegraphed the fact that Old Bill has made up his mind. “ And right there and then,” Graham had often said, “ you might as well ask him what he’ll take.” Bill was tired, hungry, and thirsty. That was what he meant to say. So was Timmy, but he had not mentioned it. Perhaps the weight of elastic, living flesh upon his back was easier to bear, more sympathetic than the wabbling roll of blankets, the hard tools that grated against one another and the clinking tin plates and fry-pan, heavy barley and greasy bacon that made up the other’s pack; and again, it may be that Old Bill was jealous. If you notice, you will perceive that there is much of human nature in your horses. Old Bill’s rights were granted on demand, and no previous or after thought was given to the matter, for they were certain to be demanded; but little Timmy was cared for tenderly and sometimes remorsefully, because his gentle patience had been imposed upon. That; was when the other was not near to speak for him as he now did. “ All right, Bill, come on,” the man answered, turning Timmy into the first good opening in the bushes and picking his way down to the river bed. There were places where the water had scooped out the soft earth and carried it away, sometimes uncovering great, gray boulders, and at others leaving little deserts that, as they slowly realised the fact of their nakedness, languidly began to ornament themselves with bunches of tough, scanty grass, here and there a clump of low rushes, a buck-eye or an elder bush shading a quiet spring. It was at one of these that Graham stopped, dismounted, loosened the

cinches, and removed (he bridles of the horses, watered and fed them and himself, and vested for an hour. Whether it was the rest of the barley, or the insinuating sting of a new thought, or all three, has never been revealed ; but there was something glaring out of the corners of Old Bill’s eyes, as the cinch tightened again about his body, something that had not been there in the morning. Yet the man did not notice, or if he had seen it be would probably only have slapped his jaw and told him to behave himself. That is the average man’s way. He settled himself in his saddle, and, as Timmy obediently advanced his off fore-foot and near hind foot, then the remaining two, towards the upward sloping bank, he called, “ Come on, Bill I” Bill settled back, with that wicked thing still glaring from his eye-corners. “ You shall,” declared Graham, shaking the rope. Bill only winked. “ Get up, Bill 1” he commanded. In a moment Bill did get up, straight up into the air, then he came down stiff legged, with his feet close together and back arched in what might have been a graceful curve but for the saddle and the pack. Gentle or stern “ Whoa Bills !” had no effect then, for he was positively and determinedly out on a strike." He reared, he plunged, he leaped sideways, and all these so swiftly and unexpectedly that Graham had no time to do anything but try to keep himself and Little Timmy out of his way. Suddenly he stopped still, with the far-off, dreamy, sentimental expression of early youth on his face. Then the man hopefully gave his usual command. The horse looked at him and seemed to smile ; or perhaps it was that wicked thing crouching in the corners of his eyes. He bounded forward, Reside and past Timmy to the full length of the tightening rope —then it may be with visions of former ring-riding days stirring among his resurrected memories, he swept in a rushing curve to the other side, with the rope still taut, and barley, blankets, bacon, tools and tins dancing, dangling, rattling about his supple body. Instantly Graham saw his danger. He had no knife, and there was no time to untie the rope, only to rein the astonished Timmy into a frantic whirl in bis tracks. But gentle Timmy was slow and awkward, and Bill gained on him. The rope drew hard against the man’s side; before he could move it was in front, it pressed the other side, it closed at the back and began another coil. Bewildered, dizzy, helpless, unable to obey the rein, Little Timmy stopped, not knowing what was wanted, while his rider vainly begged Old Bill to “Whoa” and desperetely pulled on the rope or tore at its tightening coils. Another and another turn. He groaned with pain, he shouted, he cursed, but only the echoes answered. Yet they were deafening. The whole canyon seemed to be mocking him, and the rocking mountains preparing to fling their armies of giant trees charging down upon him in his helplessness. He gasped for breath; thunderous sounds crashed in his ears, furious, fiery, lights blinded Ins eyes, smothering, bursting agony strained in lungs and brain ; then in that moment of despair, as the horrible rope crushed his ribs, one memory, one name only, remained or came from the choas whirling about him with that demon-like horse that he could not see through the fiery light in his eyes, in his brain. “Fletcher!” he whispered hoarsely, imploringly. “Oh, Fletcher, for God’s sake!” Then the silence again held all things; waiting as if in a mighty presence ; waiting with the patience of the infinite, for him to recognise his deliverance. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he unclosed his eyes. There was no fiery glare, but the golden sunshine glimmering on the water; the mountains were again still and silent, and as if upreared by some power beyond resisting, Old Bill stood, like an equestrian statue, on his hind feet, ready for a leap that was never made and staring with wild, wide-open eyes at apparently empty space. He was shaking as if with an ague, and his breath came with quick, sharp catches. •It seemed a full minute that he stood thus, then carefully, quietly while Graham watched, the raised feet dropped to earth, the fear which had driven out the wicked thing also faded from his eyes, and the coiled rope slackended, as the horse, winnying softly and still trembling till all his dangling pack rattled, drew nearer, closer, very close, stretched his head across Little Timmy’s neck, and looked up at his master with meek, obedient, confinding gaze. The man unwound the rope and laid a hand upon the tangled, dusty mane as he said: “ What did you see, old man ? Who stopped you ? Wasn’t it Fletcher ? ” But the poor dumb creature could not answer; he could only stand there, quivering and submissive.