She threw her ap.r.o.n over her head. I held my fingers in Jerrine's ears, and she stopped my ears, else I might be able to tell you what he said. It was something violent, I know. I could tell by the expression of his face. He had only been doing it a second when those horses walked right out with the wagon as nicely as you please. Mrs.

O'Shaughnessy said to Mr. Haynes, "It's a poor cusser you are. Sure, it's no wonder you hesitated to begin. If Danny O'Shaughnessy couldn't have sworn better, I'd have had to hilp him."

We got along pretty well after that. Mr. Haynes kept some distance ahead; but occasionally a bit of "cussin'" came back to us and we knew he was using freighter tactics.

The game-warden lives in a tiny little cabin. The door is so low that I had to stoop to get in. It was quite dark when we got here last night, but Mrs. Sorenson acted as if she was _glad_ to see us. I didn't think we could all get in. A row of bunks is built along one side of the cabin. A long tarpaulin covers the bed, and we all got upon this and sat while our hostess prepared our supper. If one of us had stirred we would have been in her way; so there we sat as thick as thieves. When supper was ready six got off their perch and ate; when they were through, six more were made happy.

Mr. Sorenson had caught the tooth-hunters. On the wall hung their deadly guns, with silencers on them to m.u.f.fle the report. He showed us the teeth he had found in their possession. The warden and his deputy had searched the men and their effects and found no teeth. He had no evidence against them except their unlawful guns, but he knew he had the right men. At last he found their contract to furnish two hundred pair of teeth. It is a trick of such hunters to thrust a knife into the meat of the game they have, and so to make pockets in which they hide the teeth; but these fellows had no such pockets. They jeered at the warden and threatened to kill him, but he kept searching, and presently found the teeth in a pail of lard. He told us all about it as we sat, an eager crowd, on his bed. A warden takes his life in his hands when he goes after such fellows, but Sorenson is not afraid to do it.

The cabin walls are covered with pen-and-ink drawings, the work of the warden's gifted children,--Vina, the pretty eighteen-year-old daughter, and Laurence, the sixteen-year-old son. They never had a lesson in drawing in their lives, but their pictures portray Western life exactly.

The snow is not so deep here as it was at camp, but it is too deep for the horses to get gra.s.s. The men were able to get a little grain from the warden; so we will pull out in the morning and try to make it to where we can get groceries. We are quite close to where Elizabeth lives, but we should have to cross the river, and it was dark before we pa.s.sed her home. I should like to see her but won't get a chance to. Mrs. Sorenson says she is very happy. In all this round of exposure the kiddies are as well as can be. Cold, camping, and elk meat agree with them. We are in a tent for the night, and it is so cold the ink is freezing, but the kiddies are snuggled under their blankets as warm as toast. We are to start early in the morning.

Good-night, dear friend. I am glad I can take this trip _for_ you.

You'd freeze.

ELINORE STEWART.

XI

BUDDY AND BABY GIRL

IN CAMP, October 16, 1914.

DEAR MRS. CONEY,--

The day we left the game-warden's was damp and lowering. It didn't seem it could have one good thing to its credit, but there were several things to be thankful for. One of them was that you were safe at home in your warm, dry apartment. We had hardly pa.s.sed the great Block b.u.t.tes when the biggest, wettest flakes of snow began to pelt into our faces. I really like a storm, and the kiddies would have enjoyed the snow; but we had to keep the wagon-sheet tied down to keep the bedding dry, and the kiddies get sick under cover. All the pleasure I might have had was taken away by the fact that we were making a forced drive. We _had_ to go. The game-warden had no more than enough food for his family, and no horse feed. Also, the snow was almost as deep there as it had been higher up, so the horses could not graze.

We made it to Cora that day. Here at last was plenty of hay and grain; we restocked our mess-boxes and felt better toward the world. Next day we came on here to Newfork, where we are resting our teams before we start across the desert, which begins just across the creek we are camped on.

We have added two to our party. I know you will be interested to know how it happened, and I can picture the astonishment of our neighbors when we reach home, for our newcomers are to be members of Mrs.

O'Shaughnessy's family. We had all been sorry we could not visit Elizabeth or "Danyul" and his mother. We felt almost as if we were sneaking past them, but we consoled ourselves with promises to see the Burneys and Grandma Mortimer. Yesterday the children and I were riding with Mrs. O'Shaughnessy in the buckboard. We were trotting merrily along the lane that leads to Newfork, thankful in our hearts to be out of the snow,--for there is no snow here. Just ahead of us two little boys were riding along on their ponies. There was a wire fence on both sides of the lane, and almost at the end of the lane an old cow had her head between the wires and was nibbling the tall dead gra.s.s. The larger of the two boys said, "That's old Pendry's cow, and she shan't eat a blade of gra.s.s off Dad's meadow."

He rode up to the cow and began beating her with his quirt. That frightened the cow, and as she jerked her head up, the top wire caught her across the top of her neck; she jerked and lunged to free herself, and was cruelly cut by the barbs on the wire. Then he began beating his pony.

The small boy said, "You're a coward an' a fool, Billy Polk. The cow wasn't hurtin' nothin', an' you're just tryin' to show off, beatin'

that pony."

Said the other boy, "Shut up, you beggar, or I'll beat you; an' I'll take them breeches you got on off you, an' you can go without any--they're mine. My ma give 'em to you."

The little fellow's face was scarlet--as much of it as we could see for the freckles--and his eyes were blazing as he replied, "You ain't man enough. I dare you to strike me or to tech my clothes."

Both boys were riding bareback. The small boy slid off his pony's back; the other rode up to him and raised his quirt, but the little one seized him by the leg, and in a jiffy they were in the road fighting like cats. I asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy to drive on, but she said, "If you are in a hurry you can try walkin'; I'm goin' to referee this sc.r.a.p."

It looked for a minute as if the small boy would get a severe beating, but by some trick he hurled the other headlong into the green, slimy water that edged the road; then, seizing the quirt and the opportunity at the same time, he belabored Billy without mercy as that individual climbed up the slippery embankment, blubbering and whipped. Still sobbing, he climbed upon his patient pony, which stood waiting, and galloped off down the lane. The other pony followed and the little conqueror was left afoot.

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was beaming with delight. "Sure, 'twas a fine fight, a sight worth coming all this way to see. Ah! but you're the b'y. 'Tis a dollar I'd be givin' ye, only me purse is in me stockin'--"

"Oh," the boy said quickly, "don't let that stop you. I'll look off another way."

I don't know if she would have given him the money, for just then some men came into the lane with some cattle and we had to start. The boy got up on the back end of the buckboard and we drove on. We could hear our wagons rumbling along and knew they would soon catch up.

"Where is your home, b'y?" asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy.

"Oh, just wherever Aunt Hettie has work," he said. "She is at Mr.

Tom's now, so I'm there, too,--me and Baby Girl."

"Where are your folks?" Mrs. O'Shaughnessy went on.

"Ma's dead, an pa's gone to Alasky. I don't know where my brothers are. Baby Girl an' me are with Aunt Het, an' that's all there are of us." He grinned cheerfully in spite of the fact that one eye was fast closing and he bore numerous b.u.mps and scratches on his face and head.

Just then one of the men with the cattle galloped up and shouted, "h.e.l.lo!" It was Mr. Burney! "Where'd you get that kid? I guess I'll have to get the sheriff after you for kidnapping Bud. And what have you been doing to him, anyway?"

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy entered delightedly into a recital of the "mixup,"

and it turned out that Mr. Tom and Mr. Burney were one. It was like meeting an old friend; he seemed as pleased as we and insisted on our going up to his ranch; he said "the missus" would feel slighted if we pa.s.sed her by. So we turned into another lane, and presently drew up before the ranch house. "The missus" came dancing out to meet us, and right welcome she made us feel. Mr. Burney went back to bring the rest, but they were already setting up the tents and had supper almost ready. However, we stayed and had supper with the Burneys.

They are powerfully happy and talked eagerly of themselves and their prospects. "It's just grand to have a home of your own and some one to do for. I just _love_ to mend for Tommy, but I always hated to mend before," said the missus.

"You bet," Mr. Burney answered, "it is sure fine to know there's somebody at home with a pretty pink dress on, waitin' for a fellow when he comes in from a long day in the saddle."

And so they kept up their thoughtless chatter; but every word was as a stab to poor Aunt Hettie. She had Baby Girl on her lap and was giving the children their supper, but I noticed that she ate nothing. It was easy to see that she was not strong. Baby Girl is four years old and is the fattest little thing. She has very dark blue eyes with long, black lashes, and the shortest, most turned-up little nose. She is so plump and rosy that even the faded old blue denim dress could not hide her loveliness.

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy could not keep her eyes off the children. "What is the little girl's name?" she asked.

"Caroline Agnes Lucia Lavina Ida Eunice," was the astonishing reply.

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy gasped. "My _goodness_," she exclaimed; "is that _all_?"

"Oh, no," Aunt Hettie went on placidly; "you see, her mother couldn't call her all the names, so she just used the first letters. They spell Callie; so that is what she called her. But I don't like the name. I call her Baby Girl."

I asked her how she ever came to name her that way, and she said, "My sister wanted a girl, but there were six boys before this little one came. Each time she hoped it would be a girl, and accordingly selected a name for a girl. So there were six names saved up, and as there wasn't much else to give her, my sister gave them _all_ to the baby."

After supper the Burneys rode down to camp with us. We had the same camping ground that we had when we came up. The cabin across the creek, where we met Grandma Mortimer, is silent and deserted; the young couple have moved away with their baby.

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy kept talking about the fight, and Mr. Burney gave us the history of the children. "Their mother," he began, "has been dead about eighteen months. She really died with a broken heart. Baby Girl was only a few weeks old when the father went to Alaska, and I guess he's dead. He was to 'a' been back in three years, and no one has ever heard a word from him. His name was Bolton; he was a good fellow, only he went bughouse over the gold fields and just fretted till he got away--sold everything for a grub stake--left his wife and seven kids almost homeless. But they managed some way till the mother died. With her last breath she asked that the two youngest be kept together; she knew the oldest ones would have to be separated. She never did give up looking for Bolton and she wanted him to have the babies.

"Her sister Hettie has worked around here for years; her and Rob Langley have been going to marry ever since I can remember, but always there has something cropped up. And now that Hettie has got to take care of the kids I guess they won't never marry; she won't burden him with them. It is hard for her to support them, too. Work is scarce, and she can't get it, lots of times, because of the kids."

The Burneys soon went home and the rest of us went to bed,--all except Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, who was so cranky and snappy that we left her by the fire. It seemed hours after when I awoke. She was still sitting by the fire; she was absently marking in the ashes with a stick. I happened to be the first one up next morning and as I stirred up the fire I saw "Baby" written in the ashes. We had breakfasted and the men had gone their ways when Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said to me,--

"It is a blessed old soul Mrs. Mortimer is. Do you mind any good lesson that she taught us in the cabin beyont?" I did not remember.

"She said, 'The pangs of motherhood make us mothers not only of our own, but of every child that needs mothering,--especially if our own little children need us no longer. Fill their little places with ones who do need us.' Them's her very words, and it's sweet truth it is.

Both my Katie and Sheridan have been grown and gone these many years and my heart has ached for childher, and there's none but Cora Belle.

I am goin' to get them childher this day. What do you think about it?"

I thought so well of it that in about two minutes we were harnessing the horses and were off to lay the plan before Hettie in record-breaking time.