The Joyous Trouble Maker/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI
A NEW KIND OF POLE TEAM
STEELE'S mood changed slowly. Pondering Turk's words, he came to his decision. War with the Corliss interests he had expected; he had even looked forward expectantly to a mirthful rivalry. But this sort of thing he had not looked for; it smacked of the handiwork of Joe Embry, it hinted that Joe Embry was whispering suggestions in Beatrice's ear, that she was following them.
"There's going to be no more monkey business," he said sharply. "You two men get that under your skulls."
He knew that the fight had not all gone out of Tom Hardy, that in another moment if he was content to let the man rest under his hands the struggle would have to be resumed. And now, in an altered mood, he wanted the end of it. With a suddenness which brought no warning to Hardy, nor yet to the watchful Turk Wilson, he sprang to his feet, ran back a dozen steps up the slope and snatched up the nearest rifle. As he did so Tom Hardy, guessing his purpose when it was too late, lumbered to his feet only to find a rifle barrel covering him.
"Stand still there, Hardy," warned Steele briefly. "I'm not going to shoot to kill, since it isn't necessary. But I'll break a leg for you just the minute you forget to do what you're told."
"Fight fair, can't you?" growled Hardy.
"Do you call it fair fighting," demanded Steele coolly, "when three of you put up a game to pick us off one at the time? Wait for Bill Rice to get out of the way, then nab Turk and then lay for me! I've given you an even break until now, and you know it. Now you do what you are told and do it lively, or get a rifle ball in the leg. It's up to you."
"That's talkin', Bill," commented Turk in full endorsement. "We've licked 'em once already an' that's enough for one day. Lay still, can't you, Pete?"
"Let him go, Turk," commanded Steele, backing off another pace or two, to have ample room for the quick shifting of aim. "I can cover the two of them now. Come here."
Turk rose and came forward. Pete sat up, grunted, got heavily to his feet, his eyes filled with question, still reminiscent of rage.
"There's some rope over there by their blankets," continued Steele, watchful of the slightest movement made by either of the two Little Giant men.
Turk, his back to his recent foemen, winked largely into Steele's face, while saying gravely:
"Sure. Hang 'em the same's we did pore ol' Johnnie Thorp. I hate to do it, but …"
"Get the rope," cut in Steele tersely. "Know how to tie a man's hands so he can't get them loose?"
"Do I?" grinned Turk. "Watch me."
He separated a thick rope into its twisted strands, employed his monster, tobacco stained knife to cut them into proper lengths, and whistling his adored air from "Il Trovatore," approached Tom Hardy. For an instant Steele feared that he would have to keep his promise and put a hole in the man's leg. But Hardy, seeing the look in Steele's eyes, gave over cursingly and let Turk bind his wrists behind him.
"I'll get you some day for this, Turk," was all that he said.
Turk sighed and shook his head, remarked: "That's what they all say, Tom; it ain't no ways original," and resumed "Il Trovatore."
"Tie his feet, too?" he asked of Steele.
"No; he'll need them," was the blunt rejoinder. "Truss up your other friend."
There was a considerable show of frank pleasure in Turk's prompt obedience. Then he turned for further orders.
"Take the other rifle and go get Johnnie Thorp," said Steele. "Or if your ankle hurts you. … Here, you ride herd on these two boys and I'll bring in Johnnie."
He passed his rifle to Turk who sat down with it across his knees, making himself comfortable upon a rock and at last reaching for his slab of tobacco. Steele, taking up the other gun, disappeared among the trees, returning presently with Thorp marching sullenly in front of him.
"You three gentlemen," he said, as Thorp took his place between his glowering companions, "have a nice long walk ahead of you. If you want to get home before dark you'll have to step lively."
"They'll get theirselves loose, Bill," remarked Turk, who had had time to think. "One'll ontie the other with his teeth an' mos' likely, bein' hard headed gents, they'll come right back."
"Since I've got something else to do besides play tag with them," grunted Steele, "they might as well know that if they come back looking for trouble they'll get it hot out of a rifle barrel. If your outfit is looking for that kind of a fight all you've got to do is come after it. As for untying one another … I'd thought of that. Keep your eye on the three of them, Turk."
He set down his gun, unsnapped his belt hatchet, and stepped into the nearest clump of young firs. It was short work to lop down a slender thirty-foot-high tree, and rudely trim it of branches. Turk, allowed to give but a questioning glance sidewise, was moved to wonder. But he understood in a moment and testified his delight with a gurgle of mirth.
"Goin' home tandem!" he chuckled into Pete Olsen's empurpled face. "Didn't know when I was breakin' you to ride that we was figgerin' on workin' you in harness too, did you, Pete? Haw!"
For the rest was simplicity itself. First under Johnnie Thorp's right arm was the long pole slipped until half of its length had passed by him. Then Steele's own fingers made Thorp's wrist fast to the sapling with a bit of rope, so that he might reach neither the heavy end in front of him nor the lopped off end behind him. Though Pete Olsen cursed mightily and even offered physical opposition, the trick was repeated with him, so that he was bound fast to one end of the fir. In stubborn silence, though with a face gone a burning red, Tom Hardy allowed himself to be tied to his end of the pole. Through the whole procedure Turk Wilson on his rock never ceased swaying back and forth in a paroxysm of delight. From that hour on, so long as he lived, he would give unstintedly of his admiration to Bill Steele. And of his loyalty.
"Just a minute, boys," grinned Steele, whose good humour had come back with an episode which appealed to it. "Turk and I have no use for your baggage and no wish to steal it. Roll their blankets, Turk."
So blankets were rolled, strapped to the pole between the harnessed men, made into two packs, a rifle in the heart of each. And then at last did Steele say lightly:
"On your way, boys, if you want to get in before dark."
"Else a wil' cat might eat you up!" suggested Turk gravely. "You look that helpless."
And, with no desire to prolong the moment, Pete Olsen and Johnnie Thorp and Tom Hardy, their faces flaming, took up their grotesque way down among the big trees, headed back toward the Little Giant mine.
"Since they ain't over comfortable that away," mused the ecstatic Turk, "they'll travel right along, won't they? An' when they come trapsin' into camp like that, an' the boys get a sight of them. … Lord, Lordy, Bill Steele! When them three gents come again there's goin' to be murder!"
"I shouldn't be surprised," said Bill Steele grimly. "And now tell me, Turk: what's the reason you and Rice have done nothing while I was away? And what's the meaning of Rice being gone so long now?"
Turk explained as they trudged back to the plateau and had the privilege of seeing Steele's eyebrows go up in astonishment. The day Steele had left them Rice had gone into Camp Corliss for a little more generous lay-out of provisions and some nails and tools. He had learned that nothing was to be had there by Bill Steele or any man taking Steele's wage. He had gone on into Summit City and had had the information repeated. He had been hungry and couldn't get a meal at the hotel or at the little chop house. He had come back at last to spend the night in camp and to consult with his friend. The next morning he had left again, planning to go on through Summit City and to the nearest town beyond, which was Temple Junction, a fifty mile distant railroad town. And it was likely, said Turk, that he'd have to walk unless he waited for the stage which ran at this time of year only twice a week.
"Why didn't he take my horse?" asked Steele.
Turk grinned.
"Scared," he chuckled. "Me an' Bill Rice ain't buckeroos an' never was. I'd rather ride a cyclone than that devil eyed cayuse of yourn. So'd Bill."
That night Steele was forced to dine on trout again. They were down to the last potato, the last handful of beans. Flapjack flour all gone; only a few spoonfuls of sugar left; hardly greater an amount of coffee. …
"Here's hopin'" sighed Turk thoughtfully, "that Bill don't get drunk in Temple Junction an' forget to come back real soon."
And he looked almost hurt at Steele's answer, a sudden roar of laughter. For again Steele saw that which was hidden to Turk's eyes … the humour of the situation.