Bunch Grass Part 55

Perhaps he lacked his master's grit. Jeff was the colour of parchment when he found himself in the saddle, whereon he sat huddled up, gripping the horn.

"Freeze on," said the boy.

"You bet," Jeff replied laconically.

Bud led the horse a few yards down the road, pa.s.sing from it into the chaparral. Thence, through a tangled wilderness of scrub-oak and manzanita, down a steep slope, into a pretty canon.

"Here we are."

A sudden turn of the trail revealed a squatter's hut built of rough lumber, and standing beneath a live-oak. A small creek was babbling its way to the Salinas River. The clearing in front of the hut was strewn with empty tins. A tumble-down shed encircled by a corral was on the other side of the creek. Jeff knew at once that he was looking at one of the innumerable mountain-claims taken up by Eastern settlers in the days of the great land boom, and forsaken by them a couple of years afterwards.

Jeff slid from the saddle on to his sound leg; then, counting rapidly the s.h.i.+ning tins, he said reflectively:--

"Bin here about a month, I reckon."

"Yes--Mister--Sherlock--Holmes."

Jeff stared. The ragam.u.f.fins of the foothills are not in the habit of reading fiction, although lying comes easy to them.

"Kin you read?" said Jeff.

"I--_kin_," replied Bud, grinning (he had nice teeth). "Kin you?"

"I can cuff a cheeky kid," said Jeff, scowling.

"But you've got to catch him first."

The boy laughed gaily, and ran into the house, as Jeff sat down propping his broad back against a tree.

"Things here are not what they seem," Jeff murmured to his horse, who twitched an intelligent ear, as if he, too, was well aware that this was no home of squatter or miner. And who else of honest men would choose to live in such a desolate spot?

Presently the boy came back, carrying a feed of crushed barley. Then he unsaddled the horse, watered him, and fed him. Jeff grunted approval.

"You're earnin' that dollar--every cent of it." A delightful fragrance of bacon floated to Jeff's nostrils. Evidently provision had been made for man as well as beast.

"That smells mighty good," said Jeff.

Bud helped him to rise, but after one effort Jeff sank back, groaning.

"It's my boot," he explained. "See--I'm wearing a number eight on a number fifteen hoof. W-w-what? Pull it off? Not for ten thousand dollars. We'll cut it off."

Jeff produced a knife and felt its edge.

"It's sharp," he said, "sharp as you, Bud; but-doggone it! I can't use it."

Bud saw the sweat start on his skin as he tried to pull the injured foot towards him.

"S'pose I do it?" the boy suggested.

"You've not got the nerve, Bud. Why, you're yaller as cheese, you poor little cuss."

"I'm not," said the boy, flus.h.i.+ng suddenly.

He took the knife and began to cut the tough leather: a delicate operation, for Jeff's leg from knee to ankle was terribly swollen.

Slowly and delicately the knife did its work. Finally, a horribly contused limb was revealed.

"Cold water--and plenty of it," murmured Jeff.

"Or hot?"

"Mebbee hot'd be better."

Bud disappeared, whistling.

"That boy's earning a five-dollar bill," said Jeff. "I'm a liar if he ain't as bright as they make 'em."

The hot water was brought and some linen.

"I feel a heap better," Jeff declared presently.

"How about dinner?"

"Bud, if ever I hev a son I hope he'll be jest like you. Say--you're earning big money--d'ye know it?--and my everlastin' grat.i.tude."

"That's all right. Hadn't I better bring the grub out here? It's nice and cool under this tree."

Jeff nodded. The bacon and beans were brought out and consumed. Bud, however, refused to eat. He preferred to wait for his father. Jeff asked some questions, as he stowed away the bacon and beans.

"Your dad must be an awful nice man," said he.

"He's the best and smartest man in the State," said Bud proudly.

"Is he! And you two are campin' out for yer health--eh? Ye can't fool me, Bud."

"Oh!"

"I sized you up at once as a city boy."

"You're more than half right."

"I'm all right, Bud. In my business I have to be all right. Bless you, it don't do to make mistakes in my business."

"And what is your business?"

Jeff beamed. He was certainly a good-looking fellow, and warmed by food and, comparatively speaking, free from pain, he was worthy of more than a pa.s.sing glance.

"I'm deputy-sheriff of San Lorenzo County," he declared, "and mighty proud of it."

"Proud of this yere county?" said the boy, "or proud of being dep'ty- sheriff?"