Chapter 24. Hicks The Avenger

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_ CHAPTER XXIV. HICKS THE AVENGER

The remarkable change in Mr. Hicks' manner continued the next morning. It was so radical that no one could fail to observe it and the comments were frequent, while Mrs. Stott crowed openly.

From haughty independence he had become so anxious to please that he was almost servile, and his manner toward the wife of the rising young attorney particularly was that of a humble retainer fawning at the feet of royalty. During breakfast he stood at a respectful distance, speaking only when spoken to, and jumping to serve them.

This attitude quickly dissipated the fear which he had inspired in The Happy Family, and by noon they were not only calling him "Hicks" but "Ellery." Then, this stage of familiarity having been passed in safety, Mr. Stott humorously dubbed him "Cookie," and the name was adopted by everyone.

Mrs. Budlong ventured to complain that there was too much shortening in the biscuit. This was a real test of the sincerity of his reformation since, if such a thing were possible, he had been even more "touchy" upon the subject of his cooking than his dignity. No one could doubt but that the change was genuine when he not only received the criticism meekly but actually thanked her for calling his attention to it.

Thus encouraged, Mr. Appel declared that he wished he would not fry the ham to chips and boil the "daylights" out of the coffee. Mr. Hicks bowed servilely and replied that he would try to remember in future. Mrs. Stott took occasion to remark that his vegetables would be better for less seasoning and more cooking, and Miss Gaskett thought his dried fruit would be improved by soaking over night and additional sweetening.

Mr. Hicks received these criticisms in a humility that was pathetic when compared with his former arrogance. He looked crushed as he stood with bowed head and drooping shoulders as if his proud, untrammelled spirit had been suddenly broken.

Miss Eyester felt sorry for him and asserted that she could not recall when she had enjoyed food so much and eaten so heartily. Indeed, she had been such a gourmand that she had gained a pound and six ounces, if the scales upon which she had been weighed in Prouty were accurate.

Mr. Stott, however, who was in one of his waggish moods, undid all that she might have accomplished in the way of soothing Hicks' injured feelings, by inquiring facetiously if he would mind rolling him out a couple of pie-crusts to be tanned and made into bedroom slippers.

Mr. Hicks laughed heartily along with the others, and only Wallie caught the murderous glitter through his downcast lashes.

It developed that the Yellowstone Park was a place with which Hicks was thoroughly familiar from having made several trips around the Circle. He was not only acquainted with points of interest off the beaten track passed unseen by the average tourist, but he suggested many original and diverting sports--like sliding down a snowbank in a frying-pan--which would not have occurred to any of them.

By the time the party had reached the Lake Hotel they were consulting him like a Baedeker, and he answered every question, however foolish, with a patience and an affability that were most praiseworthy. Their manner toward him was a kind of patronizing camaraderie, while Mrs. Stott treated him with the gracious tolerance of a great lady unbending.

A disbelief in the ability of the leopard to change its spots made Wallie sceptical regarding Hicks' altered disposition, yet he did his best to convince himself that he was wrong when Hicks went out and caught a trout from the Yellowstone Lake expressly for Mrs. Stott's supper.

It was a beautiful fish as it lay on the platter, brown, crisp, and ornamented with lemon. Mr. Hicks offered it much as the head of John the Baptist might have been brought to Salome.

"Thank you, Hicks," said Mrs. Stott, kindly.

"I hope you'll like it, ma'am," he murmured, humbly.

The mark of favour seemed to bear out Mrs. Stott's contention that inferiors should not be treated as equals in any circumstances. Now, with her fork in the fish, Mrs. Stott looked around the table and inquired graciously if she might not divide it with someone?

Everyone politely declined except Mrs. Budlong, who looked at it so wistfully that Mrs. Stott lost no time in transferring it to her plate. She ate with gusto and declared after tasting it:

"It is delicious, simply delicious! I never remember eating another with quite the same delicate flavour. I presume," addressing herself to Mr. Hicks, who was standing with arms akimbo enjoying her enjoy it, "it is due to something in the water?"

"I presume so," he replied, respectfully, and added: "The trout in the Yellowstone Lake are said to be very nourishing."

It was natural that Mrs. Stott should feel a little flattered by this evidence of partiality even from a menial, also she noticed that Mrs. Budlong was following each mouthful with the eyes of a hungry bird-dog so she could not refrain from saying further:

"It is such a delightful change from ham and bacon. I am not sure," she averred, laughingly, "that I shall not eat the head and fins, even."

"I wish I was in such favour," Mrs. Budlong declared, enviously.

"Never mind, Honey Dumplin'," said Mr. Budlong, "I shall go out after supper and catch your breakfast."

"You ought to get a boatload," Hicks added quickly, "if you find the right place."

"I saw them jumping by the million where I was walking before supper." Mr. Appel volunteered to conduct Mr. Budlong to the spot as soon as they were finished eating.

Everyone who had fishing-tackle decided to avail himself of this wonderful opportunity, and they all followed Mr. Appel except Mr. and Mrs. Stott, who preferred to fish by themselves from the bridge over the Yellowstone river.

They were the last to leave but returned in not more than twenty minutes, Mr. Stott supporting his wife in what seemed to be a fainting condition.

Wallie hastened forward to lend his assistance if necessary.

"Is she ill?" he inquired, solicitously.

"Ill! She is sick at her stomach and no wonder!" He was plainly angry and appeared to direct his wrath at Wallie.

While Wallie wondered, it did not seem a propitious moment to ask questions, and he would have turned away had Mr. Stott not said peremptorily:

"Wait a minute. I want to speak to you."

Having laid Mrs. Stott, who was shuddering, on her blankets and administered a few drops of aromatic spirits of ammonia, he dropped the flap of her teepee and beckoned Wallie curtly:

"You come with me."

Wallie could not do else than follow him, his wonder growing as he led the way to the camp kitchen where Mr. Hicks was engaged at the moment in the task which he referred to as "pearl-diving."

He did not appear surprised to see them in his domain, on the contrary he seemed rather to be expecting them, for immediately he took his hands out of the dish-water, wiped them on the corner of his apron, and reaching for a convenient stick of stove-wood laid it on the corner of the table with a certain significance in the action.

"Make yourself to home, gents," he said, hospitably, indicating the wagon-tongue and a cracker-box for seats, respectively. "Anything in particular I can do for you?" He looked at Mr. Stott guilelessly.

"You can answer me a few questions." Mr. Stott fixed a sternly accusing eye upon him. "Hicks, was, or was not, that trout you gave my wife, wormy?"

Mr. Hicks, who seemed to relish the situation, pursed his lips and considered. Finally he asked in a tone which showed that he had pride in his legal knowledge:

"Will I or will I not incriminate myself by answering?"

"You probably will if I'm correct in my suspicions. I want the truth."

"Then," replied Mr. Hicks, while his hand slipped carelessly to the stick of stove-wood, "if you force the issue, I will say that I've seen a good many wormy trout come out of the Yellowstone but that was the worst I ever met up with."

Mr. Stott advanced belligerently.

"And you dare boast of it!"

"I'm not boasting--I'm just telling you," replied Mr. Hicks, calmly. "An Eye for an Eye, a Tooth for a Tooth, that's my motto, and your wife thought I wasn't good enough to eat at the table with her."

"You hear?" Stott turned to Wallie furiously. "He did it on purpose. I demand that you discharge this fellow!"

Mr. Hicks' fingers caressed the stove-wood while he waited Wallie's answer.

Wallie squirmed between the two of them.

"It was reprehensible, Mr. Stott, I am more distressed than I can tell you. I have no excuse to offer for Hicks' action, but the truth is, as he knows and has taken advantage of it, I cannot replace him and it is impossible to get along without a cook with so large a party."

"You will, then, not discharge him?" Stott demanded.

"I am helpless," Wallie reiterated.

Hicks grinned triumphantly.

"In that case," Mr. Stott declared in a tone which implied that a tremendous upheaval of some kind would follow his decision, "my wife and I will leave your party and continue through the Park by motor."

Wallie felt that it was useless to argue with any one so determined, so he made no effort to persuade Mr. Stott to remain, though the deflection of two more persons was a serious matter to him and Pinkey.

Without waiting to say good-bye to the others, the Stotts paid their bill and departed, walking so erect in their indignation as they started down the road toward the Lake Hotel that they seemed to lean backward.

It was not yet dark when Mr. Stott, stepping briskly and carrying his Gladstone bag, raincoat, and umbrella in a jaunty manner, came into camp announcing breezily that he had decided, upon reflection, not to "bite off his nose to spite his face." He declared that he would not let the likes of Ellery Hicks upset his plans for touring the Yellowstone, and while his wife refused to return he meant to carry out his original intention.

But the real reason for Mr. Stott's decision, as Wallie suspected from the frequency with which he had discovered him sitting upon a log in secluded spots counting his money, was that the hotel rates and motor fare were far higher then he had anticipated.

Mrs. Stott's absence did not leave the gap which she had anticipated. In fact, after the first evening her name was never mentioned, and Mr. Stott's marital ties rested so lightly upon him that a stranger would never have known they existed. He gravitated toward Miss Gaskett with a promptitude which gave rise to the suspicion that he had had his eye upon her, and Miss Gaskett responded so enthusiastically that it was a matter for gossip.

It was noted that she took to doing her hair up at night on "wavers" and used her lipstick with greater frequency, and whereas she had vowed she meant never again to get in the saddle she now rode with Mr. Stott daily.

The ladies who had known Miss Gaskett for twenty-five years, and nothing to her discredit, were not prepared to say that she was a huzzy and a vampire without further evidence, but they admitted to each other privately that they always had felt there was something queer and not quite straightforward about Mattie.

Miss Gaskett, who looked like a returned missionary that had had a hard time of it carrying the Light into the dark places, seemed rather elated than depressed at the aspersions cast upon her character, and by the time they reached the "Paint Pots" she was flaunting Mr. Stott shamelessly, calling him "Harry" before everybody, and in the evening sitting with him by the camp-fire on the same saddle-blanket.

At Mammoth Hot Springs Mrs. Budlong showed her disapproval by refusing to speak to Miss Gaskett, and Miss Gaskett replied by putting on a peek-a-boo blouse that was a scandal.

But Mrs. Budlong herself was not in too high favour, since to the sin of gluttony she had added that of lying and been caught at it. It was a small matter, but, as Mrs. Appel declared indignantly, it is trifles that betray character, and Mrs. Budlong was treated with marked coldness by the ladies to whom she had prevaricated.

It was known beyond the question of a doubt that Mrs. Budlong had purchased food and kept it in her teepee. Therefore, when asked for something to ward off a faint feeling before dinner and she had denied having anything, they were outspoken in their resentment.

"There she stood and lied to our faces," Mrs. Appel declared to her husband afterward, "while her mouth was shining. I could smell sardines on her and a big cracker crumb was lying on her bosom. Indeed, it's a true saying they have in this country that to know people you must camp with them. I never would have thought that of Hannah Budlong!"

It was because of this incident, and the strained relations which resulted from her perfidy, that none of her erstwhile friends responded to her invitation to join her in a bath in a beaver dam of which Mr. Hicks told her when they camped early the next afternoon.

Mrs. Budlong's phlegmatic body contained an adventurous spirit, and the delights of a bath in a beaver dam in the heart of a primeval forest appealed to her strongly.

To Mr. Hicks, who sought her out purposely to tell her about it, she confided:

"Hicks, underneath my worldly exterior I am a Child of Nature. I love the simple, the primitive. I would live as a Wild Thing if I could choose my environment."

Mr. Hicks nodded sympathetically and understandingly, and returned the confidence.

"I am convinced that I was a faun when the world was young. There are times when I feel the stirrings of my wild nature."

Mrs. Budlong regarded him attentively. She never had thought of him as a faun but now she noticed that his ears were peculiar.

Nobody could have been more obliging and interesting than Mr. Hicks as he guided her to the beaver dam and explained its construction. It had long since been abandoned by the industrious animals that had built it, but their work had been so well done that it was in as good condition as when they had left it.

There was nothing to fear from beavers; anyway, Hicks assured her, he never had known a beaver to attack anybody. In this isolated spot she was as safe from intrusion as if she were in her own bathroom, and, after tramping down a spot in the brush for her to stand on, he went away declaring that he was sure she would have an experience she always would remember.

Left alone, Mrs. Budlong felt of the water. It was, as Hicks had said, even warmer than tepid from standing--an ideal temperature. The brush grew high around the pond formed by the back-water and made a perfect shelter. No fear of prying eyes need disturb her.

Then a daring thought came to her which made her black eyes sparkle. Suppose she did not wear any bathing suit! What an adventure to relate to her intimate friends when she returned to Mauch Chunk, Pennsylvania! It laid hold of her imaginative mind, and the result was that Mrs. Budlong hung her suit on a bush and went in au naturelle.

She waded in cautiously, for the bottom was soft and oozy and there were little patches of green floating on the surface that she did not so much like the looks of. Otherwise conditions were perfect, and Mrs. Budlong submerged like a submarine when she reached the middle of it. She came up and stood looking at the sky above her, enjoying the feeling of the sunshine on her skin, and the soft, warm breeze that caressed her. She smiled at an interested blue-jay, then submerged again, deeper, and the tide rose so that the water lapped bushes and pebbles that had not been wet all summer.

Her smile grew wider as she thought what the others were missing, and was considering how much she dared embellish the adventure without being detected, when, suddenly, a look of horror came to her face and stayed there, while screams that sounded more like the screeches of a lynx or mountain-lion than those of a human being scared the blue-jay and brought those in camp up standing. Piercing, hair-raising, unnatural as they were, Mr. Budlong recognized them.

"My wife! Help! Murder! Hicks, where is she? Find a weapon and come with us!"

"I gotta get supper," Hicks replied, heartlessly.

Mr. Appel, Mr. Stott, and old Mr. Penrose dashed into their tents and dashed out carrying firearms that had been sealed by the Park officials, as is customary, while Mr. Budlong in his frenzy snatched a pair of scissors from Miss Eyester and headed the posse which expected to pursue the murderer. He was not a murderer yet, however, for Mrs. Budlong's screams had not diminished in volume, although it was feared that worse than death might already have befallen her. Her shrieks guided them like a lighthouse siren, so they lost no time in taking wrong directions but, at that, it was a considerable distance and Mr. Budlong, in spite of the agonized thoughts which goaded him forward, was so handicapped by his asthma that he gradually fell to the rear of the rescue party.

Mr. Stott was then in the lead, with Mr. Appel a close second, until the latter, who was wearing bedroom slippers, stumped his toes against a rock with such force that he believed them broken. He dropped down immediately with the pain of it and sat weaving to and fro, clasping his foot to his breast while the others passed him.

Mr. Stott called that help was arriving as he crashed through the brush in the vicinity of the beaver dam. To his astonishment Mrs. Budlong shrieked:

"Don't come!" and went on screaming. When he reached the pond he stopped short and stood there, and old Mr. Penrose joined him an instant later.

Mr. Appel, alternately limping and hopping yet covering ground with surprising rapidity, reached the others ahead of Mr. Budlong, who, staggering with exhaustion, huge drops on his pallid face, and wheezing like an old accordeon, all but fainted when he saw the wife of his bosom.

Mrs. Budlong, looking like a corn-fed Aphrodite, stood in the middle of the pool, with her fat white back, wet and glistening, flecked with brown particles that resembled decayed vegetation.

"What's the matter, Honey Dumplin'?" cried Mr. Budlong, shocked and bewildered.

For answer, Mrs. Budlong screamed the harder.

"I know!" piped up Mr. Appel. "She's covered with leeches--blood-suckers--and can't get 'em off. I got 'em once swimmin' in stagnant water."

When he spoke he called attention to the fact of his presence and that of Mr. Stott and old Mr. Penrose. Instead of being grateful for the information, and for the assistance the others had expected to render, Mr. Budlong turned upon them all furiously:

"Get out of here you Peeping Toms and spying libertines! Haven't you any shame about you?"

He raised the scissors so threateningly that as soon as they recovered from their astonishment they retreated, but, at that, their haste was not sufficient to appease an outraged husband. Mr. Budlong picked up a pebble and threw it with such a sure aim that it bounced between Mr. Stott's shoulder-blades.

When he had picked off the blood-suckers that were battening on Mrs. Budlong, the two returned to camp and lost no time in serving notice on Wallie that they were leaving by the first passing conveyance if they had to buy it.

Whether or not Mr. Hicks had known of the leeches was a matter for much discussion, and opinion was about equally divided as to his innocence. He disclaimed all knowledge of them, however, and went about with the air of one cruelly maligned.

His martyr-like pose was not convincing to Wallie, who could not rid himself of the suspicion that the incident had been planned, though Pinkey contended that he did not believe Hicks was "deep" enough to think of anything like that.

"Anyhow, he's cost us three dudes," said Wallie, which remark was sufficient to set Pinkey figuring with a stick.

"Three head of dudes at $5.00 a day for, say, eleven days is, say----"

"They're gone and that's all there is to it. The thing for us to do is to see that no more leave," Wallie interrupted practically.

"I'm not worryin' about them," Pinkey replied, confidently, "if we can jest hold that cook. We've got to humour him till we git through this trip, then after he's paid off I aim to work him over and leave him for somebody to drag out."

But as if to make amends for the loss he had caused his employers, Hicks' manner grew increasingly saccharine and he redoubled his efforts to provide entertainment for the guests. By the time they arrived at the Canon Hotel Wallie was questioning his suspicions of Hicks and felt inclined to believe that he had been hasty in his judgment.

He was undoubtedly an asset, for the entire party hung on his words and relied upon him to see that they missed nothing of interest. Mr. Stott was indebted to him for an experience which relegated the Florida hoot-owl to the background, though the thrill of the adventure was so intermingled with anguish that it was impossible to tell where one left off and the other began.

Sliding down the snow-covered side of a mountain in a frying-pan was fraught with all the sensations Hicks had described and some he had omitted.

When they had reached the particular spot which he had recommended for the sport, in lieu of a frying-pan, Hicks gave Mr. Stott a well-worn gold-pan that he had found somewhere.

Starting at the top with the party as spectators, Mr. Stott shot down the side like the proverbial bullet, but midway his whoops of ecstasy changed to cries of acute distress, owing to the fact that the friction wore a hole through the pan to the size of a dollar, and Mr. Stott, unable to stop his unique toboggan or endure the torture longer, turned over and finished the trip on his stomach.

Mr. Stott's eyes often rested upon Hicks afterward with a questioning look in them, but the cook's solicitude had been so genuine that cynical as his legal training had made him, he was obliged to think that it was purely an accident which might not happen one time in a million.

No point in the Park had been anticipated more than the camp at the Canon where Mr. Hicks averred that the bears came in swarms to regale themselves upon the hotel garbage. Their tour thus far had been a disappointment in that the wild animals, with which they had been informed the Park teemed, were nowhere in evidence.

A deer had crossed the road ahead of them and they had gazed at a band of elk through Mr. Penrose's field-glasses, but otherwise they had seen nothing that they could not have seen in Pennsylvania.

Mr. Hicks' tales of the bears had aroused their interest to such a point that as soon as the camp site was selected they loaded their cameras and kodaks and set off immediately to get pictures while the light was favourable.

It chanced to be one of the days, however, when the bears had no taste for garbage and although they waited until nearly supper-time not a bear put in its appearance. Mr. Penrose, in particular, was disappointed and vexed about it, and while it was unreasonable to hold Hicks in any way accountable for their absence, he could not refrain from saying disagreeably:

"I think you have exaggerated this bear business, Hicks. I have no doubt that a bear or two may come down occasionally, I have the word of others for it, but as for droves of bears--swarms--I think you have overstated."

Mr. Hicks cringed under the criticism, and admitted with a conciliatory whine in his voice that was rather sickening:

"Perhaps I did enlarge a little, Mr. Penrose. Possibly I was over-anxious to be interesting. I apologize sincerely if I have misled and disappointed you. I hope, however, that you will yet have the opportunity of seeing at least one before we leave here."

"No such luck," Mr. Penrose growled at him. "I haven't any idea that I'll see even the tracks. It's a good idea to cut in two everything you're told in this country and then divide it."

Mr. Penrose was so hard on Hicks that Mr. Appel interposed quickly:

"Do they ever come around at night, Cookie?"

"So I have been informed," Mr. Hicks replied, conservatively.

Pinkey was about to say that bears travelled more by night than in daytime, when Mr. Appel declared that he intended to sleep in the sleeping bag he had brought with him but which Mrs. Appel had not permitted him to use because she felt nervous alone, in her teepee.

Mrs. Appel protested against Mr. Appel thus recklessly exposing himself to danger but Mr. Appel was mulish in the matter.

"If, by chance, one should come into camp I would have a good look at him. I may never have another such opportunity."

"If you want to take your life in your hands, well and good."

So, after supper, Mr. Appel unrolled his sleeping bag and spread it on a level spot not far from the supply wagon. Then he kissed Mrs. Appel, who turned her cheek to him, and buttoned himself into the bag.

The talk of bears had made Aunt Lizzie Philbrick so nervous that as an extra precaution she pinned the flap of her tent down securely with a row of safety-pins and Mr. Stott not only slept in more of his clothes than usual but put a pair of brass knuckles under his pillow.

These brass knuckles had been presented to Mr. Stott by a grateful client for whom he had obtained damages from a street railway company for injuries received through being ejected from a saloon six months prior to the date upon which he had fallen off the car step.

Brass knuckles and a convenient length of lead-pipe were favourite weapons with the clientele which gave to the waiting room of Mr. Stott's law office an odour reminiscent of a Wayfarers' Lodging House.

The night was a dark one, so dark in fact that old Mr. Penrose felt some little hesitation when it came bed-time over going off to sleep by himself in the brush where, owing to his unfortunate habit of snoring so loud as to be beyond anything human, they now placed his teepee.

There was not a glimmer of moonlight or starlight to guide him as he went stumbling and crashing through the brush to his rag residence. His thoughts were not so much of four-footed visitors as of footpads and the ease with which they could attack him and get away with his grandfather's watch which he was wearing.

Out in the open, Mr. Appel was enjoying the novelty tremendously, though he was a little too warm for comfort in his fleece-lined bag. But after the last candle had been extinguished he called to his wife cheerily:

"Are you all right, dearie?"

Mrs. Appel was not to be so easily propitiated and did not answer, so he called again:

"This is great--simply great! I wish you were with me."

Only Mr. Appel and his Maker knew that he screwed up his cheek and winked at the fabrication.

Sleep came quickly to the tired tourists, and soon there was no sound save the distant tinkle of the bell on one of the horses and the faint rumble of Mr. Penrose's slumbers.

It was eleven o'clock or thereabouts, and the clouds had rifted letting through the starlight, when dark forms began to lumber from the surrounding woods and pad around the camp, sniffing at various objects and breathing heavily.

There were bears of all sizes and ages, ranging from yearlings to grandfathers whose birthdays were lost in antiquity. Mr. Appel, who was a light sleeper and the first to discover them, would have sworn on a monument of Bibles that there were at least fifty of them--the size of mastodons.

Palpitating in his sleeping bag in the midst of them, he may be excused for exaggeration, although, exactly, there were only eight of them.

The cold sweat broke out on Mr. Appel and he thought that surely the thumping of his heart must attract their attention. In such mortal terror as he never had experienced or imagined he quaked while he speculated as to whether the bear that first discovered him would disembowel him with one stroke of his mighty paw, and leave him, or would scrunch his head between his paws and sit down and eat on him?

But once the bears had located the supply-wagon, they went about their business like trained burglars. Standing on their hind legs, they crowded about it, tearing open sacks, scattering food, tossing things hither and thither, jostling each other and grunting when they found something to their liking.

Their grunting and quarrelling finally awakened Hicks and McGonnigle, who started up in their blankets, yelling. Their whoops aroused everybody except old Mr. Penrose, who was sleeping with his deaf ear uppermost and would not have heard a Big Bertha.

Mr. Stott slipped on his brass knuckles and stood with his head out of the tent opening, adding his shouts to those of Hicks and McGonnigle, who, by now, were hurling such missiles as they could lay their hands on. Instead of having hysterics as might have been expected, Aunt Lizzie Philbrick astonished herself and others by standing out in the open with her petticoat over her nightgown, prepared to give battle with the heel of her slipper to the first bear that attacked her.

It was not until Mr. Hicks got hold of two washbasins and used them as cymbals that the bears paid any attention. But this sound, added to the pandemonium of screaming women, finally frightened them. Then, scattering in all directions, they started back to the shadows.

Suddenly Mr. Appel let out such a cry as seemed that it must not only split his throat but rend the very heavens. Small wonder! A cinnamon bear weighing in the neighbourhood of eight hundred pounds planted its left hind foot in the pit of his stomach as it went galloping away to the timber.

In the brush where Mr. Penrose had been sleeping tranquilly other things were happening. In the midst of his slumbers, a dream in which he thought he was being dragged to the fire like a calf for branding came to him. The dream grew so real that it awakened him. He received a swift and unpleasant impression that he was moving, then he was startled to find that he was not only moving, but moving so rapidly that the canvas bottom of his tent was scraping on the rocks and brush over which it travelled.

Mr. Penrose was enraged instantly. At best he had little patience with practical jokers and none at all with one who had the impudence to awaken him. He called out angrily.

The tent stopped moving and there was quiet.

Mr. Penrose, who had raised himself on his elbow, laid down and was about to begin where he had left off when his domicile resumed its journey.

Now thoroughly aroused, he sprang up and tore at the flap-fastenings.

"This is going to stop right here!" he cried, furiously. "I do not appreciate this odious Western humour. You have chosen the wrong person to play your jokes on!"

He reached for the pointed fish-pole which was lying in its case in the bottom of the tent and stepped through the opening.

A burly figure in a big overcoat stood in the deep shadow confronting him.

Mr. Penrose was bare-footed and his soles were tender but he advanced far enough to bring the pole down with a thwack upon the head of the intruder.

"Woof! Woof!"

The answer raised his hair and galvanized his whiskers.

"Woof! Woof!" A great paw fanned the air--he could feel the wind from it plainly as it reached out to cuff him--and the claws on the end of it tore the front of the flannel shirt in which he slept to ribbons.

"Woof! Woof!" And then a roar that reverberated through the timber.

Mr. Penrose swore afterward that the hot breath of the brute was in his face, but the statement is open to question since at the first "Woof!" he had fallen into his tent backward.

No one dreamed of the adventure Mr. Penrose was having until he appeared among them with his shirt bosom in shreds and trembling like an aspen. In one hand he carried a sizeable chunk of bacon.

"This," he cried, brandishing it, "is what I found tied to my teepee!"

The explanation was obvious, someone had baited his tent for bear on purpose, and, since there was no way of obtaining evidence against the culprit, Mr. Penrose in his unreasoning rage accused everybody.

"Ever since I came, you have all had a pick on me!" He glared at them. "You needn't think you're so smart I haven't seen it."

Everyone was so surprised at the accusation that they could only stare, speechless, at him. With his white beard, rags, and bare-footed, Mr. Penrose looked like the Count of Monte Cristo telling the world what he was going to do to it as he added, waving the bacon:

"I'm going home to-morrow--to Delaware--back to my peach orchard--and if any one of you ever say you know me--much less speak to me--I shall deny it. I'm done with the whole caboodle of you!"

Protestations were useless and efforts to dissuade him from his purpose of leaving. The next morning he packed his bag and started down the road without saying good-bye to any one.

His departure reduced the party to half its original number, and that was bad enough, but when by lunch-time Mr. Appel had developed a soreness which led him to believe he was injured internally and should consult a physician, the situation became infinitely worse to Wallie and Pinkey.

As a matter of course they expected his wife to accompany him, but what they had not known was that Miss Gaskett had been put in Mrs. Appel's charge by her parents and in the light of her indiscreet conduct with Mr. Stott it was deemed best that she should return with them.

It was a terrible disappointment to Miss Gaskett, who cried bitterly and in an unguarded moment told her age, approximately, sobbing that it was preposterous that one of her years should not be permitted to finish a trip which she was so enjoying.

But Mrs. Appel was obdurate, declaring that she did not care to take the responsibility of leaving her without a proper chaperon, since Aunt Lizzie was too unworldly to be a safe guardian and Miss Eyester was herself unmarried.

Miss Gaskett was compelled to succumb to the argument and the three were driven to the nearest hotel after luncheon, leaving Wallie and Pinkey with the sickening knowledge that now it was not possible to "break even," to say nothing of a profit. Every day they were out would put them in debt a little deeper, but they both were agreed they would finish the trip whatever happened.

The evening was a gloomy one as compared to others, and although they built a camp-fire as usual there was none of the customary gaiety around it.

Mr. Stott sat alone on his saddle-blanket lost in meditation of a sombre nature, and Pinkey and Miss Eyester whispered apart.

Wallie was in no mood for conversation, while Mr. Hicks, with the delicacy which now marked his every action, smoked alone in the shadow, making no effort to intrude himself upon his betters. Even "Red" McGonnigle, reclining on his elbow staring into the embers, seemed pensive and disinclined to take advantage of the opportunity which the silence gave him to hear his own voice. So only Aunt Lizzie Philbrick remained to give life to the party, and Aunt Lizzie, while a woman of high principle and fine character, was, admittedly, not stimulating.

Aunt Lizzie had snow-white hair drawn tightly from her forehead and a corpse-like pallor to match it. She could not possibly look any different in her coffin, because so far as appearances went she might have been dead for a decade. Her manner was helpless, her voice gentle and hesitating, while in repose she ordinarily gave the impression of being in a state of suspended animation.

But to-night she was strangely restless, her thin white hands fluttered nervously, and she moved her camp chair so often that everyone wondered silently what was the matter with her. There was a red spot on either cheek which might have been the heat of the fire or excitement. At any rate, it was plain to the least observant that Aunt Lizzie was perturbed by something.

Finally, during one of her frequent movings, she inadvertently set the leg of her camp chair in a hole and went over backward. Mr. Hicks, who bounded from the shadow, was the first to reach her and everyone was astonished to hear her cry, when he would have assisted her.

"Don't touch me!"

Everyone felt rather sorry for Hicks when he returned to his seat crestfallen while Aunt Lizzie went off at a stiff-legged trot to her teepee without saying good-night to anybody.

When some extraordinary accident was not befalling Aunt Lizzie, who seemed the essence of mediocrity, she was always doing the unexpected, so little was thought of it after the first surprise at her rudeness, and the others shortly said good-night and retired also.

Wallie stood alone by the dying camp-fire, wondering what the morrow might hold for him--if any bad luck could come that had not already happened. If so, he could not imagine it, for it seemed he had run the gamut of misfortune.

In this he was mistaken, for when they stopped at noon-day he received a blow from the last quarter he had expected--Aunt Lizzie.

The day had not begun too auspiciously, for when something like two miles on their journey Mr. Stott remembered that he had left his soap on a rock, and since it was expensive soap felt he must return for it. He had galloped the distance and back again, joining the party with his horse sweating, and Wallie had warned him curtly that the day promised to be a hot one and he must ride slowly.

"Please do not get ahead of the grub-wagon," Wallie had said with emphasis.

Mr. Stott had done as requested just so long as it suited him, and then passing Wallie with a little laugh of defiance had raced to lead the procession. In consequence, when Hicks pulled to the roadside for lunch somewhat earlier than usual, Mr. Stott did not know it and continued riding.

The heat was terrific, and animals and humans suffered alike while the gypsum dust which rose in clouds added to the discomfort. Gnats and mosquitoes, deer-flies and "no-see-ems" attacked in clouds and as viciously as if they had double rows of teeth and rapiers. It was the most unpleasant day they had encountered, everyone's nerves were on edge, and there has been more gaiety in a mourner's carriage than in the surrey where "Red" tried vainly to interest Aunt Lizzie.

Wallie was too angry with Mr. Stott to care for luncheon, so after a bite he betook himself to the shade of a tree, and sat down to smoke, with his back against it.

He was thinking of the buckskin and how jaded it had looked that morning and wondering if its already stiffened shoulders would get over it if he pulled off its shoes and turned it into a soft pasture. His speculations were interrupted by Aunt Lizzie, who stood before him twisting her fingers in embarrassment.

A peerless beauty could not have passed unscathed through such a morning, but the havoc it had wrought in Aunt Lizzie's looks was nothing short of startling.

Her lids were inflamed and swollen from the bites of the "no-see-ems," her nose was red, and her eyes watered from the gypsum dust which affected her like hay-fever, her sailor hat had slipped to the back of her head and her "scolding locks" were hanging like a fringe over a soiled linen collar. One would have said that Aunt Lizzie could have traversed the earth unmolested, not excepting the bandits because of whom she had fled Mexico.

Something of the sort passed through Wallie's mind as he waited the explanation of her obvious confusion.

"I have something--very awkward--to say to you, Wallie."

The harried expression which was becoming chronic leaped into his eyes at the introduction, as he asked himself what now might be portending.

"It's rather indelicate to discuss with a gentleman," she continued, braiding her fingers.

Wallie was alarmed but, anxious to set her at her ease, he said encouragingly:

"You can talk as freely to me as if I were your--father."

He had not had time to visualize himself as Aunt Lizzie's father when she went on in a short-breathed fashion:

"I fear that I shall have to leave you, Wallie, as soon as possible."

Wallie's wonder grew, but he said nothing.

"I think--I fear--I believe," she stammered, "that Mr. Hicks is of a very ardent temperament."

Wallie could not have spoken now had he wanted to.

"Since yesterday I have found him looking at me frequently in a peculiar manner. Last night he stared at me with his burning eyes until I could feel his hypnotic influence. I hope--I trust you will believe I have not given him any encouragement?"

Wallie's jaw, which had fallen, prevented him from reassuring her that he believed her blameless.

"So far, the tongue of scandal has never laid hands on me," she declared, mixing her metaphors in her agitation, "but I feel that it is a risk I should not take to travel about the country with a company of men and only an unmarried woman in the party."

Wallie managed to mumble:

"You are as safe here as if you were in a convent, Aunt Lizzie."

It would have seemed from her expression that she preferred not to think so, however.

"You understand how I feel, don't you?" she pleaded.

"Perfectly! Perfectly!" Wallie replied, too dazed to make any other answer. He would have been only a little less astounded if the old lady had announced her intention of opening a dance-hall upon her return to Prouty.

Aunt Lizzie's desertion, and for such a reason, was the last thing he had anticipated. It seemed like the final straw laid upon a back already breaking. He watched her toddle away, and sat down again gloomily.

At the supply-wagon Mr. Hicks was putting the food away, commenting profanely upon the flies, the heat, the tardiness of Mr. Stott, the injustice of things in general, and in particular the sordid necessity which obliged him to occupy this humble position when he was so eminently fitted to fill a higher one.

He threw a stick at a "camp-robber" that had flown down and taken a pick at a plate on a stump which contained the lunch he had saved for Mr. Stott, and his expression was so diabolic that it was the first time for many days that he had looked natural.

"Red" McGonnigle, with his hat over his face, dozed in the shade of the bed-wagon. Aunt Lizzie busied herself with preparations for departure. Miss Eyester perused the testimonials for a patent medicine contained in a pamphlet left by previous campers. Insects droned, heat waves shimmered, the horses stood sleeping in their nose-bags. It was a peaceful noon-day scene, but Macpherson and Company, now sitting on their heels discussing their prospects, or lack of them, had no eye for it.

One thought was uppermost, their bubble was punctured, they were worse than ruined, for their horses and outfit were mortgaged almost up to their value, and in addition, they had borrowed at the bank, counting on paying off all their indebtedness when the Park trip was finished.

"I s'pose I can git a job herdin' sheep--they's good money in it--but I'll be an old man before I can afford to git married, to say nothin' of the disgrace of it." Pinkey's voice sounded hopeless.

The plaint gave Wallie such a pang that he could not answer, but with a twig played a game of tick-tack-toe in the dust, while he thought bitterly that no one could blame Helene Spenceley for preferring Canby to a person who seemed destined to failure in whatever he attempted.

He was another of the "four-flushers," he told himself, and the country was full of them, who just fell short of doing something and being somebody. Probably, in time, he would have no ambition beyond working for a "grub-stake" in summer so he could "shack up" in winter. He would let his hair grow, and go sockless, and buy new clothes rather than wash his old ones, and eat from soiled dishes, and read mail-order catalogues for entertainment, and dog-gone it! why couldn't he bring himself to think of marrying some respectable girl like the blacksmith's daughter there in Prouty, who had no chin and a fine complexion and cooked like an angel and never said a cross word to anybody?

Since Wallie was too uncommunicative to be interesting, Pinkey got up and left him to his reflections, remarking philosophically as he departed to join Miss Eyester:

"Well, I never heard of anybody bein' hanged for owin' money, so I guess there's no use in us goin' around with the double-breasted blues over it. We might as well whistle and say we like it."

Wallie looked after his partner almost angrily.

Oh, yes, it was well enough for him to talk about being cheerful and not worrying, but he guessed he would not be so chipper and so easily resigned to disappointment if he had nothing more to which to look forward than he had.

The lugubrious voice of Mr. Hicks declaiming reached him:

"Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling!
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter--and the bird is on the wing."

That was the worst of it, Wallie thought despairingly. The Bird of Time had but a little way to flutter. He was so old--twenty-seven! The realization that he was still a failure at this advanced age increased his misery. He was a fool to go on hoping that he meant anything to Helene Spenceley or ever would; but, just the same--Wallie stood up and squared his shoulders--if he couldn't have the woman he wanted there wouldn't be any other! He would sell his place for what he could get for it, pay his debts, and go to Tahiti and be a beach-comber, or to Guatemala and start a revolution, or live a hermit in the Arctic Circle, trapping for a fur company! He would do whatever he could to forget her.

Then, suddenly, he wished that he was a little boy again and could sit on Aunt Mary's lap and lay his head on her shoulder the way he used to when he came home from school with a sick headache. It always had comforted him. A heartache was worse than a headache by a whole lot. Somehow he was so lonely--so inexpressibly lonely. He had not felt like this even that first winter on his homestead.

A lump rose in his throat to choke him, and he was about to turn away lest someone see the mist in his eyes that blinded him, and that he felt horribly ashamed of, when the sound of hoofs attracted his attention and caused him to grow alert in an instant.

He was sure that it was Stott returning, and then he caught a glimpse of him through the trees--galloping.

"Oh, here you are!" exclaimed that person, irritably, as he turned off the road and came through the brush toward Wallie.

There was a bright shine in Wallie's eyes as he walked toward him.

"Why didn't you tell me you were going to camp in the middle of the morning?" Stott demanded in his rasping voice as he dismounted.

Wallie returned evenly:

"You know as well as I do that choosing a camp is left to Hicks' judgment. I told you not to get ahead of the supply-wagon."

"If you think I'm going to poke along behind like a snail, you're mistaken!" Stott retorted.

Wallie's face went white under its tan, though his voice was quiet enough as he answered:

"You'll 'poke' this afternoon, I'm thinking."

Stott turned sharply.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Just what I said. Look at that horse!"

The buckskin's head was hanging, its legs were trembling, there was not a dry hair on it and the sweat was running in rivulets. Its sides were swollen at the stirrup where the spurs had pricked it, and the corners of its mouth were raw and bleeding.

Wallie continued and his voice now was savage:

"You're one of the people, and there's plenty like you, that ought to be prevented by law from owning either a horse or a gun. This afternoon you'll ride in the surrey or walk, as suits you."

Stott laughed insolently.

"Oh, I guess not!"

Wallie calmly loosened the latigo.

Stott took a step toward him with his heavy jaw thrust out and his hand sought his hip pocket.

"Don't you take the saddle off that horse!" His tone was menacing.

A machine that had been purring in the distance passed, slowed up, and stopped a little way beyond the camp. Wallie heard it but did not look to see whom it might be bringing, as in answer to Stott's threat he dropped the cinch and laid his hand upon the horn.

"If you think I'm bluffing----"

For answer, Wallie pulled off the saddle.

Stott hesitated for the fraction of a second, then his arm shot out and Wallie dropped heavily from the blow beneath the ear which Stott dealt him.

There was a sharp cry behind him, but Wallie did not look around as, still dazed, he got to his feet slowly, with his eyes upon his antagonist.

"I warned you!" Stott chortled, and he put his hand behind him to conceal the brass knuckles he was wearing.

Helene Spenceley was there; her voice had told him; but he took no account of that in the choking, blinding rage which now controlled him.

Before Stott could use his cowardly weapon again Wallie sprang for him, and with the force and rapidity of a trained fighter landed blow after blow on the heavy jaw which made a fine target.

"You----horse-killer! You----braggart and cheapskate! You----shyster and ambulance chaser!" And with every epithet Wallie landed a punch that made the lawyer stagger.

It was not "nice" language; it was not a "nice" thing to do, possibly, and perhaps the "soft answer" would have been better, but the time had passed when Wallie set any store by being merely "nice," and he had forgotten Helene Spenceley's presence, though in any event it would have made no difference.

There was only one thought in his mind as he sat astride Stott's chest when Stott went down finally, and that was to make him say "Enough!" if he had to hammer him past recognition.

This did not require so long as one would have thought, considering that person's boasts as to his courage, but, at that, Stott might well be excused for wishing to end the punishment he was receiving. In the face above him, almost brutal in the fury that stamped it, there was no trace to remind Stott of the youth who had painted cabbage roses and knit sweaters.

"Let me up!" he cried, finally, struggling under the merciless blows that rained upon him.

"Say it!" Wallie's voice was implacable.

"'Nough!" Stott whined it.

Wallie stopped immediately, and the attorney got to his feet, sullen and humiliated. He stood for a moment rubbing his neck and eyeing Wallie; then with a return of defiance flung at him:

"You'll pay for this, young fellow!"

Wallie's short laugh was mocking.

"Why don't you sue me for damages? I'd be flattered to death at the implication that I had any money. It might help my credit."

With a shrug he turned and walked toward Helene Spenceley. Her eyes were shining, and there was a singular smile on her face as he went up to her, but whether she smiled or frowned did not seem to matter much to Wallie.

He was not a pretty sight at the moment, and he knew it. A lump had risen on his jaw and one eye was closing, his hair was powdered with gypsum dust, and the sleeve of his shirt was torn out at the shoulder, but he had no apologies to make for anything and there was that in his manner which said so.

Helene laughed as she put out her hand to him.

"Was that a part of the regular programme or an impromptu feature of the day's entertainment?"

"It's been brewing," Wallie replied, briefly.

"Aren't you surprised to see me?"

"Not particularly."

"Or glad?"

"I'm always that."

"This came yesterday while I was in Prouty, and I volunteered to deliver it. I thought it might be important." She handed him a telegram.

"That was good of you." His face softened a little, and still more as he read the message.

He passed it to Helene:

Will you come home if I tell you I was wrong and want you?

AUNT MARY.

Wallie mused softly:

"It must have been hard for her to write that."

"Will you go?" Helene asked, quickly.

Wallie did not answer. He stood motionless, staring at the road where the heat waves shimmered, his absent gaze following a miniature cyclone that picked up and whirled a little cloud of powdered gypsum, while Helene waited.

Her eyes were upon his face with an expression that would have arrested his attention if he had seen it, but he seemed to have forgotten her and her question.

When he spoke, finally, it was to himself, rather, as if in denunciation of the momentary temptation which the telegram had been to him.

"No!" emphatically, "I'm not going back like a prodigal who can't stand the gaff any longer! I won't slink into a soft berth because it's offered, and admit that I'm not man enough to stand up and take what comes to me! I'm licked again--proper--and," harshly, "I don't expect anybody to believe in me, but I won't stay licked if I can help it!"

"I'm said to be a good 'picker,' and I've always believed in you, Wallace Macpherson," Helene said, slowly.

He stared his incredulity, then replied with ungracious irony:

"You've concealed it well."

"Flattery is bad for growing boys," she smiled mischievously.

"I'm sure you've never spoiled any one by it. You've treated me like a hound, mostly."

Her eyes sparkled as she answered:

"I like hounds, if they have mettle."

"Even when they run themselves down following a cold trail?" he asked in self-derision.

Her reply was interrupted by voices raised in altercation in the vicinity of the supply-wagon. A clump of bushes concealed the disputants, but they easily recognized the rasping nasal tones of Mr. Stott and the menacing bellow peculiar to the cook in moments of excitement.

The wrangle ended abruptly, and while Helene and Wallie stood wondering as to what the silence meant, Pinkey with a wry smile upon his face came toward them.

"Well, I guess we're out of the dude business," he said, laconically.

"What's the matter now?" Wallie demanded so savagely that the two burst out laughing.

"Nothin' much, except that Hicks is runnin' Stott with the butcher-knife and aims to kill him. I don't know as I blame him. He said his grub was full of ants and looked like scraps for Fido."

Wallie was alarmed, but Pinkey reassured him.

"Don't worry! He won't catch him, unless he's got wings, the gait Stott was travellin'. He'll be at the hotel in about twenty minutes--it's only five miles. What do you make of this, pardner?" Pinkey handed him a worn and grimy envelope as he added in explanation:

"I found it stuck in the cupboard of the wagon."

Wallie took the envelope, wondering grimly as he turned it over if there was anything left that could surprise him. There was. On the back was written:

Ellery Hicks INSULTED August 3rd, this year of our Lord, 1920.

Below, in pencil, was a list of the party with every name crossed out save Mr. Stott's, and at the bottom, ornamented with many curlicues and beautifully shaded, was the significant sentence, with the date as yet blank:

Ellery Hicks AVENGED, August ---- this year of our Lord, 1920.

_

Read next: Chapter 25. "And Just Then----"

Read previous: Chapter 23. Rifts

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