The Second Western Megapack. Zane Grey

boy’s hair.

      “If he is blamed,” said the school-master, “I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll never forgive myself anyhow.”

      A paternal, or rather maternal, expression came over Bolles’s face, and he removed his large, serious glasses. He did not sleep very well.

      The boy did. “I’m feeling like a bird,” said he, as they crossed through the mountains next morning on a short cut to the Owybee. “Breakfast will brace you up, Bolles. There’ll be a cabin pretty soon after we strike the other road. Keep thinking hard about coffee.”

      “I wish I could,” said poor Bolles. He was forgiving himself less and less.

      Their start had been very early; as Drake bid the school-master observe, to have nothing to detain you, nothing to eat and nothing to pack, is a great help in journeys of haste. The warming day, and Indian Creek well behind them, brought Drake to whistling again, but depression sat upon the self-accusing Bolles. Even when they sighted the Owyhee road below them, no cheerfulness waked in him; not at the nearing coffee, nor yet at the companionable tinkle of sleigh-bells dancing faintly upward through the bright, silent air.

      “Why, if it ain’t Uncle Pasco!” said Drake, peering down through a gap in the foot-hill. “We’ll get breakfast sooner than I expected. Quick! Give me Baby Bunting!”

      “Are you going to kill him?” whispered the school-master, with a beaming countenance. And he scuffled with his pocket to hand over his hitherto belittled weapon.

      Drake considered him. “Bolles, Bolles,” said he, “you have got the New England conscience rank. Plymouth Rock is a pudding to your heart. Remind me to pray for you first spare minute I get. Now follow me close. He’ll be much more useful to us alive.”

      They slipped from their horses, stole swiftly down a shoulder of the hill, and waited among some brush. The bells jingled unsuspectingly onward to this ambush.

      “Only hear ’em!” said Drake. “All full of silver and Merry Christmas. Don’t gaze at me like that, Bolles, or I’ll laugh and give the whole snap away. See him come! The old man’s breath streams out so calm. He’s not worried with New England conscience. One, two, three” Just before the sleigh came opposite, Dean Drake stepped out. “Morning, Uncle!” said he. “Throw up your hands!”

      Uncle Pasco stopped dead, his eyes blinking. Then he stood up in the sleigh among his blankets. “H’m,” said he, “the kid.”

      “Throw up your hands! Quit fooling with that blanket!” Drake spoke dangerously now. “Bolles,” he continued, “pitch everything out of the sleigh while I cover him. He’s got a shot-gun under that blanket. Sling it out.”

      It was slung. The wraps followed. Uncle Pasco stepped obediently down, and soon the chattels of the emptied sleigh littered the snow. The old gentleman was invited to undress until they reached the six-shooter that Drake suspected. Then they ate his lunch, drank some whiskey that he had not sold to the buccaroos, told him to repack the sleigh, allowed him to wrap up again, bade him take the reins, and they would use his six-shooter and shot-gun to point out the road to him.

      He had said very little, had Uncle Pasco, but stood blinking, obedient and malignant. “H’m,” said he now, “goin’ to ride with me, are you?”

      He was told yes, that for the present he was their coachman. Their horses were tired and would follow, tied behind. “We’re weary, too,” said Drake, getting in. “Take your legs out of my way or I’ll kick off your shins. Bolles, are you fixed warm and comfortable? Now start her up for Harper ranch, Uncle.”

      “What are you proposing to do with me?” inquired Uncle Pasco.

      “Not going to wring your neck, and that’s enough for the present. Faster, Uncle. Get a gait on. Bolles, here’s Baby Bunting. Much obliged to you for the loan of it, old man.”

      Uncle Pasco’s eye fell on the 22-caliber pistol. “Did you hold me up with that lemonade straw?” he asked, huskily.

      “Yep,” said Drake. “That’s what.”

      “Oh, hell!” murmured Uncle Pasco. And for the first time he seemed dispirited.

      “Uncle, you’re not making time,” said Drake after a few miles. “I’ll thank you for the reins. Open your bandanna and get your concertina. Jerk the bellows for us.”

      “That I’ll not!” screamed Uncle Pasco.

      “It’s music or walk home,” said the boy. “Take your choice.”

      Uncle Pasco took his choice, opening with the melody of “The Last Rose of Summer.” The sleigh whirled up the Owyhee by the winter willows, and the levels, and the meadow pools, bright frozen under the blue sky. Late in this day the amazed Brock by his corrals at Harper’s beheld arrive his favorite, his boy superintendent, driving in with the schoolmaster staring through his glasses, and Uncle Pasco throwing out active strains upon his concertina. The old man had been bidden to bellows away for his neck.

      Drake was not long in explaining his need to the men. “This thing must be worked quick,” said he. “Who’ll stand by me?”

      All of them would, and he took ten, with the faithful Brock. Brock would not allow Gilbert to go, because he had received another mule-kick in the stomach. Nor was Bolles permitted to be of the expedition. To all his protests, Drake had but the single word: “This is not your fight, old man. You’ve done your share with Baby Bunting.”

      Thus was the school-master in sorrow compelled to see them start back to Indian Creek and the Malheur without him. With him Uncle Pasco would have joyfully exchanged. He was taken along with the avengers. They would not wring his neck, but they would play cat and mouse with him and his concertina; and they did. But the conscience of Bolles still toiled. When Drake and the men were safe away, he got on the wagon going for the mail, thus making his way next morning to the railroad and Boise, where Max Vogel listened to him; and together this couple hastily took train and team for the Malheur Agency.

      The avengers reached Indian Creek duly, and the fourth day after his Christmas dinner Drake came once more in sight of Castle Rock.

      “I am doing this thing myself, understand,” he said to Brock. “I am responsible.”

      “We’re here to take your orders,” returned the foreman. But as the agency buildings grew plain and the time for action was coming, Brock’s anxious heart spoke out of its fulness. “If they start in to—to—they might—I wish you’d let me get in front,” he begged, all at once.

      “I thought you thought better of me,” said Drake.

      “Excuse me,” said the man. Then presently: “I don’t see how anybody could ’a’ told he’d smuggle whiskey that way. If the old man [Brock meant Max Vogel] goes to blame you, I’ll give him my opinion straight.”

      “The old man’s got no use for opinions,” said Drake. “He goes on results. He trusted me with this job, and we’re going to have results now.”

      The drunkards were sitting round outside the ranch house. It was evening. They cast a sullen inspection on the new-comers, who returned them no inspection whatever. Drake had his men together and took them to the stable first, a shed with mangers. Here he had them unsaddle. “Because,” he mentioned to Brock, “in case of trouble we’ll be sure of their all staying. I’m taking no chances now.”

      Soon the drunkards strolled over, saying good-day, hazarding a few comments on the weather and like topics, and meeting sufficient answers.

      “Goin’ to stay?”

      “Don’t know.”

      “That’s a good horse you’ve got.”

      “Fair.”

      But Sam was the blithest spirit at the Malheur Agency. “Hiyah!” he exclaimed. “Misser Dlake! How fashion you come quick so?” And the excellent Chinaman took pride