Patty Makes Her Strike

: The Gold Girl

It was noon, one week from the day she had returned from the Samuelson

ranch, and Patty Sinclair stood upon the high shoulder of a butte and

looked down into a rock-rimmed valley. Her eyes roved slowly up and

down the depression where the dark green of the scrub contrasted

sharply with the crinkly buffalo grass, yellowed to spun gold beneath



the rays of the summer sun.



She reached up and str ked the neck of her horse. "Just think, old

partner, three days from now I may be teaching school in that horrid

little town with its ratty hotel, and its picture shows, and its

saloons, and you may be turned out in a pasture with nothing to do but

eat and grow fat! If we don't find our claim to-day, or to-morrow,

it's good-by hill country 'til next summer."



The day following her encounter with Bethune, Vil Holland had

appeared, true to his promise, and instructed her in the use of her

father's six-gun. At the end of an hour's practice, she had been able

to kick up the dirt in close proximity to a tomato can at fifteen

steps, and twice she had actually hit it. "That's good enough for any

use you're apt to have for it," her instructor had approved. "The main

thing is that you ain't afraid of it. An' remember," he added, "a gun

ain't made to bluff with. Don't pull it on anyone unless you go

through with it. Only short-horns an' pilgrims ever pull a gun that

don't need wipin' before it's put back--I could show you the graves of

several of 'em. I'm leavin' you some extry shells that you can shoot

up the scenery with. Always pick out somethin' little to shoot

at--start in with tin cans and work down to match-sticks. When you can

break six match-sticks with six shots at ten steps in ten seconds

folks will call you handy with a gun." He had made no mention of his

trip to town, of his filing a homestead, or of their conversation upon

the top of Lost Creek divide. When the lesson was finished, he had

refused Patty's invitation to supper, mounted his horse, and

disappeared up the ravine that led to the notch in the hills. Although

neither had mentioned it, Patty somehow felt that he had heard from

Watts of her encounter with Bethune. And now a week had passed and she

had seen neither Vil Holland nor the quarter-breed. It had been a week

of anxiety and hard work for the girl who had devoted almost every

hour of daylight to the unraveling of her father's map. Simple as the

directions seemed, her inability to estimate distances had proven a

serious handicap. But by dogged perseverance, and much retracing of

steps, and correcting of false leads, she finally stood upon the rim

of the valley she judged to lie two miles east of the humpbacked butte

that she had figured to be the inverted U of her father's map.



"If this isn't the valley, I'm through for this year," she said. "And

I've got to-day and to-morrow to explore it." She wondered at her

indifference--at her strange lack of excitement at this, the crucial

moment of her long quest, even as she had wondered at her absence of

fear, believing as she did, that Bethune was still in the hills. The

feeling inspired by the outlaw had been a feeling of rage, rather than

terror, and had rapidly crystallized in her outraged mind into an

abysmal soul-hate. She knew that, should the man accost her again, she

would kill him--and not for a single instant did she doubt her ability

to kill him. Vaguely, as she stood looking out over the valley, she

wondered if he were following her--if at that moment he were lying

concealed, somewhere among the surrounding rocks or patches of scrub?

Yet, she was conscious of no feeling of fear. She even attempted no

concealment as, standing there upon the bare rock, she drew her

father's map and photographs from her pocket and subjected them to a

long and minute scrutiny. And then, still holding them in her hand,

gazed once more over the valley. "To 'a,' to 'b,'" she repeated. "What

is there that daddy would have designed as 'a,' and 'b?'" Suddenly,

her glance became fixed upon a point up the valley that lay just

within her range of vision. With puckered eyes and hat-brim drawn low

upon her forehead, she stared steadily into the distance. She knew

that she had never before seen this valley, and yet the place seemed,

somehow, strangely familiar. With a low cry she bent over one of the

photographs. Her hands trembled violently as her eyes once more flew

to the valley. Yes, there it was, spread out before her just the way

it was in the photograph--the rock-strewn ground--she could even

identify the various rocks with the rocks in the picture. There was

the lone tree, and the long rock wall, higher at its upper end,

and--yes, she could just discern it--the zigzag crack in the rock

ledge! Jamming the papers into her pocket she leaped into the saddle

and dashed toward a fringe of scrub that marked the course of a coulee

which led downward into the valley. Over its edge, and down its

brush-choked course, slipping, sliding, scrambling, she urged her

horse, reckless of safety, reckless of anything except that her weary,

and at times it had seemed her hopeless, search was about to end. She

had stood where her daddy had stood when he took that photograph--had

seen with her own eyes--the jagged crack in the rock wall!



In the valley the going was better, and with quirt and spur she urged

her horse to his best, her eyes on the lone pine tree. At the rock

wall beyond, she pulled up sharply and stared at the jagged crevice

that bisected it from top to bottom. It was the crevice of the

photograph! Very deliberately she began at the top and traced its

course to the bottom. She noted the scraggly, stunted pines that

fringed the rim of the wall and that the crack started straight, and

then zigzagged to the ground. Producing the "close up" photograph, she

compared it with the reality before her--an entirely superfluous and

needless act, for each minute detail of the spot at which she stared

was indelibly engraved upon her memory. For hours on end, she had

studied those photographs, and now--she laughed aloud, and the sound

roused her to action. Slipping from the horse, she fumbled at the pack

strings of the saddle and loosened the canvas bag. She reached into

it, and stood erect holding a light hand-axe. Once more she consulted

her map. "Stake l. c.," she read. "That's lode claim--and then that

funny wiggly mark, and then the word center." Her brows drew together

as she studied the ground. Suddenly her face brightened. "Why, of

course!" she exclaimed. "That mark represents the crack, and daddy

meant to stake the claim with the crack for the center. Well, here

goes!" She vehemently attacked a young sapling, and ten minutes later

viewed with pride her four roughly hacked stakes. Picking up one of

them and the axe, she paced off her distance, and as she reached the

first corner point, stared in surprise at the ground. The claim had

already been staked! Eagerly she stooped to examine the bit of wood.

It had evidently been in place for some time--how long, the girl could

not tell. Long enough, though, for its surface to have become

weather-grayed and discolored. "Daddy's stakes," she breathed softly,

and as her fingers strayed over the surface two big tears welled into

her eyes and trickled unheeded down her cheeks. "If he staked the

claim, I wonder why he didn't file," she puzzled over the matter for a

moment, and dismissed it. "I don't know why. But, anyway, the thing

for me to do is to get in my own stakes--only, I'll file, just as soon

as I can get to the register's office."



After considerable difficulty, she succeeded in planting her own stake

close beside the other, which marked the southwest corner of the claim, a

short time later the northwest corner was staked, and the girl stared again

at the rock wall. "Why, I've got to put in my eastern boundary stakes up on

top--three hundred feet back from the edge!" she exclaimed; "maybe I'll

find his notice on one of those stakes." It required only a moment to

locate a ravine that led to the top of the ledge which was not nearly so

high as the one that formed the opposite side of the valley. She found the

old stakes, but no sign of a notice. "The wind, and the snow, and the rain

have destroyed it long ago," she muttered. "And, now for my own notice."

Producing from her bag a pencil and a piece of paper, she wrote her

description and affixed it to a stake by means of a bit of wire. Then,

descending once more into the valley, she produced her luncheon and threw

herself down beside the little creek. It was mid-afternoon, and she

suddenly discovered that she was ravenously hungry. With her back against a

rock fragment, she sat and feasted her eyes upon her claim--hers--HERS! Her

thoughts flew backward to the enthusiasm of her father over this very

claim. She remembered how his eyes had lighted as he told her of its hidden

treasure. She remembered the jibes, and doubts, and covert sneers of the

Middleton people, her father's death, her own anger and revolt, when she

had suddenly decided, in the face of their council, entreaties, and

commands to take up his work where he had left it. With kaleidoscopic

rapidity her thoughts flew over the events of the ensuing months--the

meeting with Vil Holland, her disappointment in the Watts ranch, her eager

acceptance of the sheep camp, the long weary weeks of patiently riding

along rock walls, taking each valley in turn, the growing fear of running

out of funds before she could locate the claim. She shuddered as she

thought of Monk Bethune, and of how nearly she had fallen a victim to his

machinations. Her thoughts returned to Vil Holland, her "guardian devil of

the hills," who had turned out to be in reality a guardian angel in

disguise. "Very much in disguise," she smiled, "with his jug of whisky."

Nobody who had helped make up her little world of people in the hill

country was forgotten, the Thompsons, the Samuelsons, and the Wattses--she

thought of them all. "Why, I--I love every one of them," she cried, as

though the discovery surprised her. "They're all, every one of them, real

friends--they're not like the others, the smug, sleek, best citizens of

Middleton. And I'll not forget one of them. We'll file that whole vein from

one end to the other!" Catching up her horse, she mounted, and sat for a

moment irresolute. "I could make town, sometime to-night," she mused, and

then her eyes rested for a moment upon her horse's neck where the white

alkali dust lay upon the rough, sweat-dried hair. "No," she decided. "We'll

go back to the cabin, and you can rest up, and to-morrow we'll start at

daylight."



"Mr. Christie was right," she smiled, as she took the back trail for

Monte's Creek. "I don't have to teach school. But, I wonder how he

could have gotten that 'hunch,' as he called it? When I've been

searching for the claim for months?"



In a little valley that ran parallel to Monte's Creek, Patty

encountered Microby Dandeline. The girl was lying stretched at full

length upon the ground and did not notice her approach until she was

almost on her, then she leaped to her feet, regarded her for a moment,

and, with a frightened cry, sprang into the bush and scrambled out of

sight along the steep side of a ravine. In vain Patty called, but her

only answer was the diminishing sounds of the girl's scrambling

flight. "What in the world has got into her of late," she wondered, as

she proceeded on her way. Certain it was that the girl avoided her,

not only at the Watts ranch, but whenever they had chanced to meet in

the hills. At first she had attributed it to anger or resentment over

her own treatment of her when she had tried to get possession of the

map. But, surely, even the dull-witted Microby must know that the

incident had been forgotten. "No," she decided, "there is something

else." Somehow, the girl no longer seemed the simple child-like

creature of the wild. There was a furtiveness about her, and she had

developed a certain crafty side glance, as though constantly seeking a

means of escape from something. Her mother had noticed the change,

and had confided to Patty that she was "gittin' mo' triflin' every

day, a-rammin' 'round the hills a-huntin' her a mine." "There's

something worrying her," muttered the girl. "Something that she don't

dare tell anyone, and it's sapping what little wit she has."



It was late that evening when Patty ate her solitary supper. The sun

had long set, and the dusk of the late twilight had settled upon the

valley of Monte's Creek as she wiped the last dish and set it upon the

shelf of her tiny cupboard. Suddenly she looked up. A form darkened

the doorway, and quick as a flash, her eyes sought the six-gun that

lay in its holster upon the bunk.



"You won't need that." The voice was reassuring. It was Vil Holland's

voice; she had recognized him a second before he spoke and greeted him

with a smile, even as she wondered what had brought him there. Only

three times before had he come to her cabin, once to ascertain who was

moving into the sheep camp, once when he had pitched Lord Clendenning

into the creek, and again, only a few days before, when he had come to

teach her to shoot. The girl noted that he seemed graver than usual,

if that were possible. Certain it was that he appeared to be holding

himself under restraint. She wondered if he had come to warn her of

the proximity of Bethune.



"I was in town, to-day," he came directly to the point. "An' Len

Christie told me you're goin' to teach school." He paused and his eyes

rested upon her face as if seeking confirmation.



Patty laughed; she could afford to laugh, now that the necessity for

teaching did not exist. "I asked him if he could find a school for me

sometime ago," she replied, trying to fathom what was in his mind.



There was a moment of silence, during which Patty saw the man's

fingers tighten upon his hat brim. "I don't want you to do that. It

ain't fit work--for you--teachin' other folks' kids."



Patty stared at him in surprise. The words had come slowly, and at

their conclusion he had paused.



"Maybe you could suggest some work that is more fit?"



The man ignored the hint of sarcasm. "Yes--I think I can." His head

was slightly bowed, and Patty saw that it was with an effort he

continued: "That is, I don't know if I can make you see it like I do.

It's awful real to me--an' plain. Miss Sinclair, I can't make any fine

speeches like they do in books. I wouldn't if I could--it ain't my

way. I love you more than I could tell you if I knew all the words in

the language, an' how to fit 'em together. I loved you that day I

first saw you--back there on the divide at Lost Creek. You was afraid

of me, an' you wouldn't show it, an' you wouldn't own up that you was

lost--'til I'd made the play of goin' off an' leavin' you. An' I've

loved you every minute since--an' every minute since, I've fought

against lovin' you. But, it's no use. The more I fight it, the

stronger it gets. It's stronger than I am. I can't down it. It's the

first time I ever ran up against anything I couldn't whip." Again he

paused. Patty advanced a step, and her eyes glowed softly as they

rested upon the form that stood in her doorway silhouetted against the

after-glow. She saw Buck rub his velvet nose affectionately up and

down the man's sleeve, and into her heart leaped a great longing for

this man who, with the unconscious dignity of the vast open places

upon him, had told her so earnestly of his love. She opened her lips

to speak but there was a great lump in her throat, and no words came.



"That's why," he continued, "I know it ain't just a flash in the

pan--this love of mine ain't. All summer I've watched you, an' the

hardest thing I ever had to do was to set back an' let you play a

lone hand against the worst devil that ever showed his face in the

hills. But the way things stacked up, I had to. You had me sized up

for the one that was campin' on your trail, an' anything I'd have done

would have played into Bethune's hand. I know I ain't fit for you--no

man is. But, I'll always do the best I know how by you--an' I'll

always love you. As for the rest of it, I never saved any money. I

know there's gold here in the hills, an' I've spent years huntin' it.

I'll find it, too--sometime. But, I ain't exactly a pauper, either.

I've got my two hands, an' I've got a contract with Old Man Samuelson

to winter his cattle. I didn't want to do it first, but the figure he

named was about twice what I thought the job was worth. I told him so

right out, an' he kind of laughed an' said maybe I'd need it all, an'

anyhow, them cattle was all grade Herefords, an' was worth more to

winter than common dogies. So, you see, we could winter through, all

right, an' next summer, we could prospect together. The gold's here,

somewhere--your dad knew it--an' I know it."



Receiving no answering pat, the buckskin left off his nuzzling of the

man's sleeve, and turned from the doorway. As he did so the brown

leather jug scraped lightly against the jamb. The girl's eyes flew to

the jug, and swiftly back to the man who stood framed in the doorway.

She loved him! For days and days she had known that she loved him, and

for days and nights her thoughts had been mostly of him--this

unsmiling knight of the saddle--her "guardian devil of the hills."

Without exception, the people whose regard was worth having respected

him, and liked him, even though they deplored his refusal to accept

steady work. They're just like the people back home, she thought. They

have no imagination. To their minds the cowpuncher who draws his forty

dollars a month, year in and year out, is in some manner more

dependable than the man whose imagination and love of the boundless

open lead him to stake his time against millions. What do they know of

the joys and the despairs of uncertainty? In a measure they, too, love

the plains and the hills--but their love of the open is inextricably

interwoven with their preconceived ideas of conduct. But, Vil Holland

is bound by no such convention; his "outfit," a pack horse to carry

it, and his home--all outdoors! Her father had imagination, and year

after year, in the face of the taunts and jibes of his small town

neighbors, he had steadfastly allowed his imagination full sway, and

at last--he had won. She had adored her father from whom she had

inherited her love of the wild. But--there was the jug! Always her

thoughts of Vil Holland had led up to that brown leather jug until she

had come to hate it with an unreasoning hatred.



"I see you have not forgotten your jug."



"No, I got it filled in town." The man's reply was casual, as he would

have mentioned his gloves, or his hat.



"You said you had never run up against anything you couldn't whip,

except--except----"



"Yes, except my love for you. That's right--an' I never expect to."



"How about that jug? Can you whip that?"



"Why, yes, I could. If there was any need. I never tried it."



"Suppose you try it for a while, and see."



The man regarded her seriously. "You mean, if I leave off packin' that

jug, you'll----"



"I haven't promised anything." The girl laughed a trifle nervously.

"But, I will tell you this much. I utterly despise a drunkard!"



Vil Holland nodded slowly. "Let's get the straight of it," he said.

"I didn't know--I didn't realize it was really hurtin' me any. Can you

see that it does? Have I ever done anything that you know of, or have

heard tell of, that a sober man wouldn't do?"



The girl felt her anger rising. "Nobody can drink as much as you do,

and not be the worse for it. Don't try to defend yourself."



"No, I wouldn't do that. You see, if it's hurtin' me, there wouldn't

be any defense--an' if it ain't, I don't need any."



For an instant Patty regarded the man who stood framed in the doorway.

"Clean-blooded," the doctor had called him, and clean-blooded he

looked--the very picture of health and rugged strength, clear of eye

and firm of jaw, not one slightest hint or mark of the toper could she

detect, and the realization that this was so, angered her the more.



Abruptly, she changed the subject, and the moment the brown leather

jug was banished from her mind, her anger subsided. In the doorway,

Vil Holland noted the undercurrent of suppressed excitement in her

voice as she said: "I have the most wonderful news! I--I found

daddy's mine!" Seconds passed as the man stood waiting for her to

proceed. "I found it to-day," she continued, without noting that his

lean brown hand gripped the hat brim even more tightly than before,

nor that his lips were pressed into a thin straight line. "And my

stakes are all in, and in the morning I'm going to file."



Vil Holland interrupted. "You--you say you located Rod Sinclair's

strike? You really located it?" Somehow, his voice sounded different.



The girl sensed the change without defining it. "Yes, I really found

it!" she answered. "Do you want to know where?" Hastily she turned to

the cupboard and taking a match from a box, lighted the lamp. "You

see," she laughed, "I am not afraid to trust you. I'm going to show

you daddy's map, and his photographs, and the samples. Oh, if you knew

how I've hunted and hunted through these hills for that rock wall! You

see, the map was like so much Greek to me, until I happened by

accident to learn how to read it. Before that, I just rode up and down

the valleys hunting for the wall with the broad crooked crack in it.

Here it is." The man had advanced to the table, and was bending over

the two photographs, examining them minutely. "And here's his map." He

picked up the paper and for several minutes studied the penciled

directions. Then he laid it down, and turned his attention to the

samples.



"High grade," he appraised, and returned them to the table beside the

photographs. "So, you don't have to teach school," he said, speaking

more to himself than to her. "An' you'll be goin' out of the hill

country for good an' all. There's nothin' here for you, now that

you've got what you come after. You'll be goin' back--East."



Patty laughed, and as Vil Holland looked into her face he saw that her

eyes held dancing lights. "I'm not going back East," she said. "I've

learned to love--the hill country. I have learned that--perhaps--there

is more here for me than--than even daddy's mine."



Vil Holland shook his head. "There's nothin' for you in the hills," he

repeated, slowly, and abruptly extended his hand. "I'm glad for your

sake your luck changed, Miss Sinclair. I hope the gold you take out of

there will bring you happiness. You've earnt it--every cent of it, an'

you've got it, an' now, as far as the hill country goes--the books are

closed. Good-night, I must be goin', now."



Abruptly as he had offered his hand, he withdrew it, and turning,

stepped through the door, mounted his horse, and rode out into the

night.