Sheep Camp

: The Gold Girl

If Patty Sinclair had anticipated annoyance from the forced attention

of her tall horseman of the hills, she was disappointed, for neither

at meals, nor during the shopping tour that occupied the whole of the

following day, nor yet upon the long homeward drive, did he appear.

The return trip was slower and more monotonous even than the journey

to town. The horses crawled along the interminable treeless trail with

the h avily loaded wagon bumping and rattling in the choking cloud of

its own dust.



The expedition had been a disappointing one to Microby. The "pitcher

show" did not compare in interest with the never forgotten "circust."

There had been no "fight" to break the monotony of purchasing

supplies. And they had encountered no "nortymobiles."



Despite the fact that they had started from town at daylight,

darkness overtook them at the canyon and it was with fear and

misgiving that Patty contemplated the devious trail up Monte's Creek.

The descent of this trail by daylight had taxed the girl's knowledge

of horsemanship to the limit, and now to attempt its ascent with a

heavily loaded wagon in the darkness--Microby Dandeline seemed to read

her thoughts.



"We-all cain't git up the crick, I don't reckon," she hazarded, but

even as she spoke there was a flicker of light flashed through the

darkness and, lantern in hand, Watts rose from his comfortable seat in

a niche of rock near the fork of the trail and greeted them with his

kindly drawl. "I 'lowed yo' all ort to be 'long d'rec'ly. I'll take

'em now, Miss; the trail's kind of roughish like, but ef yo'll jist

take the lantern an' foller 'long ahead I reckon we'll make hit all

right. I've druv hit afore in the dark, an' no lantern, neither."

Taking turns with the lantern, the girls led the way, and an hour and

a half later halted before the door of the Watts cabin, where they

became the center of an admiring group of young Wattses who munched

their candy soberly as they gazed in reverent awe at the homing

argonauts.



The three mile walk up the rough trail did wonders for Patty's

stiffened muscles, and it was with a feeling of agreeable surprise

that she rose from her shake-down the following morning with scarcely

an ache or a pain in her body.



"Yer gittin' bruk in to hit," smiled Ma Watts, approvingly, as the

girl sat down to her belated breakfast. But the surprise at her fit

condition was nothing to the surprise of Ma Watts's next words. "Pa,

he taken yer stuff on up to the sheep camp. He 'lowed yo'd want to git

settled like. They taken yer pa's outfit along, too, an' when they git

yo' onloaded they're a-goin' to work on the upper pasture fence. When

Pa gits sot on a thing he goes right ahead an' does hit. Some thinks

he's lazy, but hit hain't thet. He's easy goin'--all the Wattses

wus--but when they git sot on a thing all kingdom come cain't stop 'em

a-doin' hit. Trouble with Pa is he's got sot on settin'." Ma Watts

talked on and on, and at the conclusion of the meal Patty drew a bill

from her purse. But the woman would have none of it. "No siree, we-all

hain't a-runnin' no hotel. Folks is welcome to come when they like

an' stay as long as they want to, an' we're glad to hev 'em. Yer

cayuse is a-waitin' out yender. The boys saddled him up fer yo'. Come

down an' take pot luck whenever yo're a mind. Microby Dandeline, she

ketched up Gee Dot an' went a-taggin' 'long fer to help yo' git

settled. Ef she gits in the way jist send her home. Foller up the

crick," she called, as Patty mounted her horse. "Yo' cain't miss the

sheep camp, hit's about a mild 'bove the upper pasture."



Watts and the boys were just finishing the unloading of her supplies

when Patty slipped from her horse and surveyed the little cabin with

its dark background of pines.



"Hit hain't so big as some," apologized the man, as he climbed into

the wagon and gathered up the reins. "But the chinkin's tol'ble, an'

the roof's middlin' tight 'cept a couple places wher' it leaks."



The girl's glance strayed from the little log building to the untidy

litter of rusty tin cans and broken bottles that ornamented its

dooryard, and the warped and broken panels of the abandoned corral

that showed upon the weed-choked flat across the creek. Stepping to

the door, she peered into the interior where Microby was industriously

sweeping the musty hay from the bunk with the brand-new broom. Thumbed

and torn magazines littered the floor, a few discarded garments hung

dejectedly from nails driven into the wall, while from the sagging

door of the rough board cupboard bulged a miscellaneous collection of

rubbish. A sense of depression obsessed her; this was to be her

home! She sneezed and drew back hastily from the cloud of dust raised

by Microby's broom. As she dabbed at her eyes and nose with a small

and ridiculously inadequate handkerchief, she was conscious of an

uncomfortable lump in her throat, and the moisture that dampened the

handkerchief could not all be accredited to the sneeze tears. "What if

I have trouble locating the mine and have to stay here all summer?"

she was thinking, and instantly recalling the Watts ranch with its air

of shiftless decay, the smelly Watts blankets in the overcrowded

sleeping room, the soggy meals, the tapping of chickens' bills upon

the floor, and the never ending voice of Ma Watts, she smiled. It was

a weak, forced little smile, at first, but it gradually widened into a

real smile as her eyes swept the little valley with its long vista of

pine-clad hills that reached upward to the sky, their mighty sides and

shoulders gored by innumerable rock-rimmed coulees and ravines.

Somewhere amid the silence of those mighty slopes and high-flung peaks

her father had found Eldorado--had wrested nature's secret from the

guardianship of the everlasting hills. Her heart swelled with the

pride of him. She was ashamed of that sudden welling of tears. The

feeling of depression vanished and her heart throbbed to the lure of

the land of gold. The two small Wattses had scrambled into the

wagon-box.



"Yo' goin' to like hit," announced Watts, noticing the smile. "I

'lowed, fust-off yo'----"



"I'm going to love it!" interrupted the girl vehemently. "My father

loved these hills, and I shall love them. And, as for the cabin! When

Microby and I get through with it, it's going to be the dearest little

place imaginable."



"Hit wus a good sheep camp," admitted Watts, his fingers fumbling

judiciously at his head. "An' they's a heap o' good feed goin' to

waste in this yere valley. But ef the cattlemen wants to pay fer what

they hain't gittin' hit hain't none o' my business, I reckon."



"Why did they drive the sheep out? Surely, there is room for all here

in the hills."



"Vil Holland, he claimed they cain't no sheeps stay in the hill

country. He claims sheeps is like small-poxt. Onct they git a-goin'

they spread, an' like's not, the hull country's ruint fer cattle

range."



"It seems that Vil Holland runs this little corner of Montana."



"He kind o' looks after things fer the cattlemen, but the prospectin's

got into his blood, an' he won't stick to the cattle, only on the

round-up, 'til he gits him a grub-stake. He's a good man--Vil is--ef

it wusn't fer foolin' 'round with the prospectin'."



Instantly, the girl's eyes flashed. "If it wasn't for the

prospecting!" she exclaimed, in sudden anger. "My father was a

prospector--and there was never a better man lived than he! Why is it

that everyone looks askance at a prospector? You talk like the people

back home! But, I'll show you all. My father made a strike. He told me

of it on his death-bed, and he gave me the map, and the photographs

and his samples. Maybe when I locate this mine and begin taking out

more gold every day than most of you ever saw, you won't talk of

people 'fooling around' prospecting. I tell you prospectors are the

finest men in the world! They must have imagination, and unending

patience, and the heart to withstand a thousand disappointments--" She

broke off suddenly as the soft rattle of bit-chains sounded from

behind her, and whirled to face Vil Holland. The man regarded her

gravely, unsmiling. A gauntleted hand raised the Stetson from his

head. As her eyes took in every detail, from the inevitable leather

jug, to the tip of polished buffalo horn, she flushed. How long had he

stood there, listening?



The cowpuncher seemed to divine her thoughts. "I just happened along,"

he said regarding her with his steady blue eyes. "I couldn't help

hearin' what you said about the prospectors. You're right in the

main."



"I was speaking of my father. I am Rodney Sinclair's daughter."



The man nodded. "Yes, I know."



Watts rubbed his chin apologetically. "We-all thought a right smart o'

yo' pa, didn't we, Vil? I didn't aim to rile yo'."



"I know you didn't!" the girl smiled. "And thank you so much for

bringing my things up so early." She turned to the cowboy who sat

regarding the outfit indifferently. "I hope you'll overlook my lack of

hospitality, but really I must get to work and help Microby or she'll

have the whole house cleaned before I get started."



"I saw the team here, an' thought I'd swing down to find out if Watts

was movin' in another sheep outfit."



"I've heard about your driving away the sheep man," returned Patty,

with more than a trace of sarcasm in her tone. "I am moving into this

cabin--am taking up my father's work where he left off. I suppose I

should ask your permission to prospect in the hill country."



"No," replied the man, gravely. "Just help yourself, only don't get

lost, an' remember yer dad knew enough to play a lone hand. I must be

goin', now. Good day." He turned his horse to see Microby standing in

the doorway. "Hello, Microby Dandeline! House cleanin', eh? I s'pect

you took in the picture show in town?"



"Yes, but circusts is better. I got some yallar ribbon fer my hat, an'

a awful lot o' candies."



"My, that's fine! How's ma an' the baby?"



"They stayed hum. The baby'd squall. Pa an' the boys is goin' to mend

fence, an' I'm a-goin' to stay yere an' he'p her clean up the sheep

camp."



The cowpuncher turned to Watts. "What's the big hurry about the

fences, Watts? You goin' to take over a bunch of stock?"



"Hosses," answered Watts with an important jerk at his scraggly beard.

"I done rented the upper pasture to a man name o' Schultz over in

Blackfoot country. Five dollars a month, I git fer hit, an' five

dollars fer every day er night they's hosses in hit. He done paid two

months' rent a'ready."



Vil Holland's brows puckered slightly. "Schultz, you say? Over in the

Blackfoot country?"



"Yas, he's aimin' to trail hosses from there over into Canady an' he

wants some pastures handy."



"Did Schultz see you about it himself?" asked Vil, casually.



"No, Monk Bethune; he come by this way, an' he taken the pasture for

Schultz."



Patty noted an almost imperceptible narrowing of the cowpuncher's

eyes, an expression, slight as it was, that spoke disapproval. The

man's attitude angered her. Here was poor Watts, about to undertake

the first work he had done in years, judging by the condition of the

ranch, under stimulus of the few dollars promised him by Bethune, and

this cowboy disapproved. "Are horses under the ban, too?" she asked

quickly. "Hasn't Mr. Watts the right to rent his land for a horse

pasture?"



The man's answer seemed studiously rude in its direct brevity. "No,

horses ain't under the ban. Yes, Watts can rent his land where he

wants to. Good day." Before the girl could reply he reined his horse

abruptly about, and disappeared in the timber upon the opposite side

of the creek.



"Reckon I better be gittin' 'long, too," said Watts. "Microby's

welcome to stay an' he'p yo'-all git moved in, but please mom, to

see't she gits started fer hum 'fore dark. Hit takes thet ol' pinto

'bout a hour to make the trip."



Patty promised, and unsaddling, picketed her horse, and joined the

girl in the dusty interior of the cabin. The musty hay, the discarded

garments, and the two bushels or more of odds and ends with which the

pack rats had filled the cupboard made a smudgy, smelly bonfire beside

which Patty paused with an armful of discarded magazines. "Wouldn't

you like to take these home?" she asked.



"Which?" inquired Microby, deftly picking a small stick from the

ground with her bare toes and tossing it into the fire.



"These magazines. There are stories and pictures in them."



"No, I don't want none. We-alls cain't read, 'cept Ma, an' she's got a

book--an' a bible, too," she added, with a touch of pride. "Davey, he

kin mos' read, an' he kin drawer pitchers, too. Reckon he'll be a

preacher when he's grow'd up, like Preacher Christie. He done read

outen a book when he babitized us-uns. I don't like to read. Ma, she

aimed to learn me onct, but I'd ruther shuck beans."



"Maybe you didn't keep at it long enough," suggested Patty.



"Yes, we did! We kep' at hit every night fer two nights 'til hit come

bedtime. I cain't learn them letters--they's too many diffe'nt ones,

an' all mixed up."



Patty smiled, but she did not toss the magazines into the fire.

Instead she laid them aside with the resolve that when opportunity

afforded, she would carry on the interrupted education.



Microby's literary delinquency in no wise impaired her willingness to

work. She had inherited none of her father's predilection toward

eternal rest, and all day, side by side with Patty, she scraped, and

scoured, and scrubbed, and washed, until the little cabin and its

contents fairly radiated cleanliness. The moving in was great fun for

the mountain girl. Especially the unpacking of the two trunks that

resisted all efforts to lift them until their contents had been

removed. But at last the work was finished even to the arrangement of

dishes and utensils, the stowing of supplies, and the blowing up of

the air mattress that replaced the musty hay of the sheep herder. And

as the long shadows of mountains crept slowly across the little valley

and began to climb the opposite slope, Patty stood in the door of her

cabin and watched Microby mount the superannuated Indian pony and

proceed slowly down the creek, her bare feet swinging awkwardly in the

loops of rope that served as stirrups of her dilapidated stock saddle.



When horse and rider disappeared into a grove of cottonwoods, Patty's

gaze returned to her immediate surroundings--her saddle-horse

contentedly snipping grass, the waters of the shallow creek burbling

noisily over the stones, the untidy scattering of tin cans, and the

leaning panels of the old sheep corral. She frowned at the panels.

"I'll just use you for firewood," she muttered. "And that reminds me

that I've got to wake up to my responsibility as head of the

household--even if the household does only consist of one bay cayuse,

named Dan, and a tiny one-room cabin, and two funny little

squirrel-tailed pack rats, and me." She reached for her brand new ax,

and picking her way from stone to stone, crossed the creek, and

attacked a sagging panel.



Patty Sinclair was no hot-house flower, and the hand that gripped the

ax was strong and brown and capable. Back home she had been known to

the society reporters as "an out-door girl," by which it was

understood that rather than afternoon auction at henfests, she

affected tennis, golf, swimming, and cross-country riding. She could

saddle her own horse, and paddle a canoe for hours on end. Even the ax

was no stranger to her hand, for upon rare occasions when her father

had returned during the summer months from his everlasting

prospecting, he had taken her to camp in the mountains, and there from

the quiet visionary whom she loved more than he ever knew, she learned

the ax, and the compass, and a hundred tricks of camp lore that were

to stand her well in hand. Partly inherited, partly acquired through

association with her father upon those never-to-be-forgotten

pilgrimages to the shrine of nature, her love of the vast solitudes

shone from her uplifted eyes as she stood for a moment, ax in hand,

and let her gaze travel slowly from the sun-gilded peaks of the

mountains, down their darkening sides, to the dusk-enshrouded reaches

of her valley. "He used to watch the sun go down, and he never wearied

at the wonder of it," she breathed, softly. "And then, as the darkness

deepened and the bull-bats came wheeling overhead, and the

whip-poor-wills began calling from the thickets, he would light his

pipe, and I would cuddle up close to him, and the firelight would grow

redder and brighter and the soft warm dark would grow blacker. The

pine trees would lose their shapes and blend into the formless night

and mysterious shadow shapes would dance to the flicker of the little

flames. It was then he would talk of the things he loved; of quartz,

and drift, and the mother lode; of storms, and bears, and the scent of

pines; of reeking craters, parched deserts, ice-locked barrens, and

the wind-lashed waters of lakes. 'And some day, little daughter,' he

would say, 'some day you are going with daddy and see all these things

for yourself--things whose grandeur you have never dreamed. It won't

be long, now--I'm on the right track at last--only till I've made my

strike.' Always--'it won't be long now.' Always--'I'm on the right

track, at last.' Always--'just ahead is the strike'--that lure, that

mocking chimera that saps men's lives! And now, he is--gone, and I am

chasing the chimera." Salt tears stung her eyes and blurred the

timbered slopes. "They said he was a--a ne'er-do-well. He became

almost a joke--" the words ended in a dry sob, as the bright blade of

the ax crashed viciously into the rotting panel. A few moments later

she picked up an armful of wood, and retracing her steps, piled it

neatly behind the stove. She lighted the fire, fetched a pail of water

from the spring, and moved the picketed cayuse to a spot beside the

creek where the grass was green and lush. She had intended after

supper to study her map and familiarize herself with the two small

photographs that were pinned to it. But, when the meal was over and

the dishes washed and put away she was too sleepy to do anything but

drop the huge wooden bar that the sheep herder had contrived to insure

himself against a possible night attack from his enemies into its

place and crawl into her bunk. How good it felt, she thought,

sleepily--the yielding air mattress, and the soft, clean blankets,

after the straw tick on the floor, and the course sour blankets in the

Wattses' stuffy room.



Somewhere, way off in the hills, a wolf howled and almost before the

sound had died away the girl was asleep.