The Bishop Of All Outdoors

: The Gold Girl

The days slipped into weeks, as Patty Sinclair, carefully and

methodically traced valleys to their sources, and explored innumerable

coulees and ravines that twisted and turned their tortuous lengths

into the very heart of the hills. Rock ledges without number she

scanned, many with deep cracks and fissures, and many without them.

But not once did she find a ledge that could by any stretch of the

imagination be regarde as the ledge of the photograph. Disheartened,

but not discouraged, the girl would return each evening to her

solitary cabin, eat her solitary meal, and throw herself upon her bunk

to brood over the apparent hopelessness of her enterprise, or to read

from the thumbed and tattered magazines of the dispossessed sheep

herder. She rode, now, with a sort of dogged persistence. There was

none of the wild thrill that, during the first days of her search,

she experienced each time she topped a new divide, or entered a new

valley.



Three times since she had informed him she would play a lone hand in

the search for her father's strike, Bethune had called at the cabin.

And not once had he alluded to the progress of her work. She was

thankful to him for that--she had not forgotten the hurt in her

father's eyes as the taunting questions of the scoffers struck home.

Always she had known of the hurt, but now, with the disheartening days

of her own failure heaping themselves upon her, she was beginning to

understand the reason for the hurt. And, guessing this, Bethune

refrained from questioning, but talked gaily of books, and sunsets,

and of life, and love, and the joy of living. A supreme optimist, she

thought him, despite the half-veiled cynicism that threaded his

somewhat fatalistic view of life, a cynicism that but added the

necessary sauce piquante to so abandoned an optimism.



Above all, the man was a gentleman. His speech held nothing of the

abrupt bluntness of Vil Holland's. He would appear shortly after her

early supper, and was always well upon his way before the late

darkness began to obscure the contours of her little valley. An hour's

chat upon the doorstep of the cabin and he was gone--riding down the

valley, singing as he rode some old chanson of his French forebears,

with always a pause at the cottonwood grove for a farewell wave of his

hat. And Patty would turn from the doorway, and light her lamp, and

proceed to enjoy the small present which he never failed to leave in

her hand--a box of bon-bons of a kind she had vainly sought for in the

little town--again, a novel, a woman's novel written by a man who

thought he knew--and another time, just a handful of wild flowers

gathered in the hills. She ate the candy making it last over several

days. She read the book from cover to cover as she lay upon her air

mattress, tucked snugly between her blankets. And she arranged the

wild flowers loosely in a shallow bowl and watered them, and talked to

them, and admired their beauty, and when they were wilted she threw

them out, but she did not gather more flowers to fill the bowl,

instead she wiped it dry and returned it to its shelf in the

cupboard--and wondered when Bethune would come again. She admitted to

herself that he interested--at least, amused her--helped her to throw

off for the moment the spirit of dull depression that had fastened

itself upon her like a tangible thing, bearing down upon her,

threatening to crush her with its weight.



Always, during these brief visits, her lurking distrust of him

vanished in the frank boyishness of his personality. The incidents

that had engendered the distrust--the substitution of the name Schultz

for Schmidt in the matter of the horse pasture, his abrupt warning

against Vil Holland, and his attempt to be admitted into her

confidence as a matter of right, were for the moment forgotten in the

spell of his presence--but always during her lonely rides in the

hills, the half-formed doubt returned. Pondering the doubt, she

realized that the principal reason for its continued existence was not

so much in the incidents that had awakened it, as in the simple

question asked by Vil Holland: "You say your dad told you all about

this partnership business?" And in the "Oh," with which he had greeted

the reply that she had it from the lips of Bethune. With the

realization, her dislike for Vil Holland increased. She characterized

him as a "jug-guzzler," a "swashbuckler," and a "ruffian"--and smiled

as she recalled the picturesque figure with the clean-cut, bronzed

face. "Oh, I don't know--I hate these hills! Nobody seems sincere

excepting the Wattses, and they're--impossible!"



She had borrowed Watts's team and made a second trip to town for

supplies, and the check that she drew in payment cut her bank account

in half. As before she had offered to take Microby Dandeline, but the

girl declined to go, giving as an excuse that "pitcher shows wasn't as

good as circusts, an' they wasn't no fights, an' she didn't like

towns, nohow."



Upon her return from town Patty stopped at the Thompsons' for dinner

where she was accorded a royal welcome by the genial rancher and his

wife, and where also, she met the Reverend Len Christie, the most

picturesque, and the most un-clerical minister of the gospel she had

ever seen. To all appearances the man might have been a cowboy. He

affected chaps of yellow hair, a dark blue flannel shirt, against

which flamed a scarf of brilliant crimson caught together by means of

a vivid green scarab. He wore a roll brimmed Stetson, and carried a

six-gun at his belt. A pair of high-heeled boots added a couple of

inches to the six feet two that nature had provided him with, and he

shook hands as though he enjoyed shaking hands. "I've heard of you,

Miss Sinclair, back in town and have looked forward to meeting you on

my first trip into the hills. How are my friends, the Wattses, these

days? And that reprobate, Vil Holland?" He did not mention that it was

Vil Holland who had spoken of her presence in the hills, nor that the

cowboy had also specified that she utterly despised the ground he rode

on.



To her surprise Patty noticed that there was affection rather than

disapprobation in the word reprobate, and she answered a trifle

stiffly: "The Wattses are all well, I think: but, as for Mr. Holland,

I really cannot answer."



The parson appeared not to notice the constraint but turned to

Thompson: "By the way, Tom, why isn't Vil riding the round-up this

year? Has he made his strike?"



Thompson grinned: "Naw, Vil ain't made no strike. Facts is, they's

be'n some considerable horse liftin' goin' on lately, an' the

stockmen's payin' Vil wages fer to keep his eye peeled. He's out in

the hills all the time anyhow with his prospectin', an' they figger

the thieves won't pay no 'tention to him, like if a stranger was to

begin kihootin' 'round out there."



"Have they got a line on 'em at all?"



"Well," considered Thompson. "Not as I know of--exactly. Monk Bethune

an' that there Lord Clendennin' is hangin' 'round the hills--that's

about all I know."



The parson nodded: "I saw Bethune in town the other day. Do you know,

Tom, I believe there's a bad Injun."



"Indian!" cried the girl. "Mr. Bethune is not an Indian!"



Thompson laughed: "Yup, that is, he's a breed. They say his

gran'mother was a Cree squaw--daughter of a chief, or somethin'.

Anyways, this here Monk, he's a pretty slick article, I guess."



"They're apt to be worse than either the whites or the Indians,"

Christie explained. "And this Monk Bethune is an educated man, which

should make him doubly dangerous. Well, I must be going. I've got to

ride clear over onto Big Porcupine. I heard that old man Samuelson's

very sick. There's a good man--old Samuelson. Hope he'll pull

through."



"You bet he's a good man!" assented Thompson, warmly. "He seen Bill

Winters through, when they tried to prove the murder of Jack Bronson

onto him, an' it cost him a thousan' dollars. The districk attorney

had it in fer Bill, count of him courtin' his gal."



"Yes, and I could tell of a dozen things the old man has done for

people that nobody but I ever knew about--in some instances even the

people themselves didn't know." He turned to Patty: "Good-by, Miss

Sinclair. I'm mighty glad to have met you. I knew your father very

well. If you see the Wattses, tell them I shall try and swing around

that way on my return." The parson mounted a raw-boned, Roman-nosed

pinto, whose vivid calico markings, together with the rider's

brilliant scarf gave a most unministerial, not to say bizarre effect

to the outfit. "So long, Tom," he called.



"So long, Len! If they's anything we can do, let us know. An' be sure

an' stop in comin' back." Thompson watched the man until he vanished

in a cloud of dust far out on the trail.



"Best doggone preacher ever was born," he vouchsafed. "He can ride,

an' shoot, an' rope, an' everything a man ort to. An' if anyone's



sick! Well, he's worth all the doctors an' nurses in the State of

Montany. He'll make you git well just 'cause he wants you to. An' they

ain't nothin' too much trouble--an' they ain't no work too hard for

him to tackle. There ain't no piousness stickin' out on him fer folks

to hang their hat on, neither. He'll mix with the boys, an' listen to

the natural cussin' an' swearin' that goes on wherever cattle's

handled, an' enjoy it--but just you let some shorthorn start what you

might call vicious or premeditated cussin'--somethin' special wicked

or vile, an' he'll find out there's a parson in the crowd right quick,

an' if he don't shut up, chances is, he'll be spittin' out a couple of

teeth. There's one parson can fight, an' the boys know it, an' what's

more they know he will fight--an' they ain't one of 'em that

wouldn't back up his play, neither. An' preach! Why he can tear loose

an' make you feel sorry for every mean trick you ever done--not for

fear of any punishment after yer dead--but just because it wasn't

playin' the game. That's him, every time. An' he ain't always

hollerin' about hell--hearin' him preach you wouldn't hardly know they

was a hell. 'The Bishop of All Outdoors,' they call him--an' they say

he can go back East an' preach to city folks, an' make 'em set up an'

take notice, same as out here. He's be'n offered three times what he

gets here to go where he'd have it ten times easier--but he laughs at

'em. He sure is one preacher that ain't afraid of work!"



As Watts's team plodded the hot miles of the interminable trail

Patty's brain revolved wearily about its problem. "I've made almost a

complete circle of the cabin, and I haven't found the rock ledge with

the crack in it yet--and as for daddy's old map--I've spent hours

trying to figure out what that jumble of letters and numbers mean,

I'll just have to start all over again and keep reaching farther and

farther into the hills on my rides. Mr. Bethune said I might not

recognize the place when I come to it!" she laughed bitterly. "If he

knew how that photograph has burned itself into my brain! I can close

my eyes and see that rock wall with its peculiar crack, and the

rock-strewn valley, and the lone tree--recognize it! I would know it

in the dark!"



Her eyes rested upon the various packages of her load of supplies.

"One more trip to town, and my prospecting is done, at least, until I

can earn some more money. The prices out here are outrageous. It's the

freight, the man told me. Five cents' freight on a penny's worth of

food! But what in the world can I do to make money? What can anybody

do to make money in this Godforsaken country? I can't punch cattle,

nor herd sheep. I don't see why I had to be a girl!" Resentment

against her accident of birth cooled, and her mind again took up its

burden of thought. "There is one way," she muttered. "And that is to

admit failure and take Mr. Bethune into partnership. He will advance

the money and help with the work--and, surely there will be enough for

two. And, I'm not so sure but that--" She broke off shortly and felt

the hot blood rise in a furious blush, as she glanced guiltily about

her--but in all the vast stretch of plain was no human being, and she

laughed aloud at the antics of the prairie dogs that scolded and

barked saucily and then dove precipitously into their holes as a lean

coyote trotted diagonally through their "town."



What was it they had said at Thompson's about Mr. Bethune? Despite

herself she had approved the outlandishly dressed preacher with the

smiling blue eyes. He was so big, and so wholesome! "The Bishop of All

Outdoors," Thompson had called him. She liked that--and somehow the

name seemed to fit. Looking into those eyes no one could doubt his

sincerity--his every word, his every motion spoke unbounded enthusiasm

for his work. What was it he had said? "Do you know, Tom, I believe

there's a bad Injun." And Thompson had referred to Bethune as "a

pretty slick article." Surely, Thompson, whole-souled, generous

Thompson, would not malign a man. Here were two men whom the girl knew

instinctively she could trust, who stood four-square with the world,

and whose opinions must carry weight. And both had spoken with

suspicion of Bethune and both had spoken of Vil Holland as one of

themselves. "I don't understand it," she muttered. "Everybody seems to

be against Mr. Bethune, and everybody seems to like Vil Holland, in

spite of his jug, and his gun, and his boorishness. Maybe it's because

Mr. Bethune's a--a breed," she speculated. "Why, they even hinted that

he's a--a horse-thief. It isn't fair to despise him for his Indian

blood. Why should he be made to suffer because his grandmother was an

Indian--the daughter of a Cree chief? It sounds interesting and

romantic. The people of some of our very best families point with

pride to the fact that they are descendants of Pocahontas! Poor

fellow, everybody seems down on him--everybody that is, but Ma Watts

and Microby. And, as a matter of fact, he appears to better advantage

than any of them, not excepting the very militant and unorthodox

'Bishop of All Outdoors.'"



The result of the girl's cogitations left her exactly where she

started. She was no nearer the solution of her problem of the hills.

And her lurking doubt of Bethune still remained despite the excuses

she invented to account for his unpopularity, nor had her opinion of

Vil Holland been altered in the least.



Upon arriving at her cabin she was not at all surprised to find that

it had been thoroughly searched, albeit with less care than the

searcher had been in the habit of bestowing upon the readjustment of

the various objects of the room exactly as she had left them. Canned

goods and dishes were disarranged upon their shelves, and the loose

section of floor board beneath her bunk that had evidently served as

the secret cache of the sheep herder, had been fitted clumsily into

its place. The evident boldness, or carelessness of this latest

outrage angered her as no previous search had done. Heretofore each

object had been returned to its place with painstaking accuracy so

that it had been only through the use of fine-spun cobwebs and

carefully arranged bits of dust that she had been able to verify her

suspicion that the room had really been searched--and there had been

times when even the dust and the cobwebs had been replaced. Whoever

had been searching the cabin had proven himself a master of detail,

and had at least, paid her the compliment of possessing imagination,

and a shrewdness equaling his own. Was it possible that the searcher,

emboldened by her repeated failure to spy upon him at his work, had

ceased to care whether or not she knew of his visits? The girl

recalled the three weary days she had spent watching from the

hillside. And how she had decided to buy a lock for her door, until

the futility of it had been brought home to her by the discovery that

her trunks were being searched along with her other belongings, and

their locks left in perfect condition. So far, he might well scorn her

puny attempts at discovery. Or, had a new factor entered the game? Had

someone of cruder mold undertaken to discover her secret? The thought

gave her a decided uneasiness. Tired out by her trip, she did not

light the fire, and after disposing of the cold lunch Mrs. Thompson

had put up for her, affixed the bar, and went to bed, with her six-gun

within reach of her hand.



For a long time she lay in the darkness, thinking. "The way it was

before, I haven't been in any physical danger. Mr. Vil Holland knows

that if what he is searching for is not here I must carry it on my

person. The obvious way to get it would be to take it away from me. Of

course the only way he could do that without my seeing him would be to

kill me. He hesitates at murder. Either there are depths of moral

turpitude into which he will not descend--or, he fears the

consequences. He has imagination. He assumes that sometime I'll leave

that packet at home--either through carelessness, or because I have

learned its contents by heart and don't need it. In the meantime, in

addition to his patient searching of the cabin, he is taking no

chances, and while he waits for the inevitable to happen he is

following me so if I do succeed in locating the claim, he can beat me

to the register. It's a pretty game--no violence--only patience and

brains. But this other," she shuddered, "there is something positively

brutal in the crude awkwardness of his work. If he thinks I carry what

he wants with me, would he hesitate at murder? I guess I'll have to

carry that gun again--and I better practice with it, too. If I can

only get rid of this last one, I believe I've got a scheme for

catching the other!" She sat bolt upright in bed. "Oh, if I only

could! If I could only beat him at his own game--and I believe I can!"

For several minutes she sat thinking rapidly, and as she lay back upon

her pillow, she smiled.