Ridgwell Cullum - The Twins of Suffering Creek

“Thanks, Bill,” he said. “I never done it before.”

“So I guessed.” And the gambler’s words, though wholly harsh, had no other meaning in them. Then he went on, as Scipio scrambled into the saddle, “You don’t need to worry any ’bout things here. Your kiddies’ll be seen to proper till you get back, if you’re on the trail a month.”

Scipio was startled. He had forgotten his twins.

“Say–you–”

But Bill wanted no thanks or explanations.

“We’re seein’ to them things–us, an’ that all-fired lazy slob, Sunny Oak. Ther’ won’t be no harm–” He flicked the restive mare, which bounded off with the spring of a gazelle. “Ease your hand to her,” he called out, so as to drown Scipio’s further protestations of gratitude, “ease your hand, you blamed little fule. That’s it. Now let her go.”

And the mare raced off in a cloud of dust.

Where all the trail-wise men of Suffering Creek and the district had failed, Scipio, the incompetent, succeeded. Such was the ironical pleasure of the jade Fortune. Scipio had not the vaguest idea of whither his quest would lead him. He had no ideas on the subject at all. Only had he his fixed purpose hard in his mind, and, like a loadstone, it drew him unerringly to his goal.

There was something absolutely ludicrous in the manner of his search. But fortunately there are few ready to laugh at disaster. Thus it was that wherever he went, wherever he paused amongst his fellows in search of information he was received perfectly seriously, even when he told the object of his search, and the story of its reason.

An ordinary man would probably have hugged such a story to himself. He would have resorted to covert probing and excuse in extracting information. But then it is doubtful if, under such circumstances, his purpose would have been so strong, so absolutely invincible as Scipio’s. As it was, with single-minded simplicity, Scipio saw no reason for subterfuge, he saw no reason for disguising the tragedy which had befallen him. And so he shed his story broadcast amongst the settlers of the district until, by means of that wonderful prairie telegraphy, which needs no instruments to operate, it flew before him in every direction, either belittled or exaggerated as individual temperament prompted.

At one ranch the news was brought in from the trail by a hard-faced citizen who had little imagination, but much knowledge of the country.

“Say, fellers,” he cried, as he swung out of the saddle at the bunkhouse door, “ther’s a tow-headed sucker on the trail lookin’ fer the James outfit. Guess he wants to shoot ’em up. He’s a sawed-off mutt, an’ don’t look a heap like scarin’ a jack-rabbit. I told him he best git back to hum, an’ git busy fixin’ his funeral right, so he wouldn’t have no trouble later.”

“Wher’s he from?” someone asked.

“Sufferin’ Creek,” replied the cowpuncher, “an’ seems to me he’s got more grit than savvee.”

And this opinion was more or less the general one. The little man rode like one possessed, and it was as well that of all his six treasured horses Wild Bill had lent him his black beauty, Gipsy. She was quite untiring, and, with her light weight burden, she traveled in a spirit of sheer delight.

At every homestead or ranch Scipio only paused to make inquiries and then hurried on. The information he received was of the vaguest. James or some of his gang were often seen in the remoter parts of the lower foothills, but this was all. At one farm he had a little better luck, however. Here he was told that the farmer had received an intimation that if he wished to escape being burnt out he must be prepared to hand over four hundred dollars when called upon by the writer to do so; and the message was signed “James.”

“So ye see,” said the farmer–a man named Nicholls–despondently, “he’s som’eres skulkin’ around hyar.”

“Seems like it,” acquiesced Scipio.

Then, of a sudden, a suspicion flashed through the other’s mind, and the man-hunter spent an uncomfortable few seconds.

“Say, you’re lookin’ fer him?” the farmer questioned harshly. Then he leant forward, his eyes lighting with sudden anger. “If I tho’t you was–”

But Scipio’s mild blue eyes, and his simple reply had a pacific effect at once.

“I’m looking for him because he’s stole my wife. And I’m goin’ on chasin’ till I find him.”

There was such mild sincerity in his visitor’s manner that it was impossible for the farmer to retain his suspicion.

“What you goin’ to do about that four hundred?” inquired Scipio later.

“He’ll get no dollars out o’ me. I ain’t got ’em,” replied Nicholls hopelessly. Then his temper rose. “But I’m just goin’ to sleep with a gun to my hand, an’ he’ll get it good an’ plenty, if he shoots the life out of me, an’ burns every stick I got, after.”

Scipio nodded sympathetically.

“I’d feel that ways,” he said. “Well, I guess I’ll be gettin’ on. My mare’ll be fed an’ rested by this. Thanks for the feed. Guess I’ll hunt around this district a piece. Maybe I’ll find–”

But suddenly the farmer awoke from the contemplation of his own troubles and eyed the diminutive figure of his guest wonderingly, as he stood up to go.

“Say,” he observed critically, “guess you must be bustin’ with grit chasin’ this feller.”

Scipio shook his head.

“No,” he said, with a wan smile. “But he’s got–my wife.”

“Ah.”

And there was a world of understanding in the man’s monosyllable.

Five minutes later the man-hunter was on the trail again. It was the afternoon of the second day of his quest. He was saddle-sore and weary, but his purpose knew no weakening. Gipsy was going fresh and strong, and though she had already traveled probably a hundred miles in her rider’s aimless wanderings, she moved as though she was out for a morning’s exercise on a liberal diet of oats.

True to his intention Scipio scoured the district with an excess of enthusiasm which carried him far, and sundown found him amongst the beehive hummocks which form the approach to the greater hills. Up and down these wonderful grassy dunes he roamed searching a resting-place for himself and his mare. There was nothing of the sort in sight, nothing but the endless series of grassy knolls, and the dividing hollows which might conceal anything, from a ranch house to an outlying cattle station. And finally he abandoned all hope of shelter.

He had certainly lost himself. But, even so, he was not greatly concerned. Why should he be? What did it matter? He knew that if the worst came to the worst his mare could eat her fill of grass, and, for himself, sleep in the open had no terrors. Of food for himself he had not even begun to think. So he rode on until the last blaze of the setting sun dropped behind the sky-line.

He was descending into a hollow, something deeper than usual. Hope ran high that it was one of those hidden breaks, which, at intervals, cross the sea of grassy dunes, and mark a mountain waterway. Nor was he disappointed. A few moments later, to his delight, he found himself gazing into the depths of one of the many rivulets trickling its shallow way between low cut banks. Promptly he made up his mind that it was the place for him to camp.

At the water’s edge he scrambled out of the saddle and began to seek a place where his mare could drink. It was a little difficult, for the banks were sharp, and the bushes plentiful, and he had wandered at least a hundred yards in his search for an opening when a human voice abruptly hailed him from the far side of the stream. He looked across without answering, and, to his intense surprise, beheld a horseman on the opposite bank. The man, judging by his appearance, was a cowpuncher, and, to Scipio’s simple mind, was, like himself, benighted.