CHAPTER XVII – A TROUT FISHING EPISODE
FOR a time Roderick had hung back from accepting the invitation to call at the Conchshell ranch, as the Holden place was called. In pursuing the acquaintanceship with Gail he knew that he was playing with fire – a delightful game but one that might work sad havoc with his future peace of mind. However, one day when he had an afternoon off and had ridden into Encampment again to be disappointed in finding no letter from Stella, he had felt just the necessary touch of irritation toward his fiancée that spurred him on to seek some diversion from his thoughts of being badly treated and neglected. Certainly, he would call on General Holden – he did not say to himself that he was bent on seeing Gail again, looking into her beautiful eyes, hearing her sing, perhaps joining in a song.
He was mounted on his favorite riding horse Badger, a fine bay pony, and had followed the road up the North Fork of the Encampment River a number of miles. Taking a turn to the left through the timbered country with rocky crags towering on either side in loftiest grandeur, he soon reached the beautiful plateau where Gail Holden’s home was located. The little ranch contained some three hundred acres, and cupped inward like a saucer, with a mountain stream traversing from the southerly to the northerly edge, where the Conchshell canyon gashed through the rim of the plateau and permitted the waters to escape and flow onward and away into the North Fork.
As Roderick approached the house, which was on a knoll planted with splendid firs and pines, he heard Gail singing “Robert Adair.” He dismounted and hitched his horse under the shelter of a wide spreading oak. Just as he came up the steps to the broad porch Gail happened to see him through one of the windows. She ceased her singing and hastened to meet him with friendly greeting.
“Welcome, Mr. Warfield, thrice welcome, as Papa sometimes says,” said Gail, smiling.
“Thank you,” said Roderick, gallantly. “I was riding in this direction and concluded to stop in and accept your kind invitation to meet the General.”
“He will be delighted to see you, Mr. Warfield, I have told him about your singing.”
“Oh, that was making too much of my poor efforts.”
“Not at all. You see my father is very fond of music – never played nor sang in his life, but has always taken keen delight in hearing good music. And I tell you he is quite a judge.”
“Which makes me quite determined then not to sing in his presence,” laughed Roderick.
“Well, you can’t get out of it now you’re here. He won’t allow it. Nor will I. You won’t refuse to sing for me, will you? Or with me?” she added with a winning smile.
“That would be hard indeed to refuse,” he replied, happy yet half-reproaching himself for his very happiness.
“Daddie is walking around the grounds somewhere at present,” continued Gail. “Won’t you step inside and rest, Mr. Warfield? He’ll turn up presently.”
“Oh, this old rustic seat here on the porch looks exceedingly comfortable. And I fancy that is your accustomed rocker,” he added, pointing to a piece of embroidery, with silk and needles, slung over the arm of a chair.
“You are a regular Sherlock Holmes,” she laughed. “Well, I have been stitching all the afternoon, and just broke off my work for a song.”
“I heard you. Can’t you be persuaded to continue?”
“Not at present. We’ll wait till Papa comes. And the weather is so delightfully warm that I will take my accustomed rocker – and the hint implied as well.”
Again she laughed gaily as she dropped into the commodious chair and picked up the little square of linen with its half-completed embroidery.
Roderick took the rustic seat and gazed admiringly over the cup-shaped lands that spread out before him like a scroll, with their background of lofty mountains.
“You have a delightful view from here,” he said.
“Yes,” replied Gail, as she threaded one of her needles with a strand of crimson. “I know of no other half so beautiful. And it has come to be a very haven of peace and happiness. Perhaps you know that my father last year lost everything he possessed in the world through an unfortunate speculation. But that was nothing – we lost my dear mother then as well. This little ranch of Conchshell was the one thing left that we could call our own, and here we found our refuge and our consolation.”
She was speaking very softly, her hands had dropped on her lap, there was the glisten of tears in her eyes. Roderick was seeing the daring rider of the hills, the acknowledged belle of the ballroom in yet another light, and was lost in admiration.
“Very sad,” he murmured, in conventional commiseration.
“Oh, no, not sad,” she replied brightly, looking up, sunshine showing through her tears. “Dear mother is at rest after her long illness, father has recovered his health in this glorious mountain air, and I have gained a serious occupation in life. Oh, I just love this miniature cattle range,” she went on enthusiastically. “Look at it” – she swept the landscape with an upraised hand. “Don’t all my sweet Jerseys and Hainaults dotted over those meadows look like the little animals in a Noah’s ark we used to play with when children?”
“They do indeed,” concurred Roderick, with heartily responsive enthusiasm.
“And I’m going to make this dairy stock business pay to beat the band,” she added, her face fairly aglow. “Just give me another year or two.”
“You certainly deserve success,” affirmed Roderick, emphatically.
“Oh, I don’t know. But I do try so hard.”
Her beautiful face had sweet wistfulness in it now. Roderick was admiring its swift expressive changes – he was saying to himself that he could read the soul of this splendidly frank young woman like a book. He felt thrilled and exalted.
“But here comes Papa,” exclaimed Gail, springing delightedly to her feet
Roderick’s spirits dropped like a plummet. At such an interesting psychological moment he could have wished the old General far enough.
But there was a pleasant smile on his face as Gail presented him, genuine admiration in the responsive pressure of his hand as he gazed into the veteran’s handsome countenance and thanked him for his cordial welcome.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Warfield,” General Holden was saying. “My friend Shields has spoken mighty well of you, and Gail here says you have the finest baritone voice in all Wyoming.”
“Oh, Daddie!” cried Gail, in blushing confusion.
“Well, I’m going to decide for myself. Come right in. We’ll have a song while Gail makes us a cup of tea. An old soldier’s song for a start – she won’t be listening, so I can suit myself this time.”
And Roderick to his bewilderment found himself clutched by the arm, and being led indoors to the piano like a lamb to the slaughter. Gail had disappeared, and he was actually warbling “Marching through Georgia,” aided by a thunderous chorus from the General.
“As we go marching through Georgia,” echoed Gail, when at the close of the song she advanced from the domestic quarters with sprightly military step, carrying high aloft a tea tray laden with dainty china and gleaming silverware.
All laughed heartily, and a delightful afternoon was initiated – tea and cake, solos and duets, intervals of pleasant conversation, a Schubert sonata by Gail, and a rendition by Roderick of the Soldiers’ Chorus from Faust that fairly won the old General’s heart.
The hours had sped like a dream, and it was in the sunset glow that Roderick, having declined a pressing invitation to stay for dinner, was bidding Gail good-by. She had stepped down from the veranda and was standing by his horse admiring it and patting its silky coat.
“By the way, you mentioned at the Shields’ party that you expected to go trout fishing, Mr. Warfield. Did you have good luck?”
Roderick confessed that as yet he had not treated himself to a day’s sport with the finny tribe. “I was thinking about it this very morning,” he went on, “and was wondering if I had not better secure a companion – someone skilled with rod and reel and fly to go with me, as I am a novice.”
“Oh, I’ll go with you,” she exclaimed quickly. “Would be glad to do so.”
“That’s mighty kind of you, Miss Holden,” replied Roderick, half hesitatingly, while a smile played about his handsome face. “But since you put it that way I would be less than courteous if I did not eagerly and enthusiastically accept. When shall we go?”
“You name the day,” said Gail.
Roderick leaned hastily forward and placing one hand on his heart said with finely assumed gallantry: “I name the day?”
“Oh, you know quite well I do not mean that.”
She laughed gaily, but all the same a little blush had stolen into her cheeks.
“I thought it was the fair lady’s privilege to name the day,” said Roderick, mischievously.
“Very well,” said Gail, soberly, “we will go trout fishing tomorrow.”
“It is settled,” said Roderick. “What hour is your pleasure?”
“Well, it is better,” replied Gail, “to go early in the morning or late in the evening. Personally I prefer the morning.”
“Very well, I will be here and saddle Fleetfoot for you, say, at seven tomorrow morning.”
And so it was agreed.
It was only when he was cantering along the roadway toward home that Roderick remembered how Barbara Shields had on several occasions invited him to go trout fishing with her, but in some way circumstances had always intervened to postpone the expedition. In Gail’s case, however, every obstacle seemed to have been swept aside – he had never even thought of asking Mr. Shields for the morning off. However, that would be easily arranged, so he rode on in blissful contentment and happy anticipation for the morrow.
The next morning at the appointed time found him at Conchshell ranch. Before he reached the house he discovered Fleetfoot saddled and bridled standing at the gate.
Gail came down the walk as he approached and a cheery good-morning was followed by their at once mounting their horses and following a roadway that led eastward to the South Fork of the Encampment River.
“You brought your flies, Mr. Warfield?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Roderick. “I have plenty of flies – both hackle and coachman. These have been specially recommended to me, but as I warned you last night I am a novice and don’t know much about them.”
“I sometimes use the coachman,” said Gail, “although, like yourself, I am not very well up on the entomology of fly fishing.”
Soon the road led them away from the open valley into a heavy timber that crowned the westerly slope of the river. They soon arrived at their destination. Dismounting they quickly tethered their horses. Gail unfastened her hip boots from back of her saddle, and soon her bifurcated bloomer skirts were tucked away in the great rubber boots and duly strapped about her slender waist. Roderick was similarly equipped with wading boots, and after rods, lines and flies had been carefully adjusted they turned to the river. The mountains with their lofty rocky ledges – the swift running waters rippling and gurgling over the rocky bed of the river – the beautiful forests that rose up on either side, of pine and spruce and cottonwood, the occasional whistle and whirr of wild birds – the balmy morning air filled life to overflowing for these two disciples of Izaak Walton bent upon filling their baskets with brook and rainbow trout.
“The stream is sufficiently wide,” observed Gail, “so we can go downstream together. You go well toward the west bank and I will hug the east bank.” Roderick laughed.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Gail.
“Oh, I was just sorry I am not the east bank.” The exhilarating mountain air had given him unwonted audacity.
“You are a foolish fellow,” said Gail – “at least sometimes. Usually I think you are awfully nice.”
“Do you think we had better fish,” asked Roderick, whimsically, “or talk this matter over?”
Gail looked very demure and very determined.
“You go right on with your fishing and do as I do, Mr. Roderick Warfield. Remember, I’m the teacher.” She stamped her little booted foot, and then waded into the water and cast her fly far down stream. “See how I cast my line.”
“You know a whole lot about fishing, don’t you?” asked Roderick.
“Oh, yes, I ought to. During occasional summer visits to the ranch I have fished in these waters ever so many times. You must not talk too much,” she added in a lower voice. “Trout are very alert, you know.”
“If fish could hear as well as see
Never a fish would there be —
in our baskets.” And she laughed softly at this admonition for Roderick to fish and cease badinage.
“Which way is the wind?” asked Roderick.
“There is none,” replied Gail.
“When the wind is from the North
The skilful fisherman goes not forth,”
quoted Roderick. “Don’t that prove I know something about fishing – I mean fly fishing?”
“You have a much better way to prove your sport-manship,” insisted Gail. “The fish are all around you and your basket is hanging empty from your shoulder.”
“Rebuked and chided,” exclaimed Roderick, softly.
They continued to cast and finally Gail said: “I have a Marlow Buzz on my hook.”
“What is that?” inquired Roderick.
“Oh, it is a species of the Brown Palmer fly. I like them better than the hackle although the coachman may be equally as good. Look out!” she suddenly exclaimed.
Roderick turned round quickly and saw her line was taut, cutting the water sharply to the right and to the left while her rod was bent like a bow. She quickly loosened her reel which hummed like a song of happiness while her line sliced the waters like a knife.
“Guess you have a rainbow,” cried Roderick excitedly, but Gail paid no attention to his remark.
Presently the trout leaped from the water and fell back again, then attempted to dart away; but the slack of line was not sufficient for the captive to break from the hook.
The trout finally ceased its fight, and a moment later was lifted safely from the water and landed in Gail’s net. But even now it continued to prove itself a veritable circus performer, giving an exhibition of flopping, somersaulting, reversed handsprings – if a fish could do such things – with astonishing rapidity.
“Bravo,” shouted Roderick, as Gail finally released the hook and deposited the fish in her basket.
Less than a minute later Roderick with all the enthusiasm and zeal imaginable was letting out his reel and holding his line taut, for he, too, had been rewarded. And soon he had proudly deposited his first catch of the day in his fish basket.
On they went down the river, over riffles and into deep pools where the water came well up above their knees; but, nothing daunted, these fishermen kept going until the sun was well up in the eastern sky. At last Gail halloed and said: “Say, Mr. Warfield, my basket is almost full and I am getting hungry.”
“All right,” said Roderick, “we will retrace our steps. There is a pretty good path along the east bank.”
“How many have you?” asked Gail.
“Twenty-six,” replied Roderick as he scrambled up the bank.
“I have thirty-one,” said Gail, enthusiastically.
Roderick approached the bank, and reaching down helped her to a footing on the well-beaten path. Then they started up-stream for their horses.
It was almost eleven o’clock when they arrived at their point of departure and had removed their wading boots. Gail went to her saddle and unlashed a little luncheon basket.
She utilized a large tree stump for a table, and after it had been covered with a napkin and the dainty luncheon of boned chicken, sardines and crackers had been set forth, she called to Roderick and asked him to fill a pair of silver collapsible drinking cups which she handed to him. He went to the brook and returned with the ice-cold mountain vintage.
“I am just hungry enough,” said Gail, “to enjoy this luncheon although it is not a very sumptuous repast.”
Roderick smiled as he took a seat upon the felled tree.
“Expect you think you will inveigle me into agreeing with you. But not on your life. I would enjoy such a luncheon as this any time, even if I were not hungry. But in the present circumstances – well, I will let you pass judgment upon my appetite after we have eaten.”
“As they say on the long army marches in the books,” said Gail, gaily, “I guess we had better fall to.” And forthwith with much merriment and satisfaction over their morning’s catch they proceeded to dispose of the comestibles.
It was only a little after noon when they reached the Conchshell ranch, and soon thereafter Roderick’s pony was galloping along the road on his homeward way. He had never enjoyed such a morning in all his life.
CHAPTER XVIII – A COUNTRY FAIR ON THE FRONTIER
THERE was great excitement among the bunch of cowboys on the Shields’ ranch when the local newspapers came out with startling headlines and full announcements in regard to the annual frontier celebration. That night every line of the full page advertisements, also the columns of editorial elaborations on the contests and other events, were read aloud to an eager assemblage of all hands in front of the bunk house.
The Dillon Doublejack predicted that this year’s celebration would undoubtedly afford the greatest Wild West show ever witnessed outside of a regular circus display organized as a money-making undertaking. Everything was going to be just the real thing – the miners’ drilling contest, the roping competition, the bucking-broncho features, and so on. More than a score of outlaw horses that had thrown every cow-puncher who ever attempted to ride them had already been engaged. The Doublejack further declared that the tournament would be both for glory and for bags of yellow gold, with World’s Championships to the best rider, to the best bucking broncho buster, to the best trick roper, to the fastest cowpony, and to the most daring and lucky participant in the bull-dogging of wild steers.
In the columns of the Encampment Herald special attention was drawn to the fact that in the rough riding and outlaw bucking contest for the world’s championship there was a purse of $1,000 to be divided – $450 for first prize, $300 second prize, $150 third prize and $100 fourth prize, while in addition Buck Henry, the banker, offered a $200 championship saddle to the rider who took first place. It was also announced that the fair association would pay $50 in cash for every horse brought to the grounds that was sufficiently unmanageable to throw every rider; each participant to ride any horse and as often as the judges might deem necessary to determine the winner; chaps and spurs to be worn by the riders, and leather pulling would disqualify.
Both papers referred to the band concerts as a feature of great interest throughout the three days of the fair. Everything was to be decorated in colors – red and green, black and yellow, blue and white, pink and scarlet – from the grandstand down to the peanut boy. The race track was fast and in excellent condition, and everything would be in readiness at the appointed time.
After each item of news was read out there was a buzz of comment among the assembled cowboys, challenges were made, bets freely offered and accepted. As the gathering dispersed Roderick Warfield and Scotty Meisch exchanged significant glances but spoke no word – they had been as strangers to each other ever since their fierce quarrel on the morning of the broncho-busting exercises. Roderick was glad that the day was near at hand when the fellow would be made to eat his words. And with the thought also came thoughts of Gail Holden. Gee, but it would be fine to see her ride in such a contest of nerve and skill!
At last the eventful morning dawned and the people swarmed into Encampment from all the surrounding country. They came from far below Saratoga to the north. The entire Platte Valley from as far south as the Colorado state line and beyond were on hand. In fact, from all over the state and even beyond its confines the whole population moved in to participate in this great frontier day celebration. A crowd came over from Steamboat Springs and brought with them the famous outlaw horse Steamboat, who had never been ridden although he had thrown at least a dozen cowpunchers of highest renown.
When the programmes were distributed, Firefly was found upon the list of outlaw horses, and also to the surprise of many of his friends the name of Roderick Warfield appeared as one of the contestants in both the bull-dogging and bucking broncho events.
It was a veritable Mecca of delight for the miners in their drilling contests and for the cowboys in their dare-devil riding of outlaw horses – testing their prowess and skill in conquering the seemingly unconquerable. The lassoing of fleet-footed and angry cattle, the bull-dogging of wild steers gathered up from different parts of the country because of their reputation for long horns and viciousness, were spectacles to challenge the admiration of the immense throng seated in the grandstand and on the bleachers.
It was just ten o’clock on the morning of the first day when the judges sounded the gong and started the series of contests. The first event was a cow-pony race, with no restriction as to the sex of the riders. Ponies were to be fourteen hands two inches or under. There were seven starters. Up in one corner of the grandstand sat Grant Jones surrounded by a bevy of beautiful girls. Among them of course was Dorothy Shields. All were in a flutter of excitement over the race that was about to be run; for Gail Holden was among the contestants.
Gail Holden, quiet, unassuming, yet full of determination, looked a veritable queen as she sat her pony Fleetfoot clad in soft silk shirtwaist, gray divided skirt, and gray soft felt hat. With a tremor of delight Roderick noticed that she wore on her sleeve as her colors one of his college arm-bands, which he had given her when calling at the Conchshell ranch one evening after the trout fishing expedition.
At last the bell sounded and the word “Go” was given. A shout went up from the grandstand – “They’re off – they’re off.” And away the seven horses dashed – four men and three lady riders. At the moment of starting Gail had flung her hat to the winds. She used no quirt but held her pony free to the right and in the open. It was a half-mile track and the race was for one mile. When they swept down past the grandstand on the first lap Fleetfoot had gained third place. A pandemonium of shouts went up as the friends of each madly yelled to the riders to urge their mounts to greater speed. At the far turn it was noticed that Fleetfoot was running almost neck and neck with the two leaders, and then as they came up the stretch, running low, it seemed as if the race would finish in a dead heat between all three ponies.
Just then Gail reached down and was seen to pat her pony upon the neck and evidently was talking to him. Fleetfoot leaned forward as if fired with fierce determination to comply with her request for still greater effort His muscles seemed to be retensioned. He began creeping away inch by inch from his adversaries, and amid the plaudits and shouts of the people in the grandstand and bleachers, who rose to their feet waving handkerchiefs and hats in a frenzy of tumultuous approval, Gail’s horse passed first under the wire – winner by a short head, was the judges’ verdict.
The second feature was a great drilling contest of the miners from the surrounding hills. There were twelve pairs of contestants, and Grant Jones became wild with excitement when friends of his from Dillon were awarded the championship.
And thus event followed event until the day’s program was completed.
Gail and Roderick were bidding each other goodnight at the gateway of the enclosure.
“I owe you my very special thanks,” he said as he held her hand.
“What for?” she enquired.
“For wearing my old college arm-band in the pony race.”
“Oh,” said Gail, blushing slightly, “I had to have something to keep my sleeve from coming down too far on my wrist Besides they are pretty colors, aren’t they?”
But Roderick was not going to be sidetracked by any such naive questioning.
“I refuse pointblank,” he answered, smiling, “to accept any excuse for your wearing the badge. I insist it was a compliment to me and shall interpret it in no other way.”
Her blush deepened, but she made no further protest. General Holden had approached. She turned and took his arm.
“Until tomorrow then,” exclaimed Roderick, raising his hat to both father and daughter.
“Until tomorrow,” she quietly responded.
The morrow brought resumption of the tournament. Gail Holden was to display her prowess in throwing the lariat, while Roderick had entered his name in the bull-dogging event.
In the roping contest Gail was the only lady contestant. The steers were given a hundred feet of start, and then the ropers, swinging their lariats, started after them in a mad gallop.
Gail was again mounted on Fleet foot, and if anything ever looked like attempting an impossibility it was for this slender girl with her neatly gloved little hands, holding a lariat in the right and the reins of the pony in her left, to endeavor to conquer and hogtie a three-year-old steer on the run. And yet, undismayed she undertook to accomplish this very thing. When the word was given she dashed after the fleeing three-year-old, and then as if by magic the lariat sprang away from her in a graceful curve and fell cleverly over the horns of the steer. Immediately Fleetfoot set himself for the shock he well knew was coming.
The steer’s momentum was so suddenly arrested that it was thrown to the ground. Gail sprang from the saddle, and the trained pony as he backed away kept the lariat taut. Thus was the steer hogtied by Gail’s slender hands in 55 3/5 seconds from the time the word was given.
All of the lassoers had been more or less successful, but the crowd stood up and yelled in wildest enthusiasm, and waved their hats and handkerchiefs, as the time for this marvelous feat by Gail was announced from the judges’ stand.
In the afternoon the bull-dogging contest was reached, and Grant Jones said to those about him: “Now get ready for some thrills and breathless moments.”
When the word was given a wild long-horned steer came rushing down past the grandstand closely followed by a cowboy on his fleet and nimble pony. In the corral were perhaps a score of steers and there was a cowboy rider ready for each of them. Four or five steers were bull-dogged one after the other. Some had been quickly thrown to the ground by the athletic cowboys amid the plaudits of the onlookers. But one had proven too strong for the skill and quickness of his adversary, and after rather severely injuring the intrepid youthful gladiator rushed madly on down the race track.
Presently Roderick Warfield came into view astride his favorite pony, Badger, riding at full tilt down the race course, chasing a huge cream-colored steer with wide-spread horns, cruelly sharp and dangerous-looking. As horse and steer came abreast Roderick’s athletic form swayed in his saddle for a moment, and then like a flash he was seen to leap on to the steer’s back and reaching forward grab the animal’s horns. An instant later he had swung his muscular body to the ground in front of his sharp homed adversary and brought him to an abrupt halt.
Gail Holden’s face grew pale as she watched the scene from among a group of her girl friends on the grandstand.
The object of the bull-dogging contest is to twist the neck of the steer and throw him to the ground. But Roderick accomplished more. The steer lifted him once from the ground, and the great throng of people on the grandstand and bleachers, also the hundreds who had been unable to obtain seating accommodation and were standing along the rails, held their breath in bated silence. The powerful cream-colored steer threw his head up, and lifting Roderick’s feet from their anchorage started on a mad run. But when he lowered his head a moment later Roderick’s feet caught the earth again, and the steer was brought to a standstill. Then the milling back and forth began. Roderick’s toes sank deep into the sand that covered the race track; the muscles of his neck stood out in knots. Finally, with one heroic twist on the long horns as a pry over a fulcrum, he accomplished the feat of combined strength and endurance, and the intense silence of the great throng was broken by a report like the shot of a pistol as the bull-dogged steer fell heavily to the earth – dead. The animal’s neck was broken.
There are very few cases on record where a steer’s neck has been broken in bull-dogging contests. Roderick therefore had gained a rare distinction. But technically he had done too much, for the judges were compelled to withhold from him the honors of the championship because in killing the animal he had violated the humane laws of the state, which they were pledged to observe throughout the series of contests. But this did not affect the tumult of applause that acclaimed his victory over the huge and vicious-looking steer. Afterwards when his friends gathered around him in wonderment at his having entered for such an event he confessed that for several weeks he had been practicing bull-dogging out on the range, preparing for this contest.
In the afternoon of the last day, the finals of the bucking-broncho competition were announced from the grandstand. There were only three contestants remaining out of the score or more of original entries, and Roderick Warfield was among the number. Scotty Meisch was there – the cowboy whom Roderick had challenged – also Bud Bledsoe, the bodyguard and sleuth of W. B. Grady. Three of the unconquered outlaws were brought out – each attended by two wranglers; the names of the horses were put in a hat and each cowboy drew for his mount. Roderick Warfield drew Gin Fizz, Bud Bledsoe drew Steamboat and Scotty Meisch drew Firefly. And in a few moments the wranglers were busy.
Three horses and six wranglers working on them at the same time! It was a sight that stirred the blood with expectation. These horses had been successful in throwing the riders who had previously attempted to subdue them. The outlaws were recognized by the throng even before their names were called from the grandstand.