in his hands. I saw it flash, just exactly as though he was signaling to someone—over that way.” She pointed to the west. “He kept looking that way, and then back this way; and he covered up the piece of mirror with his hand and then took it off and let it shine a minute, and put it in his pocket. I know he was making signals.
“I got my horse and started to meet little Buck. He was coming along the trail and rode into a little hollow out of sight. I kept looking and looking toward Dry Lake—because the man looked that way, I guess. And in a few minutes I saw the smoke of the fire—”
“Who was that man?” Andy took a step toward her, his eyes hard and bright in their inflamed lids.
“The man? That Mr. Owens who jumped your south eighty.”
“Good Lord, what fools!” He brushed past her without a look or another word, so intent was he upon this fresh disaster. “I’m going after the boys, Chip. You better come along and see if you can pick up the Kid’s trail where he left the road. It’s too bad Florence Grace Hallman ain’t a man! I’d know better what to do if she was.”
“Oh, do you think—?” Miss Rosemary looked at him wide-eyed.
“Doggone it, if she’s tried any of her schemes with fire and—why, doggone it, being a woman ain’t going to help her none!” The Old Man, also, seemed to grasp the meaning of it almost as quickly as had Andy. “Chip, you have Ole hitch up the team. I’m going to town myself, by thunder, and see if she’s going to play any of her tricks on this outfit and git away with it! Burnt out half her doggoned colony tryin’ to git a whack at you boys! Where’s my shoes? Doggone it, what yuh all standin’ round with your jaws hangin’ down for? We’ll see about this fire-settin’ and this—where’s them shoes?”
The Countess found his shoes, and his hat, and his second-best coat and his driving gloves which he had not worn for more months than anyone cared to reckon. Miss Rosemary Allen did what she could to help, and wondered at the dominant note struck by this bald old man from the moment when he rose stiffly from his big chair and took the initiative so long left to others.
While the team was being made ready the Old Man limped here and there, collecting things he did not need and trying to remember what he must have, and keeping the Countess moving at a flurried trot. Chip and Andy were not yet up the bluff when the Old Man climbed painfully into the covered buggy, took the lines and the whip and cut a circle with the wheels on the hard-packed earth as clean and as small as Chip himself could have done, and went whirling through the big gate and across the creek and up the long slope beyond. He shouted to the boys and they rode slowly until he overtook them—though their nerves were all on edge and haste seemed to them the most important thing in the world. But habit is strong—it was their Old Man who called to them to wait.
“You boys wait to git out after that Owens,” he shouted when he passed them. “If they’ve got the Kid, killing’s too good for ‘em!” The brown team went trotting up the grade with back straightened to the pull of the lurching buggy, and nostrils flaring wide with excitement. The Old Man leaned sidewise and called back to the two loping after him in the obscuring dust-cloud he left behind.
“I’ll have that woman arrested on suspicion uh setting prairie fires!” he called. “I’ll git Blake after her. You git that Owens if you have-to haze him to hell and back! Yuh don’t want to worry about the Kid, Chip—they ain’t goin’ to hurt him. All they want is to keep you boys huntin’ high and low and combin’ the breaks to find ‘im. I see their scheme, all right.”
Chapter 27. “Its Awful Easy to Get Lost”
The Kid wriggled uncomfortably in the saddle and glanced at the narrow-browed face of H. J. Owens, who was looking this way and that at the enfolding hills and scowling abstractedly. The Kid was only six, but he was fairly good at reading moods and glances, having lived all his life amongst grown-ups.
“It’s a pretty far ways to them baby bear cubs,” he remarked. “I bet you’re lost, old-timer. It’s awful easy to get lost. I bet you don’t know where that mother-bear lives.”
“You shut up!” snarled H. J. Owens. The Kid had hit uncomfortably close to the truth.
“You shut up your own self, you darned pilgrim.” the Kid flung back instantly. That was the way he learned to say rude things; they were said to him and he remembered and gave them back in full measure.
“Say, I’ll slap you if you call me that again.” H. J. Owens, because he did not relish the task he had undertaken, and because he had lost his bearing here in the confusion of hills and hollows and deep gullies, was in a very bad humor.
“You darn pilgrim, you dassent slap me. If you do the bunch’ll fix you, all right. I guess they’d just about kill you. Daddy Chip would just knock the stuffin’ outa you.” He considered something very briefly, and then tilted his small chin so that he looked more than ever like the Little Doctor. “I bet you was just lying all the time,” he accused. “I bet there ain’t any baby bear cubs.”
H. J. Owens laughed disagreeably, but he did not say whether or not the Kid was right in his conjecture. The Kid pinched his lips together and winked very fast for a minute. Never, never in all the six years of his life had anyone played him so shabby a trick. He knew what the laugh meant; it meant that this man had lied to him and led him away down here in the hills where he had promised his Doctor Dell, cross-his-heart, that he would never go again. He eyed the man resentfully.
“What made you lie about them baby bear cubs?” he demanded. “I didn’t want to come such a far ways.”
“You keep quiet. I’ve heard about enough from you, young man. A little more of that and you’ll get something you ain’t looking for.”
“I’m a going home!” The Kid pulled Silver half around in the grassy gulch they were following. “And I’m going to tell the bunch what you said. I bet the bunch’ll make you hard to ketch, you—you son-agun!”
“Here! You come back here, young man!” H. J. Owens reached over and caught Silver’s bridle. “You don’t go home till I let you go; see. You’re going right along with me, if anybody should ask you. And you ain’t going to talk like that either, now mind!” He turned his pale blue eyes threateningly upon the Kid. “Not another word out of you if you don’t want a good thrashing. You come along and behave yourself or I’ll cut your ears off.”
The Kid’s eyes blazed with anger. He did not flinch while he glared back at the man, and he did not seem to care, just at that moment, whether he lost his ears or kept them. “You let go my horse!” he gritted. “You wait. The bunch’ll fix YOU, and fix you right. You wait!”
H. J. Owens hesitated, tempted to lay violent hands upon the small rebel. But he did not. He led Silver a rod or two, found it awkward, since the way was rough and he was not much of a horseman, and in a few minutes let the rein drop from his fingers.
“You come on, Buck, and be a good boy—and maybe we’ll find them cubs yet,” he conciliated. “You’d die a-laughing at the way they set up and scratch their ears when a big, black ant bites ‘em, Buck. I’ll show you in a little while. And there’s a funny camp down here, too, where we can get some supper.”
The Kid made no reply, but he rode along docilely beside H. J. Owens and listened to the new story he told of the bears. That is, he appeared to be listening; in reality he was struggling to solve the biggest problem he had ever known—the problem of danger and of treachery. Poor little tad, he did not even know the names of his troubles. He only knew that this man had told him a lie about those baby bear cubs, and had brought him away down here where he had been lost, and that it was getting dark and he wanted to go home and the man was mean and would not let him go. He did not understand why the man should be so mean—but the man was mean to him, and he did not intend to “stand for it.” He wanted to go home. And when the Kid really wanted to do