title: Connie Morgan in the cattle country,
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A , f O. *»,,• * ♦ 4 • «• *c* A 0 V ••!!/♦ ^ o ,V^ o ••• w <V ** v »‘ * e - cv • \A ; 4*°. °i * ^n, ■• KS5 ^ r ' K ^ o * * * Ai e> *<1\ * * A (y t .*«. -*b *» ‘ ^o & ' * v-’ "** '?‘&M2F' o ^ ^ , v. *.-...•■ ^ v 1 ^* / V*'-*> 0 .- v ; * *A\M» ** . ’ ** 4 *%> " 4 v®vk % A <*, * *° * * * A* A S? .t». # ^ 0^ ofV * # "*b # '''jrT/Z* ^ C 0 ^ •‘Si 9&: r ^o v^z,. x^y. • • • :v^\<.. .>; ; i\ U ^ :M*. \/ /itt'- ^ J. Y<* > » A vO * ‘-0-i < 0 1 By James B. Hendryx Connie Morgan in Alaska Connie Morgan with the Mounted Connie Morgan in the Lumber Camps Connie Morgan in the Fur Country Connie Morgan in the Cattle Country The Promise The Gun Brand The Texan The Gold Girl Prairie Flowers Snowdrift North The whole remuda swept on up the bench and into the Valley CONNIE MORGAN IN THE CATTLE COUNTRY BY M JAMES B. HENDRYX AUTHOR OF “CONNIE MORGAN IN ALASKA,” ETC. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PAINTINGS BY FRANK E. SCHOONOVER G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS NEW YORK AND LONDON Cbe *Rnickerbocket press 1923 yzi ’"Co. Copyright, 1933 by James B. Hendryx © Cl A 7 6 0 3 8 9 Made in the United States of America OCT 16 1923 "VU l CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGB I.—Waseche Bill Tells a Story . . 3 II.—Kobuk Jack.16 III. —Two Dot Townsend ... 28 IV. —Bob Harmon.42 V.—At the Round Seven ... 50 VI.—Learning the Ropes 57 VII.—Connie Meets a Neighbor . . 71 VIII.— Tex .86 IX.—Harmon Talks .... 96 X.—Left Handed Branding Irons . 108 XI.—The Wagons Roll . . .117 XII.—Harmon Shows his Hand . .132 XIII. —The Sage Brush Corral . . 148 XIV. —The “Greenness” of Connie Morgan.163 IV Contents CHAPTER XV.- -I. w. w. • • • PAGE 177 XVI.- -Fire # • • 192 XVII.- -In the Bad Lands. • • • 208 XVIII.- - The Outlaw. • • • 224 XIX.- -At the Agency • • 242 XX.- -Connie Calls a Bluff. • • 256 XXI.- -The Cowboys Help Out • • 270 XXII.- -A Riding Job • • • 280 XXIII.- -Connie Listens to a Proposition. 296 ILLUSTRATIONS The Whole Remuda Swept on up the Bench and into the Valley . . Frontispiece “An’ I Kept A-goin’ Till it Petered Out, an* I was Lost”. As they Passed along the Street Connie Took in the Details of the Little Cow Town. Connie Found himself Holding on for Dear Life as the Wheels would Drop Suddenly into a Bottomless Chuck Hole and Emerge, Dropping Huge Chunks of Gray Alkali Mud ..... The Sheepman Eyed him with a Hostile Glare. “Why Didn’t you Ride Right THROUGH ’em?” HE ASKED A Moment Later the Muzzles of Four Rifles were Thrust through Four Aper¬ tures in the Sagebrush that was Loosely Woven between the Wires of the Fence PAGE 16 32 64 96 128 v VI ILLUSTRATIONS Harmon’s Face was Ghastly Pale as he Elevated Both Hands High above his Head ... ... . . . Then Froze in his Tracks as he Found himself Staring into the Muzzle of the Boy’s Service Revolver PAGB I64 196 Connie Morgan in the Cattle Country I Connie Morgan in the Cattle Country CHAPTER I WASECHE BILL TELLS A STORY “This little cabin sure looks good to me,” smiled Connie Morgan on the evening of his hasty return from the Mackenzie River country, as he and Waseche Bill settled themselves comfortably in front of the little stove. “No matter where I am, or what I’m doing, I always think of this little cabin on Ten Bow. It makes a fellow feel good just to know it’s here, and you’re here, and I can come back any time I want to.” The boy paused and glanced affectionately at his big partner, who was smiling behind the bowl of his black pipe. “It isn’t that I don’t like the trail,” he added quickly, “because I do—and the longer the trail, 3 4 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country the better I like it. And I like to have something to do that takes me into places I never have been before—and I like to tackle jobs I have never tackled before—just to see if I can do them. But, all the same, I always want to know that this cabin is right here just as it was when we built it. I’ll tell you what it is—it’s home. A fellow likes to know he’s got a home, no matter where the trail takes him—and this is home for us. And, say, Waseche, you won’t ever tear it down while I’m away somewhere, will you? I’d rather have it just the way it is than have the biggest house in the world.” “Sho’, now, son,” the voice of Waseche Bill rumbled from behind a cloud of blue tobacco smoke, “sho’, now. That’s plumb foolishness.” “Oh, it is, is it?” flashed the boy. “Well then, you tell me why that big flume runs along the other bank of the creek instead of this bank?” “The big flume? Why it runs down the crick to carry water to the sluices, of co’se.” “But,” persisted the boy, “why does it run along the other side of the creek instead of this side?” “Cain’s the engineer of this here outfit,” 5 Waseche Bill Tells a Story grinned the man. “I reckon it’s on the other side ’cause Cain built it there.” Connie laughed: “ You’re a big bluffer, Waseche! Don’t you suppose I know you love this cabin just as much as I do ? Anyone with any sense could see that that flume could have been built along this bank with half the work it took to build it there. I asked Cain when I came back from the lumber woods, and he told me all about it. He said that when you looked at the blue print, and found out that this cabin would have to be tom down to make way for the flume, you told him to put it on the other side, no matter how much it cost—so there!” “H-u-m-m,” grinned Waseche Bill, “Cain’s plumb gabby, ain’t he? But, son, you don’t need to worry about this here cabin. It’s the onliest home I ever had since befo’ I kin remember. An’ Cain’s got his orders about leavin’ it where it’s at. I told him if the sills was restin’ on a solid chunk of gold, the gold could lay there till the last log rotted an’ the roof caved in. It’s all foolish¬ ness, that-a-way, but—shucks! Gold ain’t every¬ thing!” ‘Well, now I’m here,” said the boy, “tell me 6 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country about that scrap we’re going to have with that outfit from the States.” “We ain’t goin’ to have none,” answered Waseche Bill, laconically. “You don’t mean you’re figuring on selling out?” cried the boy. “No—only jest, we stay where we’re at—an’ so do they.” Connie laughed: “How did you work it, Waseche?” “Who, me? Why, I didn’t do nothin’, except tell ’em they’d have to wait till my pardner come back. They was five of ’em in the outfit an’ they stayed at the hotel. The boys kind of got to in¬ quirin’ around what they were doin’ here, an’ I told ’em they was aimin’ fer to drive me an’ you out of the country. The next night Black Jack Demeree, an’ MacDougal, an’ Dutch Henry, an’ a lot more of the sourdoughs called a miner’s meetin’. I didn’t go to it. But, next day the outfit pulled out. Seems like the boys sent out an’ brung these here fellows in on a snowshoe warrant, an’ they was speeches made by some considerable of the boys. I don’t know jest what they said, but after they’d got through, the head man of the 7 Waseche Bill Tells a Story outfit gets up an’ he says how they’d decided not to locate on Ten Bow—that the formation wasn’t just right to suit ’em, or the water, or somethin’— anyways, they pulled out—an’ from what I heard, I ain’t lookin’ for ’em back.” Waseche paused to fill his pipe, and Connie smiled to himself as he pictured the scene in the miner’s meeting. A lump rose in his throat as he wondered what the sour¬ doughs had said—those big men of the North, who were his friends, and the friends of Waseche Bill. Waseche tossed a burnt match into the wood box and his brow puckered as he puffed at his pipe. “They’s another matter that’s pesterin’ me now,” he said. “Seems like I’m, somehow, always a- gettin’ into somethin’ that I ain’t got no business into, like that there timber deal down in Minne¬ sota.” “We made good money out of it,” reminded the boy. “Yes, but we wouldn’t if it hadn’t be’n fer you goin’ down there an’ runnin’ the thing. An’ besides, we ain’t got to make money, nohow. We got more cornin’ in right now out of the gravel here on Ten Bow than we know what to do with— an’ that’s where the trouble comes in.” 8 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country “Sure we have,” agreed the boy, quickly. “But, there’s no fun in that. It was a game—and a big one, while we were getting a start. But, now we’ve got things going, there isn’t any fun in just sitting down and weighing the dust. Do you know, in a way, I’m kind of sorry those fellows quit. It would have been fun fighting them. But, what’s this new thing that’s bothering you?” Waseche Bill ran his fingers through his hair, and regarded the boy gravely. “Well, it’s this-a- way: Me an’ you is in the cattle business.” “The cattle business!” cried Connie, in sur¬ prise. “The cattle business up here! Why there isn’t grass enough on Ten Bow to keep a caribou in the summer time—and what’ll they do in winter?” “This here cattle business ain’t on Ten Bow. It ain’t even in Alaska. It’s in Montana.” Connie grinned. “Another job for me. When do I start?” Waseche shook his head: “No, son, I don’t reckon this here is any job fer you. You don’t savvy the cattle business no more than Kobuk Jack did, an’ it would git you.” “Maybe it would, and maybe it wouldn’t,” 9 Waseche Bill Tells a Story retorted the boy. “Anyway, I’m going to give it a chance to get me. I didn’t know anything about the timber business either, when I tackled that Minnesota job, but it didn’t take me long to learn ’ ’ “That was sort of different,” interposed Wa¬ seche Bill. “These here cowboys—I’ve heard tell about ’em—is plumb riotorous an’ lawless to the extent which they ain’t none regardful of human life whatever. They all pack guns, an’ when they meet up they begin shootin’ at one another, same like in this country we say klahowya six , or good mornin’.” Connie laughed: “I guess they’re not as bad as all that. Dan McKeever has had a lot of experience with ’em down on the border, and he likes ’em. Of course there’s good ones and bad ones among them the same as anyone else—and as for packing guns—I’ve got a Service revolver there that’s just as good as any man’s gun—and a little better than most. But loosen up and tell me something about this cattle deal. How did we get mixed up in it? And who is Kobuk Jack?” “Well, it’s this-a-way,” began Waseche tilting his chair against the log wall, and stretching his io Connie Morgan in Cattle Country long legs straight out before him. “One time, a good many years before the big stampede, when I was nothin’ but a chechako , I outfitted at Nulato an’ headed North, not havin’ no more idea what I was goin’ up against, than a baby. Well, I kep’ to the Koyukuk till I hit Hog River an’ then headed up that, an’ I kep’ a-goin’ till it petered out, an’ I was lost. It was gittin’ right into the shank of the winter. The days was gittin’ shorter an’ the nights longer, till the time come when I got sunrise an’ sunset in one eyeful, an’ the next day, an’ for many a day after, they wasn’t neither one. The snow was so deep an’ soft that I couldn’t make no time trailin’ an’ then my grub got to runnin’ low. I was up against it—good an’ strong. But I kep’ pluggin’. If I made four or five miles a day I done well. The strong cold was on—forty an’ fifty, an’ even sixty below, an’ when the cold would let up it snowed some more. Then I done it, the only time I ever done it—I killed a dog, an’ for three days I lived off him an’ fed the rest of the dogs. I had built a kind of a Siwash camp out of brush an’ spruce saplin’s ’cause I was too weak to trail through that snow. An’ anyway, bein’ as I didn’t know where I was headin’, one place was II Waseche Bill Tells a Story as good as another—an’ that means that all places was the worst they could be. “Me an’ the dogs finished the one I’d killed an’ I was about to kill another, when sudden like, a voice speaks out hearty an’ plain right behind me. ‘Hold on, brother,’ it said. ‘Dogs pull better with the hide on! ’ ‘ ‘ I whirled around quick, not expectin’ really to see no one. I thought it was—the end—that the voice was in my own brain. But, sure enough, there he stood, rearin’ up as big as two men in the gloom—Kobuk Jack! Course I didn’t know who he was—an’ I didn’t care. He was a human man, an’ his outfit bulged on top of his toboggan. I couldn’t say nothin’. Jest stood there an’ gawped. “Kobuk, he looked me over thorough, an’ my empty sled, an’ the skull of the dog that had be’n boiled fer soup till there wasn’t a bite fer a no-see- em left on it, an’ then he grinned. ‘I’m Kobuk Jack,’ he announced, abrupt, ‘an’ you’re the dog- gondest fool of a chechako that’s be’n invented. Where you headin’? An’ what business you got up here in a man’s country? Why ain’t you back on the Yukon where you kin set comfortable an* spit on the stove of nights ? ’ i2 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country “ 4 1 guess you’ve got me right, Kobuk,’ I says ? managin’ to return his grin, although my eyes wouldn’t stay off that bulgin’ load on his toboggan. ‘By way of handier designation, though,’ I says, ‘folks call me Waseche Bill. I headed up here after gold. I got lost an’ my grub run out, an’ I’d give a pretty to be back on the Yukon spittin’ on a stove.’ “Kobuk, he laughed, an’ the next minute he was unharnessin’ his dogs, an’ in no time he had a meal of vittles cooked which was far an’ away the best meal I ever et, or ever will. When it was finished Kobuk an’ me smoked up, an’ Kobuk he further orates, ‘I run onto yer trail back yonder,’ he says, ‘an’ I know’d you was a chechako ’cause you had a sled instead of a toboggan in this here soft snow country. An’ I seen by the signs how you was about all in. So I swung in behind, knowin’ I wouldn’t have far to go. I passed over more than a week of your trail in four hours— that’s the difference between knowin’ how—an’ not knowin.’ You was a fool to head North. So was I four years ago—but I did. I come about as near cashin’ in as you did. An Injun found me. But, I ain’t afraid of the country now. I’ve learned 13 Waseche Bill Tells a Story it—an’ I hate it. I’ve got a camp up on the Kobuk, about a hundred miles from here, an’ I’m takin’ out considerable better than wages. Spite of you bein’ a fool chechako , I like you. It’s just such fools as you an’ me that gits what they’re after in the long run—pervided the snow an’ the strong cold don’t git us first. You’re goin’ along with me, an’ we’ll go pardners in my outfit on the Kobuk, an’ if we stay with it, sometime we’re goin’ to make a strike.’ “He wouldn’t have it no other way, an’ so I throw’d in with Kobuk Jack, an’ he was some man. We gouged the gravel together for a year, Kobuk always claimin’ we’d strike it big—always hatin’ the country, an’ declarin’ when he struck it he was a-goin’ down to Montana an’ buy him a cattle outfit an’ live like a king where they have daylight the year around, an’ twenty below zero was called a cold spell. “When the year was out, I’d had enough of the Kobuk country. I couldn’t see it like Kobuk Jack that there was a big strike ahead, so I pulled out an’ drifted back to the Yukon camps an’ fer a couple of years I worked fer wages, an’ pros¬ pected, an’ just about come out even. 14 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country “I was at Nulato when Kobuk came out with his stake. It wouldn’t stack up big along with the Klondike or the Nome strikes. But she was big fer them days, couple hundred thousan’ or so, an’ Kobuk wanted me to go with him to Montana an’ go into the cattle business. But I wouldn’t an’ then he wanted me to take a bunch of his dust, but I wouldn’t do that, neither. “A stampede started fer the Kobuk, but I didn’t go—I’d had enough. After Kobuk had be’n gone a week, the storekeeper sends fer me one day an’ hands me a buckskin sack that’s heavy with dust. ‘Kobuk Jack told me to give you this, fer a grub stake,’ he says, ‘An’ he says he’s gone fer good, an’ you can’t refuse it, ’cause he made me promise if you wouldn’t take it, I’m to throw it in the river where no one kin find it.’ I took it, bein’ as it wasn’t no use havin’ it throw’d in the river, an’ that’s the last I ever seen or heerd of Kobuk Jack till a month ago, when all at once, he stepped through the door of the office, yonder. He’d aged some, but I know’d him the minute I clapped eyes on him, an’ he was the same Kobuk as ever, rough talkin’, but hearty an’ pure gold clean through. I could see, though, he seemed kind of worried Waseche Bill Tells a Story 15 about somethin’ er other, so I called it a day an’ shut up the office, an’ we come on over here, an’ Kobuk, he cooked dinner, same as he used to, an’ after we done the dishes an’ hung up the rag, we smoked up. CHAPTER II KOBUK JACK “ ‘Come on out with it, Kobuk,’ I says. ‘What’s on yer mind? They ain’t no use heatin’ about the bush between friends. How’s the cattle business? An’ what you doin’ up here?’ “ ‘Well,’ he says, ‘fact is, Waseche,’ he says, ‘the cattle business is bigger than I bargained fer. It’s got me. I’m broke, er will be. I figger that when they git through with me, I’ll have about twenty thousan’ less than nothin.’ ” “ ‘What’s the trouble?’ I intrudes. ‘Don’t yer cows give no milk?’ “ ‘Milk!’ he yells. ‘Milk!’ You dog-gone fool! I ain’t runnin’ no dairy! I’m runnin’ a cow outfit —beef! Twenty thousan’ head or so on the range!’ “ ‘Must be quite a chore around butcherin’ time,’ I admits, an’ again he yells out at me. ‘Butcherin’ time! Why, you cussed ignoramous, we don’t butcher ’em!’ < l A.n’ I kept a-goin’ till it petered out, and I was lost ” Kobuk Jack 17 '“Eat ’em alive?’ I suggests. 'Ship ’em!’ he roars. 'Ship ’em to Chicago. Load ’em on trains an’ ship ’em!’ “ 'Sounds easy,’ I ventured. ‘How-come you busted? You must git quite a stake off a trainload of cattle.’ “ ‘I do, but somehow, I ain’t gittin’ the calves I should. In other words, someone else is brandin’ Round Seven calves, that’s my brand. An’ again, the sheep men are crowdin’ me off the range, an’ anyway I ain’t no business man, an’ my wife, she don’t like the country no better than what I do, an’ the kids is growin’ up rough on account of so many cowpunchers fer playmates, an’ take it first an’ last, I’m sick of the cattle business. The wife wants to come back to Alaska—she was a nurse in the hospital at Nome when I was took down there with a frozen foot. Hadn’t be’n fer her I’d be wearin’ a wooden one now. When I made my strike I went up to St. Michaels on the way out an’ we was married.’ “ ‘So there’s a Missus Kobuk, an’ some little Kobukses, is there?’ I inquires. ‘What do you want to do? Go back up on the Kobuk? Of course up there they wouldn’t be no bad playmates fer the 18 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country kids, an’ maybe Missus Kobuk would like it—she wouldn’t have to mush more than a hundred miles fer to call on her neighbors, an’ them Eskimo Klooches would be right proud to have her visit their igloos.’ “ ‘Go ahead, an’ have yer fun out,’ grins Kobuk, ‘an’ then we’ll talk sense.’ “ ‘Unburden yerself,’ I opines. ‘I’m here to listen.’ “ ‘I was on the train cornin’ from Chicago this fall when I meets up with Moosehide Charlie, him headin’ back fer the inside after a trip to the cities where he seen the sights to the extent of his pile. An’ while Moosehide talked about the big country, I listened. He talked solid fer most two days, an’ I got a pretty good history of the big country since I quit it, in the course of which he elaborates that you an’ your pardner, which he was only a kid, but some sourdough, at that, had struck it big on Ten Bow. Accordin’ to Moosehide, old Andy Morgan an’ John D. Carnagie, an’ P. J. Rocky- feller, couldn’t scrape up an ante between ’em big enough to set in your game with. Well, you know Moosehide—he thinks in bigger figgers than what the facts justifies, an’ always did, but at that, I 19 Kobuk Jack takes the trouble to look you up an’ I finds out that Moosehide wasn’t so far off as he generally is. So, I come up to see you.’ Kobuk, he kind of hesitates, a little, an’ then he goes on. ‘The fact is, Waseche,’ he says, ‘you’re my only chance. I wouldn’t of come if I hadn’t found out you was in shape so what I need wouldn’t even make a hole in yer pile. What I want to know is will you loan me enough to break even? You’ll get part of it back—you prob’ly never will get it all back ’cause I’ve got to hunt a job—an’ a man with a job an’ a family to support will be a long time payin’ off twenty thousand dollars. But, if that cattle busi¬ ness was run right I know it would pay. I ain’t the man to make it pay. I ain’t got capital enough to buy up some sheep outfits, an’ a lot of water rights an’ to fight the rustlers with—if I had I would stay an’ fight it out.’ * ‘ He stops an ’ waits fer me to speak. ‘ How much do you need ? ’ I asks. “ ‘I figure twenty thousan’ would let me out even,’ he says. ‘It would pay my debts an’ fix things so no one would lose any money on my account. I don’t know exact—somewhere between eighteen an’ twenty-five thousan’.’ 20 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country “ ‘An’ where would that leave you?’ I asks. ‘Where do you go from here?’ “ ‘Why,’ he says, ‘I can go to Chicago an’ get a job.’ “ ‘What kind of a job?’ I inquires, ‘would you figure on holdin’ down—in Chicago?’ “ ‘I ain’t figured that far ahead,’ says Kobuk. ‘Any kind of a job that would make a livin’ fer the wife an’ kids. I’m a plumb failure in business fer myself, but I kin do as much work as I ever could.’ “ ‘Le’s see if I’ve got the straight of it,’ I says, ‘Missus Kobuk wants to come back to Alaska, but you want to go to Chicago. You don’t like the big country no more. You’ve got plumb citified till mountains an’ rivers an’ snow, an’ dogs an’ all that goes along with it don’t interest you no more. You’d ruther live in a city in one of these here flat-top houses that all looks alike an’ is inhabited by so many numerous folks that your neighbor that lives acrost the hall passes you on the street without knowin’ he ever seen you before. An’ on top of that you want a job like one of these here men that stands back of a counter in a store an’ sells ribbons an’ cloth by the yard to women, or Kobuk Jack 21 like the ones that wears white aprons an’ stands behind them rows of shiny faucets, which it taxes their judgment to recommend a ten-year-old kid if he should take pineapple or strawberry juice in his sody water.’ “Kobuk, he was gittin’ a little red around the gills, an’ I know’d I’d kind of got to him. ‘Look a here, Waseche,’ he says, ‘ you know blame well I’d ruther be here in Alaska than anywheres else in the world, an’ so would the wife—the country’s got into my blood an’ into her blood. We both thought when we went outside we never wanted to see it ag’in—but, shucks, we hadn’t be’n away two years till we both would have give anything to be back, but we was in too deep to git out. An’ now there ain’t no chance to come back. If I was alone I’d come in a minute, but I ain’t alone. I’ve got the wife and kids to think about an’ to make a livin’ for, an’ a job is a job. Suppose we come North, what would we do? I couldn’t leave ’em in some town or camp while I struck out in the hills an’ made a strike. The time for strikes has gone, anyway, an’ what would become of them while I was out punchin’ holes in the gravel of creeks? Alaska ain’t a poor man’s country no 22 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country more, Waseche—an’ I’m a poor man. But, that ain’t neither here nor there. I come to you as one friend to another. I need the twenty thousan’, an’ need it bad. You’ve got it, an’ with the capital you’ve got behind you, you kin git your money back—an’ a lot more with it. I’ve told you the facts in the case. Now, do I git the twenty thou¬ san’, or don’t I?’ “ ‘How much did you put into this here outfit to start out with ? ’ I asks. “ ‘A little better than a hundred thousan’ an’ give a mortgage for a hundred an’ fifty fer the balance, an’ I’ve paid about fifty thousan’ of that.’ “ ‘An’ how many of these here cows do you reckon you’ve got left?’ ‘Somewhere’s around ten thousan’ head,’ he says. “ ‘An’ what do you claim the whole works is worth, as she lays?’ “ ‘Take ’em as they run, the goin’ price is around twenty-five dollars a head, an’ the ranch buildin’s an’ hay fields an’ all the rest of it say twenty thousan’.’ “I figures fer a minute with a pencil, an’ then I says, ‘So she stands worth about $270,000. Kobuk Jack 23 Takin’ off $100,000 fer the mortgage, she stands at somewheres around $170,000.’ ‘That’s it,’ agrees Kobuk. ‘That’s what she figures on paper—an’ she’s worth every cent of it to anyone that had another quarter of a million to dump into the outfit. They’d have a million dollar proposition, then. The way they’ve got me hemmed in by fair means an’ foul, she’s worth about twenty thousan’ less than nothin’.’ “I figures a little more, an’ Kobuk he gits rest¬ less. He gits up an’ walks around an’ his pipe goes out five or six times in as many minutes. Then he picks up his cap. ‘Do I get the twenty thousan’, or don’t I?’ he asks again. “ ‘You don’t,’ says I. Well, sir, you should of seen Kobuk’s face. He didn’t say a word, jest stood there with his fingers grippin’ his hat fer a long time. Then he turns to the door: “ ‘Well, so long, Waseche,’ he says, an’ I noticed his voice sounded kind of hoarse like. ‘I’ve got to be goin’ back.’ “ ‘I’d be’n writin’ out the check while he was standin’ there, but he didn’t notice. ‘Hold on, Kobuk,’ I says, as he pulls open the door, ‘if this will help you out any, you’re welcome to it.’ I 24 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country held out the check an’ he closed the door an’ took the piece of paper in his hand. He stood lookin’ at it fer a full minute like he don’t know what it is. “ ‘ A hundred—an’—seventy—thousan’—dollars —’ he says, slow like. ‘What’s this, Waseche?’ “ ‘Why, it’s the pay fer yer cows,’ I says. ‘We’re buyin’ yer outfit, lock, stock an’ barrel. You kin fix up the papers when you go back. An’ that ain’t all, Kobuk,’ I says. ‘If I done you right, I’d back you up ag’in that wall an’ punch yer head fer you.’ “ ‘What do you mean?’ he asks. “ ‘I mean just what I said. I suppose you’ve fergot a chechako you found one time in the snow, eatin’ dog in a Siwash camp way up in the Hog River country. You fergot that you took that chechako over onto the Kobuk an’ give him a pardnership in a payin’ claim. You fergot that you taught him more about minin’ an’ mushin’ an’ playin’ a man’s game than he know’d there was to learn. An’ you fergot that a couple of years after—when you made yer strike, you found him in Nulato workin’ fer wages, an’ you left a poke of dust with the storekeeper with instructions to make the chechako take the dust. Them things you Kobuk Jack 25 fergot—but the chechako didn't jergit. But what makes me mad is this—years afterwards, when the tables is turned the other ways around, an’ you’re broke, an’ the chechako has played into big luck, you come along an’ ask him to loan you enough to break even! Yes sir, it makes me mad— Break even! So you can go to Chicago an’ hunt you up a measly job amongst the stinks an’ the noises of a city where the chances is yer kids would git killed by street cars or automobiles, or if they didn’t they’d git hydrophoby er consumption fer want of a lungful of clean air! You tell me yer a failure because you couldn’t make a go of raisin’ cows. Well, it just happens that me an’ my pardner is huntin’ fer just such a failure as you be. I’ve worked with you up on the Kobuk. Listen here. You go back an’ git the fambly an’ head with ’em fer Fairbanks as quick as you kin git squared off. We’ve got a proposition to develop over on the Chena that’s big. We ain’t touched it yet, because we ain’t found the right man to handle it. But, now we’ve found him. If it’s a job you want, you’ve got one—an’ she’s a bigger job than you’ve ever tackled, at that. You kin live in Fairbanks where there’s good schools fer the kids, an’ good 26 Connie Morgan in Cattle Country society for the woman. An’ that ain’t all. What you don’t use out of the check, you’d better put into the proposition. We’ll organize the Chena Development Company, an’ take it from me, yer money will more than double every couple of years.’ ” Waseche paused and filled his pipe. “What did he say?” asked Connie, who had been an eager listener. “He didn’t say nothin’,” answered Waseche. “It ain’t Kobuk’s way. But next day I had to go to the doctor where he’d shook my hand. Oh, yes, they was one question he asked just before he went away. He says, ‘But, what will yer pardner think of this deal ? I see this here is a pardnership check.’ “ ‘Yes,’ I says, ‘an’ that’s the way she stands. I’ve tried onct or twict to shoulder the load alone when I’d made some outside investment that might not pay out—an’ I ain’t aimin’ to try it no more.’ ” Connie laughed. “You better not try it!” he exclaimed. “But this one is a dandy.” “What do you mean, son?” “I mean that I wouldn’t have missed it for the Kobuk Jack 27 world! I’m going to hit out for Montana and make it pay!” “Sho’, now, mebbe it would be better to jest let go an’ git out with as little loss as we kin—an’ charge it off to ‘grub stake’.” “Not by a long shot we don’t take a loss—not unless we have to! What do we care if we dump a few more thousand into it? We’ve got more than we can ever spend. And besides it wouldn’t be playing the game. No, sir! Now we’re into it, we’ll go through with it—and if we lose, we will have had a run for our money, anyway.” “All right, son, go as far as you like—I’m for you,” grinned Waseche. “But, at that, I never seen no kid before that was always just a-honin’ fer a fight.” CHAPTER III TWO DOT TOWNSEND The great trans-continental train that bore Connie Morgan eastward from Seattle to his desti¬ nation in Montana ground to a protesting stop before the little station of Red Bank, and Connie stepped from the vestibule to a rubber-topped stool ostentatiously placed for him by the obse¬ quious porter, and from the stool to the cinder platform. Up ahead he saw his big tarpaulin- covered bed roll, which served also as a trunk, tossed from the door of the baggage car. A blue- clad arm waved the “high-ball,” the vestibule door slammed shut, and the heavy train moved smoothly along the rails, gaining momentum with every revolution of the wheels. The boy watched it for a moment, and turned to survey his immedi¬ ate surroundings. 