concertina. Jerk the bellows for us.”
“That I’ll not!” screamed Uncle Pasco.
“It’s music or walk home,” said the boy. “Take your choice.”
Uncle Pasco took his choice, opening with the melody of “The Last Rose of Summer.” The sleigh whirled up the Owyhee by the winter willows, and the levels, and the meadow pools, bright frozen under the blue sky. Late in this day the amazed Brock by his corrals at Harper’s beheld arrive his favorite, his boy superintendent, driving in with the schoolmaster staring through his glasses, and Uncle Pasco throwing out active strains upon his concertina. The old man had been bidden to bellows away for his neck.
Drake was not long in explaining his need to the men. “This thing must be worked quick,” said he. “Who’ll stand by me?”
All of them would, and he took ten, with the faithful Brock. Brock would not allow Gilbert to go, because he had received another mule-kick in the stomach. Nor was Bolles permitted to be of the expedition. To all his protests, Drake had but the single word: “This is not your fight, old man. You’ve done your share with Baby Bunting.”
Thus was the school-master in sorrow compelled to see them start back to Indian Creek and the Malheur without him. With him Uncle Pasco would have joyfully exchanged. He was taken along with the avengers. They would not wring his neck, but they would play cat and mouse with him and his concertina; and they did. But the conscience of Bolles still toiled. When Drake and the men were safe away, he got on the wagon going for the mail, thus making his way next morning to the railroad and Boise, where Max Vogel listened to him; and together this couple hastily took train and team for the Malheur Agency.
The avengers reached Indian Creek duly, and the fourth day after his Christmas dinner Drake came once more in sight of Castle Rock.
“I am doing this thing myself, understand,” he said to Brock. “I am responsible.”
“We’re here to take your orders,” returned the foreman. But as the agency buildings grew plain and the time for action was coming, Brock’s anxious heart spoke out of its fulness. “If they start in to—to—they might—I wish you’d let me get in front,” he begged, all at once.
“I thought you thought better of me,” said Drake.
“Excuse me,” said the man. Then presently: “I don’t see how anybody could ’a’ told he’d smuggle whiskey that way. If the old man [Brock meant Max Vogel] goes to blame you, I’ll give him my opinion straight.”
“The old man’s got no use for opinions,” said Drake. “He goes on results. He trusted me with this job, and we’re going to have results now.”
The drunkards were sitting round outside the ranch house. It was evening. They cast a sullen inspection on the new-comers, who returned them no inspection whatever. Drake had his men together and took them to the stable first, a shed with mangers. Here he had them unsaddle. “Because,” he mentioned to Brock, “in case of trouble we’ll be sure of their all staying. I’m taking no chances now.”
Soon the drunkards strolled over, saying good-day, hazarding a few comments on the weather and like topics, and meeting sufficient answers.
“Goin’ to stay?”
“Don’t know.”
“That’s a good horse you’ve got.”
“Fair.”
But Sam was the blithest spirit at the Malheur Agency. “Hiyah!” he exclaimed. “Misser Dlake! How fashion you come quick so?” And the excellent Chinaman took pride in the meal of welcome that he prepared.
“Supper’s now,” said Drake to his men. “Sit anywhere you feel like. Don’t mind whose chair you’re taking—and we’ll keep our guns on.”
Thus they followed him, and sat. The boy took his customary perch at the head of the table, with Brock at his right. “I miss old Bolles,” he told his foreman. “You don’t appreciate Bolles.”
“From what you tell of him,” said Brock, “I’ll examine him more careful.”
Seeing their boss, the sparrow-hawk, back in his place, flanked with supporters, and his gray eye indifferently upon them, the buccaroos grew polite to oppressiveness. While Sam handed his dishes to Drake and the new-comers, and the new-comers eat what was good before the old inhabitants got a taste, these latter grew more and more solicitous. They offered sugar to the strangers, they offered their beds; Half-past Full urged them to sit companionably in the room where the fire was burning. But when the meal was over, the visitors went to another room with their arms, and lighted their own fire. They brought blankets from their saddles, and after a little concertina they permitted the nearly perished Uncle Pasco to slumber. Soon they slumbered themselves, with the door left open, and Drake watching. He would not even share vigil with Brock, and all night he heard the voices of the buccaroos, holding grand, unending council.
When the relentless morning came, and breakfast with the visitors again in their seats unapproachable, the drunkards felt the crisis to be a strain upon their sobered nerves. They glanced up from their plates, and down; along to Dean Drake eating his hearty porridge, and back at one another, and at the hungry, well-occupied strangers.
“Say, we don’t want trouble,” they began to the strangers.
“Course you don’t. Breakfast’s what you’re after.”
“Oh, well, you’d have got gay. A man gets gay.”
“Sure.”
“Mr. Drake,” said Half-past Full, sweating with his effort, “we were sorry while we was a-fogging you up.”
“Yes,” said Drake. “You must have been just overcome by contrition.”
A large laugh went up from the visitors, and the meal was finished without further diplomacy.
“One matter, Mr. Drake,” stammered Half-past Full, as the party rose. “Our jobs. We’re glad to pay for any things what got sort of broke.”
“Sort of broke,” repeated the boy, eyeing him. “So you want to hold your jobs?”
“If—” began the buccaroo, and halted.
“Fact is, you’re a set of cowards,” said Drake, briefly. “I notice you’ve forgot to remove that whiskey jug.” The demijohn still stood by the great fireplace. Drake entered and laid hold of it, the crowd standing back and watching. He took it out, with what remained in its capacious bottom, set it on a stump, stepped back, levelled his gun, and shattered the vessel to pieces. The whiskey drained down, wetting the stump, creeping to the ground.
Much potency lies in the object-lesson, and a grin was on the faces of all present, save Uncle Pasco’s. It had been his demijohn, and when the shot struck it he blinked nervously.
“You ornery old mink!” said Drake, looking at him. “You keep to the jewelry business hereafter.”
The buccaroos grinned again. It was reassuring to witness wrath turn upon another.
“You want to hold your jobs?” Drake resumed to them. “You can trust yourselves?”
