Garland Hamlin Garland: 13 western novels

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-4553-9183-7
Verlag: Seltzer Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 2345 Seiten

This book-collection file includes: Cavanagh's Forest Ranger, A Daughter of the Middle Border, The Eagle's Heart, The Forester's Daughter, A Little Norsk, Main-Travelled Roads, The Moccasin Ranch, Other Main-Traveled Roads, Prairie Folks, The Spirit of Sweetwater, A Spoil of Office, The Tyranny of the Dark, and Wayside Courtships.According to Wikipedia: 'Hannibal Hamlin Garland (September 14, 1860 - March 4, 1940) was an American novelist, poet, psychical researcher essayist, and short story writer. He is best known for his fiction involving hard-working Midwestern farmers.'

Autoren/Hrsg.

Garland, Hamlin

Leseproben

 VII. THE POACHERS
   One morning, as he topped the rise between the sawmill and his own station, Cavanagh heard two rifle-shots in quick succession snapping across the high peak on his left. Bringing his horse to a stand, he unslung his field-glasses, and slowly and minutely swept the tawny slopes of Sheep Mountain from which the forbidden sounds seemed to come.   "A herder shooting coyotes," was his first thought; then remembering that there were no camps in that direction, and that a flock of mountain-sheep (which he had been guarding carefully) habitually fed round that grassy peak, his mind changed. "I wonder if those fellows are after those sheep?" he mused, as he angled down the slope. "I reckon it's up to me to see."   He was tired and hungry, a huge moraine lay between, and the trail was long and rough. "To catch them in the act is impossible. However," he reflected, "they have but two trails along which to descend. One of these passes my door, and the other, a very difficult trail, leads down the South Fork. I'll have time to get breakfast and change horses. They'll probably wait till night before attempting to go out, anyway."   In less than three hours he was over on the trail in the canon, quite certain that the hunters were still above him. He rode quietly up the valley, pausing often to listen and to scrutinize the landscape; but no sign of camp-fire and no further rifle-shots came, and at last he went into camp upon the trail, resolved to wait till the poachers appeared, a ward which his experience as a soldier helped him to maintain without nodding.   In these long hours his thought played about the remembrance of his last visit to the Fork and his hour with Lee. He wondered what she was doing at the moment. How charming she had looked there at Redfields'--so girlish in form, so serious and womanly of face!   He felt as never before the ineludible loneliness of the ranger's life. Here he sat in the midst of a mighty forest with many hostile minds all about him, and it must be confessed he began to wonder whether his services to the nation were worth so much hardship, such complete isolation. The stream sang of the eternities, and his own short span of life (half gone already without any permanent accomplishment) seemed pitifully ephemeral. The guardians of these high places must forever be solitary. No ranger could rightfully be husband and father, for to bring women and children into these solitudes would be cruel.   He put all this aside--for the time--by remembering that he was a soldier under orders, and that marriage was a long way off, and so smoked his pipe and waited for the dawn, persistent as a Sioux, and as silent as a fox.   At daylight, there being still no sign of his quarry, he saddled his horse, and was about to ride up the trail when he caught the sound of voices and the sharp click of iron hoofs on the rocks above him. With his horse's bridle on his arm he awaited the approaching horseman, resolute and ready to act.   As the marauders rounded the elbow in the trail, he was surprised to recognize in the leader young Gregg. The other man was a stranger, an older man, with a grizzled beard, and tall and stooping figure.   "Hello Joe," called the ranger, "you're astir early!"   The youth's fat face remained imperturbable, but his eyes betrayed uneasiness. "Yes, it's a long pull into town."   "Been hunting?" queried the ranger, still with cheery, polite interest.   "Oh no; just visiting one of my sheep-camps."   Cavanagh's voice was a little less suave. "Not on this creek," he declared. "I moved your herder last week." He walked forward. "That's a heavy load for a short trip to a sheep-camp." He put his hand on the pack. "I guess you'll have to open this, for I heard two shots yesterday morning up where that flock of mountain-sheep is running, and, furthermore, I can see blood-stains on this saddle-blanket."   Neither of the men made answer, but the old man turned an inquiring look at his young leader.   The ranger flung his next sentence out like the lash of a whip. "Open this sack or I cut the ropes!"   Gregg threw out a hand in command. "Open it up, Edwards!" he said, sullenly.   With mechanical readiness the guide alighted from his horse, loosened the cinch on the pack-horse, and disclosed the usual camp-bed.   "Put off that bedding!" insisted the ranger.   Off came the outfit, and under the tent lay the noble head of a wild ram--a look of reproach still in his splendid yellow eyes.   Cavanagh's face hardened. "I thought so. Now heave it back and cinch up. It's you to the nearest magistrate, which happens to be Higley, of Roaring Fork. I'll make an example of you fellows."   There was nothing for Gregg to say and nothing for Edwards to do but obey, for a resolute ranger with an excellent weapon of the latest and most approved angular pattern stood ready to enforce his command; and when the pack was recinched, Cavanagh waved an imperative hand. "I guess I'll have to take charge of your guns," he said, and they yielded without a word of protest. "Now march! Take the left-hand trail. I'll be close behind."   A couple of hours of silent travel brought them to the ranger's cabin, and there he ordered a dismount.   As the coffee was boiling he lectured them briefly. "You fellows are not entirely to blame," he remarked, philosophically. "You've been educated to think a game warden a joke and Uncle Sam a long way off. But things have changed a bit. The law of the State has made me game warden, and I'm going to show you how it works. It's my duty to see that you go down the road--and down you go!"   Edwards, the guide, was plainly very uneasy, and made several attempts to reach Cavanagh's private ear, and at last succeeded. "I've been fooled into this," he urged. "I was hard up and a stranger in the country, and this young fellow hired me to guide him across the range. I didn't shoot a thing. I swear I didn't. If you'll let me off, I'll hit the trail to the West and never look back. For God's sake, don't take me down the road! Let me off."   "I can't do that," replied Cavanagh; but his tone was kindlier, for he perceived that the old fellow was thin, hollow-chested, and poorly clad. "You knew you were breaking the laws, didn't you?"   This the culprit admitted. "But I was working for Sam Gregg, and when Joe asked me to go show him the trail, I didn't expect to get cinched for killing game. I didn't fire a shot--now that's the God's truth."   "Nevertheless," retorted Ross, "you were packing the head, and I must count you in the game."   Edwards fell silent then, but something in his look deepened the ranger's pity. His eyes were large and dark, and his face so emaciated that he seemed fit only for a sanitarium.   The trip to the Fork (timed to the gait of a lazy pack-horse) was a tedious eight hours' march, and it was nearly seven o'clock when they arrived at the outskirts of the village. There had been very few words spoken by Cavanagh, and those which the prisoners uttered were not calculated to cheer the way. Joe blamed his guide for their mishap. "You should have known how far the sound of our guns would carry," he said.   As they were nearing the village he called out: "See here, Cavanagh, there's no use taking me through town under arrest. I'll cough up all we got right now. How much is the damage?"   "I can't receive your fine," replied Ross, "and, besides, you took your chances when you shot that sheep. You lost out, and I'm not going to let you off. This poaching must stop. You go right along with your guide."   Again Edwards drew near, and pled in a low voice: "See here, Mr. Ranger, I have special reasons why I don't want to go into this town under arrest. I wish you'd let me explain."   There was deep emotion in his voice, but Ross was firm. "I'm sorry for you," he said, "but my duty requires me to take you before a magistrate--"   "But you don't know my case," he replied, with bitter intensity. "I'm out 'on parole.' I can't afford to be arrested in this way. Don't you see?"   Ross looked at him closely. "Are you telling me the truth?"   "Would you have mercy on me if I were?"   "I should be sorry for you, but I couldn't let you go."   "You won't believe me, but it's the God Almighty's truth: I didn't know Joe intended to kill that sheep. He asked me to show him over the pass. I had no intention of killing anything. I wish to God you would let me go!" His voice was tense with pleading.   "How about this, Gregg?" called Ross. "Your guide insists he had no hand in killing the ram?"   "He fired first, and I fired and finished him," retorted Gregg.   "'Twas the other way," declared Edwards. "The beast was...