CHAPTER XVI
A LETTER FROM JAKE AMSDEN
On receipt of the despatch reproduced at the close of the last chapter Mr. Wentworth started immediately for Ilium, and had an interview with Dr. McIntire.
“When did my son leave Ilium?” he asked.
“Two days ago, probably. He was not at recitations, but I received a note saying he was sick with the influenza. This seemed natural, for I have myself been suffering from the same malady, and therefore my suspicions were not excited. When the next morning Victor also absented himself I sent around to his boarding-house, and learned that he and a school friend of his – Arthur Grigson – had not been seen for twenty-four hours. Their trunks were left, but each had taken a valise, filled with clothing, as may be presumed, for the bureau drawers were empty. It is clear that the flight was premeditated. Can you furnish me with any clew, Mr. Wentworth, to the probable cause of this escapade?”
“Only this, that Victor in his last letter asked permission to go off on a trip with this boy, Arthur Grigson. He wished to leave school and travel for a year.”
“That explains it. You refused, I presume?”
“Yes, emphatically.”
“Your son then has gone without leave.”
“It would seem so. What is the character of this Arthur Grigson?”
“He is from Syracuse, in New York State. I believe he has no immediate family, but is under the charge of a guardian, who lets him do pretty much as he pleases. Had your son any money, do you think?”
“I had just sent him fifty dollars to settle his board bill for the month, with a margin for his own personal use.”
“Probably he used the money to travel with. It may be well to inquire at his boarding-house if he has paid his board.”
This Mr. Wentworth did, and ascertained that the bill was still unpaid. He returned to the principal with this information.
“What would you advise me to do?” he inquired in some perplexity.
“I will advise you, but you may not be willing to adopt my advice.”
“At any rate I shall be glad to have your views, for I am in great doubt.”
“I would make no effort to recover the fugitive.”
“What!” exclaimed Bradley Wentworth startled, “would you have me abandon my only son to his own devices?”
“Only for a time. You might, of course, secure the services of a detective to pursue him, but that would be expensive and probably would do no good.”
“But I don’t like to return home without an effort to recover Victor.”
“Listen to me, Mr. Wentworth. How old is your son?”
“Seventeen.”
“Then he ought to be able to look out for himself in a measure. I predict that it won’t be long before you hear from him.”
“What leads you to think so?”
“Victor left school with only fifty dollars in his pocket. That sum won’t last long. His companion no doubt had more, for his guardian foolishly supplied him with money very liberally. But, at any rate, it won’t be long before the two boys will be at the end of their resources. Then the natural thing will be for each to write for money to get home. When you receive your son’s letter you will, of course, learn where he is, and can seek him out and take him home.”
“Your advice is most judicious, Dr. McIntire,” said Mr. Wentworth brightening up. “I shall adopt it. I shan’t be sorry if the young scapegrace gets into trouble and suffers for his folly.”
“I hope, Mr. Wentworth, you don’t blame me in the matter.”
“No, Dr. McIntire, I blame no one but the boy himself. Your suggestions have entirely changed my intentions. I did propose to advertise a reward to any one who would send me information of the missing boy, but now I shall do nothing of the kind. I will trust to time and the want of money to restore Victor to his senses.”
Mr. Wentworth settled all Victor’s debts in Ilium, and when his task was finished returned to Seneca.
“The boy needn’t think I am going to make a fuss about him. It would be making him of altogether too much importance. I think I can afford to wait quite as well as he can.”
“Did you see Mr. Victor?” inquired the housekeeper when he returned home.
“No, Mrs. Bancroft.”
“I thought you went to Ilium, sir.”
“So I did.”
“And did not call on Mr. Victor?”
“Victor isn’t at Ilium. He has gone away on a little journey with a school companion.”
Mrs. Bancroft looked surprised.
“Will he be gone long?” she ventured to inquire.
“It is not decided,” answered Wentworth. From his manner the housekeeper understood that he did not care to be interrogated further. She would like to have asked where Victor had gone, for she felt some affection for the boy whom she had known since he wore knickerbockers, but she reflected that when letters were received the postmark would reveal what she desired to know. Accordingly she waited eagerly, but so far as she could learn no letters came from the absent boy. She grew anxious, but Bradley Wentworth seemed calm and imperturbable.
“Master Victor must be all right,” she concluded, “or his father would look anxious.”
One morning Mrs. Bancroft found in the mail a letter dated Gulchville, Colorado, but the address was evidently written by an uneducated person not much in the habit of holding the pen. It couldn’t be from Victor, whose handwriting was very good, but Mrs. Bancroft reflected in alarm that he might be sick and unable to write for himself, and had employed an illiterate amanuensis.
She looked closely at Mr. Wentworth when he read the letter at the breakfast table. He seemed surprised, but that was the only emotion which the housekeeper could detect.
He laid the letter down without a word, having read it apparently with some difficulty.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Wentworth,” said Mrs. Bancroft, “but does the letter give any news of Master Victor?”
“No; what should make you think it did, Mrs. Bancroft?”
“I noticed that it was postmarked in Colorado.”
“True, but I don’t expect Victor to go so far, I have acquaintances in Colorado.”
That was the only information vouchsafed to Mrs. Bancroft.
“I’m a poor woman,” she said to herself, “but I’d freely give ten dollars to know just where Master Victor is. I’m afraid he’s a little wild, and don’t like study, but I haven’t forgotten what a nice little boy he was, and how he used to kiss the old housekeeper. He’s got a good heart, has Victor. It’s very mysterious his going away so sudden-like. Mr. Wentworth evidently doesn’t want me to know where he is. Maybe he’s sent him to one of them strict military schools, where he’ll be ruled with a rod of iron. I only wish I could see him for just five minutes.”
The mysterious letter (not to keep the reader in doubt) was written by our old acquaintance Jake Amsden, and we will reproduce it here, correcting the orthography, which deviated considerably from the standards set by the best writers.
“Mr. Wentworth,
Dear Sir: – I think you will be interested to know that the boy, Gerald Lane, has gone away from Gulchville. I don’t know where he has gone, but he went with an Englishman named Brooke or Brooks. I think the Englishman is going to travel round Colorado, and has taken Gerald as a guide. He would have done a good deal better to take me, for Gerald is only a kid, and doesn’t know much about the State, while I have traveled all over it. Oh, I almost forgot to say that he has let his cabin to a Mr. Carter, whom I used to know a good many years ago. That shows he means to come back again. When he does come back I will let you know.
“I hope you will consider this letter worth five dollars for I am very short of money and times are so hard that I can’t get anything to do.
“Yours to command,“Jake Amsden, Esq.”
Why Mr. Amsden signed himself Esq. is not altogether clear. As he had expressed a hope to go to Congress some day he perhaps wanted to keep up his dignity.
Mr. Wentworth returned the following answer to this letter:
“Jake Amsden,
“I am glad to receive information about Gerald Lane. I enclose five dollars. When you hear anything more about him, particularly when he returns, write me again.
“Bradley Wentworth.”
He did not, however, address this to Jake Amsden, Esq., rather to the disappointment of his gifted correspondent. But Jake found substantial consolation in the five dollars enclosed, which soon found its way into the coffers of Pete Johnson.
CHAPTER XVII
THE BACKWOODS HOTEL
Three weeks later Noel Brooke and Gerald, after a long day’s ride, halted their horses in front of a rude, one-story dwelling at the foot of a precipitous hill in Western Colorado.
“I hope this is a hotel, Gerald,” said the tourist. “I am tired and hungry.”
“So am I. We have had a rough ride to-day.”
“No doubt our poor horses think so,” went on Brooke, gently stroking the neck of his patient steed. The weary animal signified the pleasure which the caress gave him, and turning his head looked at his rider with almost human intelligence.
“Shall I dismount and inquire, Mr. Brooke?” asked Gerald.
“Yes, if you please.”
Gerald knocked on the door, which after a slight delay, was opened by a tall, gaunt woman attired in a soiled calico dress which hung limply about her thin and bony figure.
“Madam,” said Gerald, lifting his hat with quite unnecessary politeness, for the woman before him knew nothing of social observances, “is this a hotel?”
“Well,” drawled the woman, “we sometimes put up travelers here.”
“I am glad to hear it. My friend and I have ridden far to-day, and would like to have supper and a bed.”
“That’ll be a dollar apiece,” said the woman abruptly.
“We are willing to pay it; and can we get some provision for our horses?”
“This ain’t no horse tavern, but you can tie ’em to a tree and let ’em forage for themselves.”
“That will do,” answered Gerald. “Mr. Brooke,” he added, “this lady consents to entertain us.”
“I shall esteem it a favor,” said Noel Brooke, alighting from his horse.
“Did you tell him what I charged?” asked the backwoods landlady.
“We are to pay a dollar each,” explained Gerald, turning to his companion.
“That is satisfactory,” said the tourist.
“You may give it to me now,” said the new landlady with commendable caution.
“Just as you please, madam.”
Noel Brooke took out a large wallet that seemed well filled with bills, and selecting a two-dollar note passed it over.
The landlady extended her hand eagerly, and taking the bill examined it minutely, and finally, as if satisfied with her scrutiny, thrust it into a probable pocket in the interior recesses of her dress. She was evidently fond of money, judging from her manner, and Gerald noticed that she fixed a covetous look on the large and well-filled wallet from which Mr. Brooke had selected the bank bill. It gave him a momentary feeling of uneasiness, but he reflected that there was little danger from a solitary woman, and did not mention his feeling to the tourist.
“What do you want for supper?” asked the woman in a quick, jerky way.
“Almost anything, provided it is hearty and there is enough of it, madam.”
“I’ve got some antelope steak and corn cakes, and I’ll boil some potatoes if you want ’em.”
“That will do admirably. But where did you get antelope meat? You didn’t shoot the animal yourself?”
“No, my man shot him.”
That settled the question that had arisen in Gerald’s mind. The woman had a husband.
“I might have known that you didn’t shoot him yourself.”
“And maybe you’d be mistaken. I’ve dropped more’n one fine antelope, if I am a woman – Bess, bring me my rifle.”
Bess, undoubtedly the woman’s daughter, was quite a contrast to her thin, bony mother, for, though not over the average height of women, she would easily have tipped the scales at a hundred and eighty pounds. She had a round, fat face, rather vacant in expression, but good-natured, and in that respect much more attractive than her mother’s. She brought out a large rifle, which her mother took from her and raised to her shoulder in fine, sportsmanlike fashion.
“Please don’t mistake me for antelope, madam,” said Noel Brooke hastily.
This excited the risibilities of Bess, who broke into a loud and noisy fit of laughter.
“What yer cacklin’ at, Bess?” demanded her mother.
“No, I won’t shoot yer,” she added, turning to Brooke. “You wouldn’t be half so good eatin’ as an antelope.”
Here Bess went off into another fit of laughter, in which Gerald and his companion joined, for the girl’s evident enjoyment was contagious.
“I am glad to hear that, madam.”
“What do you call me madam for?” inquired the woman suspiciously.
“Because I don’t know your name.”
“My name’s Sal Peters.”
“I shall remember, Mrs. Peters.”
“Bess, you can go and tell the man where to tie his hoss.”
The girl led the way to the rear of the building, where about a hundred feet back was a sapling with a long rope attached to it.
“Hitch your hoss on to that,” said she. “And there’s another for the young chap.”
Gerald smiled at this designation, and availed himself of the information.
“You can set down anywhere, and when supper’s ready I’ll shout.”
“Thank you, Miss Peters,” said the tourist with an amused smile.
But Bess seemed still more amused at being called Miss Peters.
“Oh, I shall bust with laughing, I shall!” she giggled. “Miss Peters! Oh, ain’t you funny, though?”
“Is there any place to wash?” asked Gerald, looking at his dust-soiled hands.
Bess pointed to a little rill of water that flowed and trickled down the hillside, and which Gerald had not yet observed.
“Thank you!”
“Towels are apparently unknown in this wilderness,” said Brooke, after Bess had gone back to the house.
“And soap, too, I expect.”
“A little extra rubbing will make up for the last, and our handkerchiefs may do as a substitute for the former. This seems a primitive sort of place.”
Gerald admired the ease with which Mr. Brooke, who had undoubtedly been brought up in the lap of luxury, adapted himself to the accommodations of the wilderness. The young man, after refreshing himself with an ablution, threw himself on the grass, and said contentedly: “It seems good to rest after our long ride.”
“Yes, Mr. Brooke, that is the way I feel.”
“To tell you the truth, Gerald, I was afraid we might have to camp out in the woods, and go to bed without our supper.”
“Our hotel isn’t exactly first class.”
“No, but if we get a plain supper and a comfortable night’s rest it ought to satisfy us. If I cared to stop at first-class hotels I would have remained in the larger cities. But I like better, for a time at least, the freedom of the woods, even if it carries with it some personal sacrifices and privations.”
“I have been thinking, Mr. Brooke, that my duties as private secretary are not very laborious.”
“True, Gerald,” answered the tourist smiling. “In fact I have no use for a private secretary as such, but I wanted a companion, and you are worth more to me in that capacity than a college graduate whose acquirements would be much greater.”
“But, Mr. Brooke, it doesn’t seem to me that I am earning the very liberal salary you are paying me.”
“Not perhaps by your labors as secretary, but your company I rate higher than this.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brooke,” said Gerald, gratified by this evidence of appreciation.
“So that you needn’t feel any compunction at accepting your salary.”
“I know you mean what you say, and I shall hereafter feel easy on that score. I wonder what would have been my future if you had not made your appearance.”
“You would have got along somehow. You are a clever boy, one of those that get on. There is one thing I reproach myself for, however.”
“What is that, Mr. Brooke?”
“I have taken you away from the congenial society of Jake Amsden.”
Gerald laughed.
“It is true,” he said, “but I will try to find compensation in yours.”
Noel Brooke rose and made a low bow.
“Really,” he said, “I can’t remember when I received such a compliment before.”
At this moment Bess came out of the cabin and called out “Supper’s ready, you fellers!”
“And we ‘fellers’ are ready for it,” said Noel Brooke rising briskly. “Come along, Gerald, the inner man and the inner boy must be replenished.”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE PETERS FAMILY
“Set right up there!” said Mrs. Peters, pointing to a table which was backed up against the wall with one leaf extended.
The antelope steak emitted a delicious odor to our hungry travelers, and they did not mind the absence of a table-cloth and napkins. These would have seemed out of place in this backwoods hotel.
In addition to the antelope meat there were corn cakes as promised and cups of coffee which had already been poured out.
“Mrs. Peters,” said Brooke, “you have given us a supper fit for a king.”
“I don’t know about no kings,” said the bony landlady. “I’ve heerd of ’em, but don’t take much stock in ’em. I don’t believe they’re any better than any other folks.”
“I am not personally acquainted with any, but if I were I am sure they would relish your cooking.”
“You’re monstrous polite,” said Mrs. Peters, her grim features relaxing somewhat, “but I reckon I can cook a little.”
“And your daughter, no doubt, understands cooking also.”
“No, she don’t. She don’t seem to have no gift that way.”
“That’s a mistake,” said Brooke gravely. “What will she do when she is married and has a home of her own?”
“Oh, how you talk!” exclaimed the delighted Bess. “Who’d think of marrying me?”
“I think, Miss Peters, any one who married you would get his money’s worth.”
“Are you married?” asked Bess in an insinuating tone.
“I believe I am spoken for,” answered Brooke hastily, for it seemed clear that he would not have to sue in vain for the hand of the plump young lady, “but my friend here, Mr. Lane, is single.” Gerald looked alarmed, but was relieved when Bess said, “He’s only a boy. He ain’t old enough to be married.”
“Won’t you sit down and have your supper with us, Miss Peters?”
“No, I couldn’t eat a mite if anybody was looking,” answered Bess bashfully.
“I feel that way myself,” said Brooke. “Please don’t look at me, Miss Peters. Look at Gerald. It makes no difference to him.”
“What nonsense be you two talkin’?” asked the landlady, as Bess went off into another fit of laughter. “I never saw Bess so silly before.”
“It ain’t me, mother. The man is so funny he makes me laugh.”
The conversation stopped here, as Bess was sent out on an errand by her mother. Gerald and the tourist devoted themselves to eating, and did full justice to the plain but wholesome meal.
“I feel better,” said Noel Brooke, as he rose from the table.
“Folks generally do after eatin’,” observed Mrs. Peters philosophically. “I reckon if you’re through you’d better go out. You’re only in the way here.”
“Mrs. Peters is delightfully unconventional,” remarked Mr. Brooke as in obedience to the plain hint given by their landlady they went out and resumed their seats under a large branching oak tree in the rear of the cabin.
“She has given us a good supper. That’ll pay for her unconventional manners. I wonder what sort of a person her ‘man’ is?”
The question was no sooner suggested than answered. A tall, powerfully built man, clad in buckskin and carrying a rifle, followed by two young men, slighter in figure, but quite as tall, strode from the woods, and halted when they caught sight of Gerald and his companion.
“Who are you, strangers?” asked the old man suspiciously.
“We are travelers,” answered Noel Brooke promptly, “and at present we are guests of Mrs. Peters. Are you Mr. Peters?”
“I run that cabin, if that is what you mean.”
“So I supposed. Then you are my landlord.”
“I’ve got nothin’ to do with that. Ef you’ve made a bargain with Sal it’s all right.”
“We have made a bargain with Mrs. Peters, and she has given us a good supper.”
“I hope there’s something left for us,” growled Peters, “or there’ll be a row.”
The two sons carried between them an antelope, so it looked as if they would not lack for supper.
The three men filed into the cabin, and their wants were provided for without trenching upon the antelope they had brought with them. An hour later they came out, and settled down near the two guests.
“Where do you come from?” demanded Peters with rude curiosity.
“From England, to start with,” answered Noel.
“So you’re a Britisher?”
“If you choose to call me so. I never heard the word till I came across the water.”
“I don’t think much of Britishers.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Brooke amused. “May I ask why you are prejudiced against my countrymen?”
“We’ve licked ’em twice, and we can lick ’em again,” answered Peters forcibly.
“I really hope you will have no occasion. So far as I can judge England feels very friendly toward the United States. I must contend, however, that my countrymen know something about fighting.”
“Wal, perhaps they do!” admitted Peters shortly, “but you ain’t no match for us. Take you, for instance, how old be you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“My Ben, there, is only twenty, and he could double you up in less’n a minute.”
Noel Brooke fixed a critical glance on the tall, awkward, but strongly built youth, indicated as Ben.
“He is certainly taller than I am,” he admitted. There was about six inches’ difference in their respective heights.
“Yes, and he’s tough and wiry. Do you think you could lay him out, Ben?”
Ben grinned and answered shortly, “I reckon!”
Gerald, who had witnessed his friend’s prowess, didn’t feel quite so certain of this.
“I thought you’d crawl,” chuckled the old man, using an expression more common in that locality than further east. “Ben’s a chip of the old block, he is! He can lay out any tarnal Britisher you can fetch round.”
Noel Brooke felt that it was foolish, but this good-natured depreciation of his abilities didn’t fail to nettle him. He again surveyed Ben with a critical eye, and took stock of his points as a fighting man. He saw that as an antagonist he was not to be despised. Yet in his own case he possessed a scientific training to which Ben could lay no claim. Then, again, he was unusually strong and muscular for a man of his small proportions. He felt sure that even if conquered, Ben would not gain an easy victory, and – though it was a risk – he decided to take it.
“I don’t mind having a little contest with your son – friendly of course,” he said quietly, as he rose in a leisurely, almost languid, way from his low seat.
“What!” ejaculated Mr. Peters, almost doubting if he heard aright, “you are willing to tackle Ben?”
“Yes.”
“Ho, ho! this is rich!” said the old man with an irresistible guffaw. “You; oh jeminy!” and he nearly doubled up in a paroxysm of mirth.
“You seem amused,” said the tourist, rather provoked at the old man’s estimate of his fighting ability.
“Excuse me, stranger! You’re the pluckiest man I’ve met in many a long day. It does seem redikilus your standing up against Ben!”
“I won’t hurt him much, dad!” said Ben, opening his mouth in a good-natured grin.
“Of course it’s all in fun,” rejoined Noel Brooke smiling.
“Sartin! But you’d best consider what you’re a undertakin’ before you begin.”
“I have done that.”
“It’s like a boy standin’ up against me.”
“So I am a boy, am I?” asked Brooke with a smile at Gerald.
“You ain’t much bigger’n a boy, that’s a fact. My Ben was as big as you when he was only fifteen years old. Wasn’t you, Ben?”
“I was as big as him when I was fourteen, dad.”
“That’s so. You see, stranger, we’re a big race – we Peterses. Ben takes after the old man. When I was fifteen year old I could do a man’s work.”
“So could I, dad.”
“So you could, Ben. Do you want to feel Ben’s muscle, stranger?”
“No,” answered Noel Brooke smiling. “I would rather not. It might frighten me in advance, you know, and I want to start fair.”
“I guess you’re right. Well, boys, you can begin if you’re ready. I wouldn’t have missed this for ten dollars.”
He sat back and looked on with an air of intense interest, while the two ill-matched antagonists prepared for the trial.