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Chapter I The Foothills Country Beyond the great prairies and in the shadow of the Rockies lie the Foothills. For nine hundred miles the prairies spread themselves out in vast level reaches, and then begin to climb over softly rounded mounds that ever grow higher and sharper till, here and there, they break into jagged points and at last rest upon the great bases of the mighty mountains. These rounded hills that join the prairies to the mountains form the Foothill Country. They extend for about a hundred miles only, but no other hundred miles of the great West are so full of interest and romance. The natural features of the country combine the beauties of prairie and of mountain scenery. There are valleys so wide that the farther side melts into the horizon, and uplands so vast as to suggest the unbroken prairie. Nearer the mountains the valleys dip deep and ever deeper till they narrow into canyons through which mountain torrents pour their blue-gray waters from glaciers that lie glis
Chapter II The Company Of The Noble Seven As we were dismounting, the cries, "Hello, Jack!" "How do, Dale?" "Hello, old Smoke!" in the heartiest of tones, made me see that my cousin was a favorite with the men grouped about the door. Jack simply nodded in reply and then presented me in due form. "My tenderfoot cousin from the effete," he said, with a flourish. I was surprised at the grace of the bows made me by these roughly- dressed, wild-looking fellows. I might have been in a London drawing-room. I was put at my ease at once by the kindliness of their greeting, for, upon Jack's introduction, I was admitted at once into their circle, which, to a tenderfoot, was usually closed. What a hardy-looking lot they were! Brown, spare, sinewy and hard as nails, they appeared like soldiers back from a hard campaign. They moved and spoke with an easy, careless air of almost lazy indifference, but their eyes had a trick of looking straight out at you, cool and fearless, and you felt they were fit
Chapter III The Coming Of The Pilot He was the first missionary ever seen in the country, and it was the Old Timer who named him. The Old Timer's advent to the Foothill country was prehistoric, and his influence was, in consequence, immense. No one ventured to disagree with him, for to disagree with the Old Timer was to write yourself down a tenderfoot, which no one, of course, cared to do. It was a misfortune which only time could repair to be a new-comer, and it was every new-comer's aim to assume with all possible speed the style and customs of the aristocratic Old Timers, and to forget as soon as possible the date of his own arrival. So it was as "The Sky Pilot," familiarly "The Pilot," that the missionary went for many a day in the Swan Creek country. I had become schoolmaster of Swan Creek. For in the spring a kind Providence sent in the Muirs and the Bremans with housefuls of children, to the ranchers' disgust, for they foresaw ploughed fields and barbed-wire fences cramping the
Chapter IV The Pilot's Measure It was Hi Kendal that announced the arrival of the missionary. I was standing at the door of my school, watching the children ride off home on their ponies, when Hi came loping along on his bronco in the loose-jointed cowboy style. "Well," he drawled out, bringing his bronco to a dead stop in a single bound, "he's lit." "Lit? Where? What?" said I, looking round for an eagle or some other flying thing. "Your blanked Sky Pilot, and he's a beauty, a pretty kid -- looks too tender for this climate. Better not let him out on the range." Hi was quite disgusted, evidently. "What's the matter with him, Hi?" "Why, HE ain't no parson! I don't go much on parsons, but when I calls for one I don't want no bantam chicken. No, sirree, horse! I don't want no blankety-blank, pink-and-white complected nursery kid foolin' round my graveyard. If you're goin' to bring along a parson, why bring him with his eye-teeth cut and his tail feathers on." That Hi was deeply disappoint
Chapter V First Blood One is never so enthusiastic in the early morning, when the emotions are calmest and the nerves at their steadiest. But I was determined to try to have the baseball match postponed. There could be no difficulty. One day was as much of a holiday as another to these easy-going fellows. But The Duke, when I suggested a change in the day, simply raised his eyebrows an eighth of an inch and said: "Can't see why the day should be changed." Bruce stormed and swore all sorts of destruction upon himself if he was going to change his style of life for any man. The others followed The Duke's lead. That Sunday was a day of incongruities. The Old and the New, the East and the West, the reverential Past and iconoclastic Present were jumbling themselves together in bewildering confusion. The baseball match was played with much vigor and profanity. The expression on The Pilot's face, as he stood watching for a while, was a curious mixture of interest, surprise, doubt and pain. He
Chapter VI His Second Wind The first weeks were not pleasant for The Pilot. He had been beaten, and the sense of failure damped his fine enthusiasm, which was one of his chief charms. The Noble Seven despised, ignored, or laughed at him, according to their mood and disposition. Bruce patronized him; and, worst of all, the Muirs pitied him. This last it was that brought him low, and I was glad of it. I find it hard to put up with a man that enjoys pity. It was Hi Kendal that restored him, though Hi had no thought of doing so good a deed. It was in this way: A baseball match was on with The Porcupines from near the Fort. To Hi's disgust and the team's dismay Bill failed to appear. It was Hi's delight to stand up for Bill's pitching, and their battery was the glory of the Home team. "Try The Pilot, Hi," said some one, chaffing him. Hi looked glumly across at The Pilot standing some distance, away; then called out, holding up the ball: "Can you play the game?" For answer Moore held up his
Chapter VII The Last Of The Permit Sundays The spring "round-ups" were all over and Bruce had nothing to do but to loaf about the Stopping Place, drinking old Latour's bad whisky and making himself a nuisance. In vain The Pilot tried to win him with loans of books and magazines and other kindly courtesies. He would be decent for a day and then would break forth in violent argumentation against religion and all who held to it. He sorely missed The Duke, who was away south on one of his periodic journeys, of which no one knew anything or cared to ask. The Duke's presence always steadied Bruce and took the rasp out of his manners. It was rather a relief to all that he was absent from the next fortnightly service, though Moore declared he was ashamed to confess this relief. "I can't touch him," he said to me, after the service; "he is far too clever, but," and his voice was full of pain, "I'd give something to help him." "If he doesn't quit his nonsense," I replied, "he'll soon be past hel
Chapter VIII The Pilot's Grip The situation was one of extreme danger -- a madman with a Winchester rifle. Something must be done and quickly. But what? It would be death to anyone appearing at the door. "I'll speak; you keep your eyes on him," said The Duke. "Hello, Bruce! What's the row?" shouted The Duke. Instantly the singing stopped. A look of cunning delight came over his face as, without a word, he got his rifle ready pointed at the door. "Come in!" he yelled, after waiting for some moments. "Come in! You're the biggest of all the devils. Come on, I'll send you down where you belong. Come, what's keeping you?" Over the rifle-barrel his eyes gleamed with frenzied delight. We consulted as to a plan. "I don't relish a bullet much," I said. "There are pleasanter things," responded The Duke, "and he is a fairly good shot." Meantime the singing had started again, and, looking through the chink, I saw that Bruce had got his eye on the stovepipe again. While I was looking The Pilot slip
Chapter IX Gwen It was not many days after my arrival in the Foothill country that I began to hear of Gwen. They all had stories of her. The details were not many, but the impression was vivid. She lived remote from that centre of civilization known as Swan Creek in the postal guide, but locally as Old Latour's, far up among the hills near the Devil's Lake, and from her father's ranch she never ventured. But some of the men had had glimpses of her and had come to definite opinions regarding her. "What is she like?" I asked Bill one day, trying to pin him down to something like a descriptive account of her. "Like! She's a terrer," he said, with slow emphasis, "a holy terrer." "But what is she like? What does she look like?" I asked impatiently. "Look like?" He considered a moment, looked slowly round as if searching for a simile, then answered: "I dunno." "Don't know? What do you mean? Haven't you seen her?" "Yeh! But she ain't like nothin'." Bill was quite decided upon this point. I tr
Chapter X Gwen's First Prayers It was with hesitation, almost with fear, that I began with Gwen; but even had I been able to foresee the endless series of exasperations through which she was destined to conduct me, still would I have undertaken my task. For the child, with all her wilfulness, her tempers and her pride, made me, as she did all others, her willing slave. Her lessons went on, brilliantly or not at all, according to her sweet will. She learned to read with extraordinary rapidity, for she was eager to know more of that great world of which The Duke had told her such thrilling tales. Writing she abhorred. She had no one to write to. Why should she cramp her fingers over these crooked little marks? But she mastered with hardly a struggle the mysteries of figures, for she would have to sell her cattle, and "dad doesn't know when they are cheating." Her ideas of education were purely utilitarian, and what did not appear immediately useful she refused to trifle with. And so all
Chapter XI Gwen's Challenge Gwen was undoubtedly wild and, as The Sky Pilot said, wilful and wicked. Even Bronco Bill and Hi Kendal would say so, without, of course, abating one jot of their admiration for her. For fourteen years she had lived chiefly with wild things. The cattle on the range, wild as deer, the coyotes, the jack-rabbits and the timber wolves were her mates and her instructors. From these she learned her wild ways. The rolling prairie of the Foothill country was her home. She loved it and all things that moved upon it with passionate love, the only kind she was capable of. And all summer long she spent her days riding up and down the range alone, or with her father, or with Joe, or, best of all, with The Duke, her hero and her friend. So she grew up strong, wholesome and self-reliant, fearing nothing alive and as untamed as a yearling range colt. She was not beautiful. The winds and sun had left her no complexion to speak of, but the glory of her red hair, gold-red, wit
Chapter XII Gwen's Canyon Gwen's hope and bright courage, in spite of all her pain, were wonderful to witness. But all this cheery hope and courage and patience snuffed out as a candle, leaving noisome darkness to settle down in that sick-room from the day of the doctor's consultation. The verdict was clear and final. The old doctor, who loved Gwen as his own, was inclined to hope against hope, but Fawcett, the clever young doctor from the distant town, was positive in his opinion. The scene is clear to me now, after many years. We three stood in the outer room; The Duke and her father were with Gwen. So earnest was the discussion that none of us heard the door open just as young Fawcett was saying in incisive tones: "No! I can see no hope. The child can never walk again." There was a cry behind us. "What! Never walk again! It's a lie!" There stood the Old Timer, white, fierce, shaking. "Hush!" said the old doctor, pointing at the open door. He was too late. Even as he spoke, there cam
Chapter XIII The Canyon Flowers The Pilot's first visit to Gwen had been a triumph. But none knew better than he that the fight was still to come, for deep in Gwen's heart were thoughts whose pain made her forget all other. "Was it God let me fall?" she asked abruptly one day, and The Pilot knew the fight was on; but he only answered, looking fearlessly into her eyes: "Yes, Gwen dear." "Why did He let me fall?" and her voice was very deliberate. "I don't know, Gwen dear," said The Pilot steadily. "He knows." "And does He know I shall never ride again? Does He know how long the days are, and the nights when I can't sleep? Does He know?" "Yes, Gwen dear," said The Pilot, and the tears were standing in his eyes, though his voice was still steady enough. "Are you sure He knows?" The voice was painfully intense. "Listen to me, Gwen," began The Pilot, in great distress, but she cut him short. "Are you quite sure He knows? Answer me!" she cried, with her old imperiousness. "Yes, Gwen, He know
Chapter XIV Bill's Bluff The Pilot had set his heart upon the building of a church in the Swan Creek district, partly because he was human and wished to set a mark of remembrance upon the country, but more because he held the sensible opinion, that a congregation, as a man, must have a home if it is to stay. All through the summer he kept setting this as an object at once desirable and possible to achieve. But few were found to agree with him. Little Mrs. Muir was of the few, and she was not to be despised, but her influence was neutralized by the solid immobility of her husband. He had never done anything sudden in his life. Every resolve was the result of a long process of mind, and every act of importance had to be previewed from all possible points. An honest man, strongly religious, and a great admirer of The Pilot, but slow-moving as a glacier, although with plenty of fire in him deep down. "He's soond at the hairt, ma man Robbie," his wife said to The Pilot, who was fuming and f
Chapter XV Bill's Partner The next day everyone was talking of Bill's bluffing the church people, and there was much quiet chuckling over the discomfiture of Robbie Muir and his party. The Pilot was equally distressed and bewildered, for Bill's conduct, so very unusual, had only one explanation -- the usual one for any folly in that country. "I wish he had waited till after the meeting to go to Latour's. He spoiled the last chance I had. There's no use now," he said, sadly. "But he may do something," I suggested. "Oh, fiddle!" said The Pilot, contemptuously. "He was only giving Muir 'a song and dance,' as he would say. The whole thing is off." But when I told Gwen the story of the night's proceedings, she went into raptures over Bill's grave speech and his success in drawing the canny Scotchman. "Oh, lovely! dear old Bill and his 'cherished opinion.' Isn't he just lovely? Now he'll do something." "Who, Bill?" "No, that stupid Scottie." This was her name for the immovable Robbie. "Not h
Chapter XVI Bill's Financing Bill's method of conducting the sale of the pinto was eminently successful as a financial operation, but there are those in the Swan Creek country who have never been able to fathom the mystery attaching to the affair. It was at the fall round-up, the beef round-up, as it is called, which this year ended at the Ashley Ranch. There were representatives from all the ranches and some cattle-men from across the line. The hospitality of the Ashley Ranch was up to its own lofty standard, and, after supper, the men were in a state of high exhilaration. The Hon. Fred and his wife, Lady Charlotte, gave themselves to the duties of their position as hosts for the day with a heartiness and grace beyond praise. After supper the men gathered round the big fire, which was piled up before the long, low shed, which stood open in front. It was a scene of such wild and picturesque interest as can only be witnessed in the western ranching country. About the fire, most of them
Chapter XVII How The Pinto Sold The glow of virtuous feeling following the performance of their generous act prepared the men for a keener enjoyment than usual of a night's sport. They had just begun to dispose themselves in groups about the fire for poker and other games when Hi rode up into the light and with him a stranger on Gwen's beautiful pinto pony. Hi was evidently half drunk and, as he swung himself of his bronco, he saluted the company with a wave of the hand and hoped he saw them "kickin'." Bill, looking curiously at Hi, went up to the pinto and, taking him by the head, led him up into the light, saying: "See here, boys, there's that pinto of mine I was telling you about; no flies on him, eh?" "Hold on there! Excuse me!" said the stranger, "this here hoss belongs to me, if paid-down money means anything in this country." "The country's all right," said Bill in an ominously quiet voice, "but this here pinto's another transaction, I reckon." "The hoss is mine, I say, and what
Chapter XVIII The Lady Charlotte The night of the pinto's sale was a night momentous to Gwen, for then it was that the Lady Charlotte's interest in her began. Momentous, too, to the Lady Charlotte, for it was that night that brought The Pilot into her life. I had turned back to the fire around which the men had fallen into groups prepared to have an hour's solid delight, for the scene was full of wild and picturesque beauty to me, when The Duke came and touched me on the shoulder. "Lady Charlotte would like to see you." "And why, pray?" "She wants to hear about this affair of Bill's." We went through the kitchen into the large dining-room, at one end of which was a stone chimney and fireplace. Lady Charlotte had declared that she did not much care what kind of a house the Hon. Fred would build for her, but that she must have a fireplace. She was very beautiful -- tall, slight and graceful in every line. There was a reserve and a grand air in her bearing that put people in awe of her. T
Chapter XIX Through Gwen's Windows When I told The Pilot of Lady Charlotte's purpose to visit Gwen, he was not too well pleased. "What does she want with Gwen?" he said impatiently. "She will just put notions into her head and make the child discontented." "Why should she?" said I. "She won't mean to, but she belongs to another world, and Gwen cannot talk to her without getting glimpses of a life that will make her long for what she can never have," said The Pilot. "But suppose it is not idle curiosity in Lady Charlotte," I suggested. "I don't say it is quite that," he answered, "but these people love a sensation." "I don't think you know Lady Charlotte," I replied. "I hardly think from her tone the other night that she is a sensation hunter." "At any rate," he answered, decidedly, "she is not to worry poor Gwen." I was a little surprised at his attitude, and felt that he was unfair to Lady Charlotte, but I forbore to argue with him on the matter. He could not bear to think of any pers
Chapter XX How Bill Favored "Home-Grown Industries" The building of the Swan Creek Church made a sensation in the country, and all the more that Bronco Bill was in command. "When I put up money I stay with the game," he announced; and stay he did, to the great benefit of the work and to the delight of The Pilot, who was wearing his life out in trying to do several men's work. It was Bill that organized the gangs for hauling stone for the foundation and logs for the walls. It was Bill that assigned the various jobs to those volunteering service. To Robbie Muir and two stalwart Glengarry men from the Ottawa lumber region, who knew all about the broadaxe, he gave the hewing down of the logs that formed the walls. And when they had done, Bill declared they were "better 'an a sawmill." It was Bill, too, that did the financing, and his passage with Williams, the storekeeper from "the other side" who dealt in lumber and building material, was such as established forever Bill's reputation in f
Chapter XXI How Bill Hit The Trail When "the crowd" was with us The Pilot read us all sorts of tales of adventures in all lands by heroes of all ages, but when we three sat together by our fire The Pilot would always read us tales of the heroes of sacred story, and these delighted Bill more than those of any of the ancient empires of the past. He had his favorites. Abraham, Moses, Joshua, Gideon, never failed to arouse his admiration. But Jacob was to him always "a mean cuss," and David he could not appreciate. Most of all he admired Moses and the Apostle Paul, whom he called "that little chap." But, when the reading was about the One Great Man that moved majestic amid the gospel stories, Bill made no comments; He was too high for approval. By and by Bill began to tell these tales to the boys, and one night, when a quiet mood had fallen upon the company, Bill broke the silence. "Say, Pilot, where was it that the little chap got mixed up into that riot?" "Riot!" said The Pilot. "Yes; yo
Chapter XXII How The Swan Creek Church Was Opened When, near the end of the year, The Pilot fell sick, Bill nursed him like a mother and sent him off for a rest and change to Gwen, forbidding him to return till the church was finished and visiting him twice a week. The love between the two was most beautiful, and, when I find my heart grow hard and unbelieving in men and things, I let my mind wander back to a scene that I came upon in front of Gwen's house. These two were standing alone in the clear moonlight, Bill with his hand upon The Pilot's shoulder, and The Pilot with his arm around Bill's neck. "Dear old Bill," The Pilot was saying, "dear old Bill," and the voice was breaking into a sob. And Bill, standing stiff and straight, looked up at the stars, coughed and swallowed hard for some moments, and said, in a queer, croaky voice: "Shouldn't wonder if a Chinook would blow up." "Chinook?" laughed The Pilot, with a catch in his voice. "You dear old humbug," and he stood watching til
Chapter XXIII The Pilot's Last Port In the old times a funeral was regarded in the Swan Creek country as a kind of solemn festivity. In those days, for the most part, men died in their boots and were planted with much honor and loyal libation. There was often neither shroud nor coffin, and in the Far West many a poor fellow lies as he fell, wrapped in his own or his comrade's blanket. It was the manager of the X L Company's ranch that introduced crape. The occasion was the funeral of one of the ranch cowboys, killed by his bronco, but when the pall-bearers and mourners appeared with bands and streamers of crape, this was voted by the majority as "too gay." That circumstance alone was sufficient to render that funeral famous, but it was remembered, too, as having shocked the proprieties in another and more serious manner. No one would be so narrow-minded as to object to the custom of the return procession falling into a series of horse-races of the wildest description, and ending up at
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