The Sky Pilot in No Man's Land

Chapter 2

Subscribe for ad free access & additional features for teachers. Authors: 267, Books: 3,607, Poems & Short Stories: 4,435, Forum Members: 71,154, Forum Posts: 1,238,602, Quizzes: 344

On the Red Pine trail two men were driving in a buckboard drawn by a pair of half-broken pinto bronchos. The outfit was a rather ramshackle affair, and the driver was like his outfit. Stewart Duff was a rancher, once a "remittance man," but since his marriage three years ago he had learned self-reliance and was disciplining himself in self-restraint. A big, lean man he was, his thick shoulders and large, hairy muscular hands suggesting great physical strength, his swarthy face, heavy features, coarse black hair, keen dark eyes, deepset under shaggy brows, suggesting force of character with a possibility of brutality in passion. Yet when he smiled his heavy face was not unkindly, indeed the smile gave it a kind of rugged attractiveness. He was past his first youth, and on his face were the marks of the stormy way by which he had come.

He drove his jibing bronchos with steady hands. No light touch was his upon the reins, and the bronchos' wild plunging met with a check from those muscular hands of such iron rigidity as to fling them back helpless and amazed upon their hocks.

His companion was his opposite in physical appearance, and in those features and lines that so unmistakably reveal the nature and character within. Short and stout, inclined indeed to fat, to his great distress, his thick-set figure indicated strength without agility, solidity without resilience. He had a pleasant, open face, with a kindly, twinkling blue eye that goes with a merry heart, with a genial, sunny soul. But there was in the blue eye and in the open face, for all the twinkles and the smiles, a certain alert shrewdness that proclaimed the keen man of business, and in the clean cut lips lay the suggestion of resolute strength. A likable man he was, with an infinite capacity for humour, but with a bedrock of unyielding determination in him that always surprised those who judged him lightly.

The men were friends, and had been comrades more or less during those pioneer days that followed their arrival in the country from Scotland some dozen years ago. Often they had fallen out with each other, for Duff was stormy of temper and had a habit of letting himself swing out upon its gusts of passion, reckless of consequences; but he was ever the one to offer amends and to seek renewal of good relations. He had few friends, and so he clung the more closely to those he had. At such times the other would wait in cool, good-tempered but determined aloofness for his friend's return.

"You can chew your cud till you're cool again," he would say when the outbreak would arise. But invariably their differences were composed and their friendship remained unbroken.

The men sat in the buckboard, leaning forward with hunched shoulders, swaying easily to the pitching of the vehicle as it rattled along the trail which, especially where it passed over the round topped ridges, was thickly strewn with stones. Before them, now on the trail and now ranging wide over the prairie, ran a beautiful black and white English setter.

"But I know. And that's why I'm saying there ain't his like in this western country, and that's as true as your name is Sandy Bayne."

"Willocks!" said his friend with scorn. "There's where you're wrong. Do you know why he cut Slipper out of the Blue Ribbon? Because he wouldn't range a mile away. Darned old fool! What's the good of a point a mile away! Keeps you running over the whole creation, makes you lose time, tires yourself and tires your dog; and more than that, in nine cases out of ten you lose your bird. Give me a close ranger. He cleans up as he goes, keeps your game right at your hand, and gets you all the sport there is."

"Oh, there you go! That's just what those fool judges said. 'Beautiful dog! Beautiful dog!' Suppose she is! Looks ain't everything. They're something, but the question is, does she get the birds? Now, Slipper there got three birds to her one. Got 'em within range, too."

For a mile more they discussed the merits of Slipper and of his rivals, Sandy with his semi-humorous chaff extracting quiet amusement from his friend's wrath, and the latter, though suspecting that he was being drawn, unable to restrain his passionate championship of his dog.

Together they ran over the names of all who in this horse country were unfortunate enough to be doomed to a pedestrian form of locomotion.

"Then you can't tell what sort of a preacher he is," said Sandy with a twinkle in his eye. "You can't hear much when you are asleep."

"What's that you say? I've heard the best preachers in the country that breeds preachers, in the country where preachers grow like the berries on the bramble bushes. I know preaching, and I like good preaching, too."

"Well, take a horse. He must be a good-looker. This preacher is a good-looker, all right, but looks ain't everything. Must be quick at the start, must have good action, good style, staying power, and good at the finish. Most preachers never know when to finish, and that's the way with this man."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Bayne," said Barry, who was pale and panting hard. "Thanks for the lift. The truth--is--I'm rather--done up. A touch of asthma--the first--in five years. An old trouble of mine."

"No--thank you,--I should--crowd you,--all right behind here. Beastly business--this asthma. Worse when--the pollen--from the plants--is floating--about--so they say. I don't know--nobody does--I fancy." They drove on, bumping over the stones, Barry gradually getting back his wind. The talk of the men in the front seat had fallen again on dogs, Stewart maintaining with ever increasing vehemence his expert knowledge of dogs, of hunting dogs, and very especially of setter hunting dogs; his friend, while granting his knowledge of dogs in general, questioning the unprejudiced nature of his judgment as far as Slipper was concerned.

As Duff's declarations grew in violence they became more and more elaborately decorated with profanity. In the full tide of their conversation a quiet voice broke in:

"Too many 'damns,'" reiterated Barry. "You don't need them. You really don't need them, you know, and besides, they are not right. Profanity is quite useless, and it's wicked."

"And quite right, too," said Sandy solemnly. "You know your English is rotten bad. Yes, sir," he continued, turning round to Barry, "I quite agree with you. My friend is quite unnecessarily free in his speech."

"Got you there, old sport," grunted Duff, highly amused at Sandy's discomfiture. But to Barry he said, "I guess it's our own business how we express ourselves."

"Yes, it is, but, pardon me, not entirely so. There are others in the world, you know, and you must consider others. The habit is a bad habit, a rotten habit, and quite useless--silly, indeed."

"I'll just get those," said Duff, slipping out of the buckboard and drawing the gun from beneath the seat. "Steady, old boy, steady! Hold the lines, Sandy."

He moved quickly toward the dog who, quivering with that mysterious instinct found in the hunting dog, still held the point with taut muscles, nose and tail in line.

"Hello!" Barry called out. "It isn't the season yet for chicken. I say, Mr. Duff," he shouted, "it isn't the chicken season, you know."

Just as he called there was on all sides a great whirring of wings. A dozen chicken flew up from under Duff's feet. Bang! Bang! went his gun.

"Say! what the devil do you mean calling like that at a man when he's on the point of shooting!" His face was black with anger. He looked ready to strike. Barry looked at him steadily.

"But, I was just reminding you that it was not the season for chicken yet," he said in the tone of a man prepared to reason the matter.

"Besides it isn't--well, you know, it isn't quite sporting to shoot out of season." Barry's manner was as if dealing with a fractious child.

"He's quite right, Stewart," said his friend Sandy, who was hugely enjoying himself. "You know well enough you are down on the farmer chaps who go pot hunting before season. It's rotten sport, you know."

"Oh, hell! Will you shut up! Can't I shoot over my dog when he points? I'm not out shooting. If I want to give my dog a little experience an odd bird or two don't matter. Besides, what the--"

"Oh, come on, Stewart! Get in, and get a move on! You know you are in the wrong. But I thought you were a better shot than that," added Sandy.

"Better shot!" he stormed. "Who could shoot with a--a--a--" he was feeling round helplessly for a properly effective word,--"with a fellow yelling at you?" he concluded lamely. "I'd have had a brace of them if it hadn't been for him."

"Saved me from the law! What the devil do you mean, anyway?" said Stewart. "If I want to pick up a bird who's to hinder me? And what's the law got to do with it?"

"Well, you know, I'm not sure but it might have been my duty to report you. I feel that all who break the game laws should be reported. It is the only way to stop the lawless destruction of the game."

"Quite right, too," said Sandy gravely, but with a twinkle in his blue eye. "They ought to be reported. I have no use for those poachers."

Duff made no reply. His rage and disgust, mingled with the sense of his being in the wrong, held him silent. No man in the whole country was harder upon the game poachers than he, but to be held up in his action and to be threatened with the law by this young preacher, whom he rather despised anyway, seemed to paralyse his mental activities. It did not help his self-control that he was aware that his friend was having his fun of him.

At this moment, fortunately for the harmony of the party, their attention was arrested by the appearance of a motor car driven at a furious rate along the trail, and which almost before they were aware came honking upon them. With a wild lurch the bronchos hurled themselves from the trail, upsetting the buckboard and spilling its load.

Duff, cumbered with his gun, which he had reloaded, allowed one of the reins to drop from his hands and the team went plunging about in a circle, but Barry, the first to get to his feet, rushed to the rescue, snatched the reins and held on till he had dragged the plunging bronchos to a halt.

The rage which had been boiling in Duff, and which with difficulty had been held within bounds, suddenly burst all bonds of control. With a fierce oath he picked up the gun which he had thrown aside in his struggle with the horses, and levelled it at the speeding motor car.

"My God, Stewart! Are you clean crazy!" said Bayne, gripping him by the arm. "Do you know what you are doing? You are not fit to carry a gun!"

"I'd have bust his blanked tires for him, anyway!" blustered Duff, though his face and voice showed that he had received a shock.

"Yes, and you might have been a murderer by this time, and heading for the pen, but for Dunbar here. You owe him more than you can ever pay, you blanked fool!"

Duff made no reply, but busied himself with his horses. Nor did he speak again till everything was in readiness for the road.

"I am very glad to have met you," said Bayne, shaking hands warmly with him. "You have done us both a great service. He is my friend, you know."

Bayne looked at his young, earnest face for a moment or two as if studying him, then said with a curious smile, "No, I don't believe you could have helped it." And with that he passed into the store.

"My name is Bayne, from Red Pine, Mr. Innes. I am interested in knowing what sort of a chap your preacher is. He comes out to our section, but I never met him till to-day."

"Yes, and snore better, too, Mac," said Hayes. "But I don't blame you. Most of them go to sleep anyway. That's the kind of preacher he is."

"Well, for one thing, he's always buttin' in," volunteered a square-built military looking man standing near. "If he'd stick to his gospel it wouldn't be so bad, but he's always pokin' his nose into everything."

"But he's no that bad," said Innes again, "and as for buttin' in, McFettridge, and preachin' the gospel, I doubt the country is a good deal the better for the buttin' in that him and his likes have done this past year. And besides, the bairns all like him."

"Well, that's not a bad sign, Mr. Innes," said Sandy Bayne, "and I'm not sure that I don't like him myself. But I guess he butts in, all right."

In the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of Worldly Wisdom." Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a time.