# Cherokee Trails/Chapter 14

When night overtook him Tom did not know whether he had crossed the border, there being no mark to indicate where Kansas left off and the Indian Territory began. He was of the opinion that he must have crossed, as the change in the driven herd of horses indicated that the thieves had slowed their gait. For an hour or more, six or seven miles, the trail had shown this slacking up in the flight. Once over the line, where a Kansas officer would look no more formidable than the next man, the thieves' concern was at rest.
Weary from his long ride to Drumwell and back, and this day's chase, Tom made camp when it grew too dark to follow the trail with certainty. It appeared likely the thieves had not split the herd, confident in the security of their refuge. The old cattle trail continued on toward the southwest, approaching the crossing of a stream which he took to be the Salt Fork of the Arkansas, there being no other considerable river near the border. This was still several miles ahead of him; before dark he had seen its wooded course from high ground.
Here at his camping-place the country had changed from treeless prairie to a park-like plain set with crabapple, red-haw and other small trees, with an elm here and there, dark and tent-like, the thick foliage still green and untouched by frost. The country had the appearance ​of timber border; his caution must increase with his danger from that point onward.
Tom withdrew from the trail a safe distance along a little branch, seeking a brush-clump to screen his fire. He found a suitable spot without much seeking, picketed his horse, kindled a fire and prepared a generous supper. He felt he had it coming to him, being his first meal in considerably more than twenty-four hours. He had not felt the need of breakfast before leaving the ranch; Mrs. Ellison had been so disturbed she had not thought of it.
He had brought only one blanket, and that from Waco's bunk, aiming to keep his packet down to the very lowest weight and dimensions. That, the saddle blanket and Waco's slicker, made ample protection for a man whose bed had been the ground many an uncounted night in a land not half so kind as this. In spite of his bone-weariness he broke his sleep to get up and move his picketed horse to give it room to satisfy its appetite.
Morning broke with a threat of rain. An hour's ride beyond his camp Tom came to the river. Here the thieves had stopped for supper and to graze the horses. He judged there were at least five men in the party and, as they had not slept there, he concluded they could not have been a great distance from the end of their journey. At this point they had left the old cattle trail, taking one that followed the course of the river in an easterly direction.
This was a wagon road, an old one; its former course, brush-grown, rutted, could be traced in places where trees had blown down and blocked it, a new one made simply by driving through the brush in the line of least ​resistance. It was worm-crooked and muddy from recent rain, no wider than the tread of a wagon, hub-marks and axle-grease on the bushes along the edges.
Here a considerable forest of elm, hackberry, maple, walnut and other deciduous trees common to that latitude, skirted the river, grapevines and greenbrier clambering among them. It was a dank, nettle-grown, brush-choked piece of woods, parts of it impenetrable as a tropical jungle. Here and there came a break, where pawpaw bushes dropped their pale yellow leaves. The ground under them was covered with their insipid fruit, upon which raccoons and oppossums had fed, the souring remnants setting up a smell like a brewery.
This way the thieves had gone, sometime the evening past. Simpson followed the muddy road with caution that made his gait slow. He did not care to run headlong into the band, or anybody at all in that stretch of depressing woods, where it was so still and deserted not even a bluejay hopped from branch to branch ahead of him to herald his passing.
He had not encountered a habitation since early yesterday afternoon. That was the little sod hut of some misanthrope, Simpson thought, who had withdrawn himself as far from the interference of his kind as he could and yet not quite cut the line of communication which the most ardent hermit usually finds indispensable.
Here in the Nation he knew he was riding through the leased lands. He had seen many cattle, spread wide over the beautiful grazing lands, as cattle feed when left to themselves. Sometimes he passed a cow and calf, apparently alone in an expanse of pasture that would have ​sustained ten thousand; often a lone grazer, which lifted its head with a start, trotted away and stopped to stare again. But not a man; not a rider galloping over those flattened, grass-topped hills. Which, he thought, was just as well.
Simpson followed this road until noon before coming to the river crossing toward which it had been leading all the way. More than once he had ridden aside into the thick brush on a false alarm of somebody coming, somebody following; twice he had drawn aside at the unmistakable approach of wagons, both coming from the east. One of these was driven by a negro, his Indian wife on the seat beside him, a green-bordered red blanket over her greasy head; the other by a slinking white man who carried two live hogs as passengers. Where he could have got them, where he might be taking them in that empty country, was a thing to speculate upon but not to answer.
After crossing the river the country rose abruptly, the woods thinned out to straggling small trees which in turn blended down to bushes and open prairie. The road continued its easterly course over this grassy plateau, the tracks of the stolen horses still plainly marked in it, although it was hard and dry here, and the animals had spread to the bordering sod.
About two miles beyond the ford, on the bank of a little stream such as is called a spring branch in that country, Simpson came upon a house. The hoofprints which he had been following so hotly told him it was the end of his trail.
There were trees in the dip which made the nook for this homestead, and a line of them following the brook in ​its course to the river. The house stood back from the road a matter of three hundred yards, open prairie on all sides of it except the west, where the brook ran through a grove of walnut trees, its little valley broadening as it extended toward the river. Where the stream crossed the road which Simpson had followed to that unexpected, peaceful appearing end, there was quite a strip of timber and brush. Tom rode into that shelter, where he stopped and studied the ranch-house and its surroundings.
He had approached undiscovered, apparently. From his screen of brushwood he could see a dog walking lazily about the yard, and a file of ducks marching down to the stream. There was nobody about; not a sound disturbed the air of desertion that surrounded the place. There was not even a horse in sight, although the tracks of the stolen band, which must have numbered twenty, swerved from the road at the brookside and entered the premises.
A spacious corral near the house, with hay-covered sheds along its farther end, made it plain that animals in considerable number were kept there. Naturally the horses would be grazing at that time of day under a herder's care. They would be returned to the corral at evening.
The house was a two-part structure, built of logs, roofed with clapboards rived from native timber. It was built in the style common to the mountain districts of Arkansas, Missouri and other parts of the south, the kitchen on one end, living quarters on the other, a roofed passage, called a dog-run, between.
Back of the corral there was a larger log building, evi​dently a barn. There was considerable hay in stacks, and stalks of corn littering the corral, the first evidence of cultivation Simpson had seen since leaving the Kansas homesteads, although there were no fields in sight. It was a shiftless, crude, comfortless place, not even what Simpson had expected of Wade Harrison, wide-famed as he was.
But that was the place; there was no doubt of it. The horses had been driven straight to that corral; their tracks could be followed plainly to the bars. They must have put them right through, with perhaps a few hours' rest and grazing at the place where Simpson had come across their cold fire and coffee grounds. The rascals probably were asleep in the house that minute.
Hogs were feeding on the nuts and pawpaws in the strip of woods where Simpson was concealed. He could hear them mouthing and grunting, and felt apprehensive of a stampede among the wild creatures which might betray his presence. Cautiously he withdrew farther from the road, assured as he proceeded that the wood was not frequented by anything but the livestock of the place and that no habitation was concealed among the trees. Here he might wait undiscovered, rest his horse and himself after the trying ride through the timber, and set himself for the business ahead of him.
Fire being out of the question, he made his midday meal on a can of beans, while his horse browsed, in a little glade where bluegrass grew, with only the bridle removed. Simpson kept within jump of the horse, ready for any emergency.
As he regaled himself on the cold comfort of beans, ​Simpson began to be troubled by the doubts which always attend a blind situation. Perhaps the horses were not at that place; maybe they had only been driven there for a feed and a few hours' rest, and were far along the road by this time. There was no good skulking about in the brush waiting for night to confirm this probability. An immediate investigation was the thing in order, unless he was to trifle away his indefinite chance of doing anything at all.
He considered riding up to the house, boldly, putting the notion aside for lack of any plausible excuse or inquiry except the honest one, which it would be foolish and fatal to reveal. If he was to accomplish anything single-handed, far away from any possibility of help, it must be done by stealth and strategy, fortified by such foolhardiness—he would not dignify it as courage, something he would have been the last to admit was his—as he could muster in a pinch. Luck would be a big factor in his program, even to getting out of that country with his life.
He returned to the road, leading the horse, hitched the animal to a sapling where it would be out of sight but near enough to reach if needed in a hurry, pushed through the fringing thicket of hazel bushes, studying the premises again. If he could be certain the horses were at pasture somewhere near, he could proceed to lay some rough sort of plans.
The rain that had been threatening all morning was beginning to fall in a melancholy drizzle. A mistiness was in the air, making distances obscure. It was a poor day for scouting, yet it had its advantages. A man could creep through the bushes, the fallen leaves and twigs damp and ​noiseless under foot. Unwise as it was to go very far from his horse, perilous as it might turn out to be to go poking his nose into the mysteries of that place, he decided to risk an investigation up the little stream for a look at that big log stable, or whatever it was, behind the corral.
He darted across the road from fringe to fringe of hazel brush. The rain was making a somnolent soft little patter on the leaves, so comfortable to hear when one is under shelter, no neglected duty to disturb his conscience. Not so comfortable when a man goes bent among the bushes, the drippings from broad hickory and pawpaw leaves spilling down his neck.
Less than half way to the stable the brush ended. Here were walnut trees, slim and tall, and a few bur oaks, thick-boled, broad-spreading, the ground under them trampled by hogs and strewn with the acorn shells from their feasting.
Simpson stopped, hesitating in the edge of the bushes. From where he had advanced he could not see as much as from the road. The same sleepy quietude prevailed around the place. Up the stream a distance he heard the friendly chatter of the ducks. That was all. He determined to risk it. After all, he might be spying on a fairly innocent place, with no more mystery or danger about it than the ordinary homestead. Only the horses had gone in there. What he wanted to know was, had they come out?
He could not believe Wade Harrison had made this place headquarters for his stolen horses when alive, granted that he was dead, or that his successors in the ​business would do so now. It probably was the homestead of some Indian of a little more consequence than the general run of them, who was in with the thieves. On reflection it seemed absurd to entertain the thought of finding the stolen horses there. This place was within too easy reach of the Kansas officers and cowmen to offer refuge for a gang of horsethieves.
This revised view of it emboldened Simpson to proceed with his investigation of the place. If he should meet anybody he would say he was looking for the spring, not caring to drink out of the brook which was a succession of hog wallows. For all that he did not proceed carelessly. The trees were thick enough to partly screen his movements from anybody in the house. He cut nimbly from one to the other of the largest, pausing frequently to listen for the dog, or a movement of any kind that would tell he had been discovered.
Nothing happened; all remained as sleepily silent as before. Assured, he went openly to the fence surrounding the stable and looked over. It was a long building, higher than it appeared from the road, built so for stor ing hay in the loft, its gables of warped sawmill planks. Along the side of the building were several openings about two feet square for pitching out refuse. This lay banked along the logs as it had been thrown out, steaming in the cool moist air.
There were horses inside; Simpson could hear them champing hay and stamping to dislodge the flies, which always are excessively pertinacious in that country during rainy autumn weather, taking their last banquets before the frost knocks them stiff. Since he had come so far, he ​would mount the last barrier for a look at the animals.
It was then late afternoon, the day obscure as early evening. Simpson mounted the high rail fence, which was overrun by Virginia creeper, rich autumnal tints enlivening here and there its dark-green leaves. Just in front of him one of the square windows stood open, its wooden shutter fastened back by a leather ear. He stood on the heap of steaming offal along the stable wall and peered within.
The stable, spacious beyond even its outward indica tion, was gloomy and dark. A row of stalls ran down each side, a wide aisle in the center. No fewer than twenty horses were stabled there, and the one nearest the window through which Simpson peered bore on its left shoulder the Block E brand.
So this was the place; he was looking at the stolen horses, left there by those audacious rascals to eat their hay and recuperate after the hard drive without even a guard. But the thieves must be surrounded by many vigilant friends to carry them the alarm of every suspicious stranger's approach. Simpson marvelled how he had passed through that long stretch of woods without being seen. That he had accomplished it he was certain, otherwise he never could have come in sight of that place unchallenged.
Now he was there, and the question was, what next? Before he could answer that there was the sudden break of running horses toward the front of the place. More horses were arriving, and Simpson found himself in a very likely situation for being caught. He looked around for a place to hide, the nearest thing offering conceal​ment being a haystack at the corner of the corral, to reach which he would have to climb the fence and run two or three rods across the open.
That was a long chance; the first of the driven horses were entering the corral. Simpson had a glimpse of someone riding after them as he squeezed tight against the wall. To get back meant certain discovery; to go through that hole into the stable presented complications which he might never be resourceful enough to overcome. But it is the common inclination of humanity to grasp the unseen hope rather than face the present disaster. Simpson, being in no particular a superman, elected to risk the hole.