Bruvver Jims Baby | Page 3

in solitary melancholy hither and thither in
their search for food.
But the sun was still wheeling, like a brazen disk, on the rim of the hills,
when something occurred. A tall, lanky man, something over forty
years of age, as thin as a hammer and dusty as the road itself--a man
with a beard and a long, gray, drooping mustache, and with drooping
clothes--a man selected by shiftlessness to be its sign and mark--a

miner in boots and overalls and great slouch hat--came tramping down
a trail of the mountain. He was holding in his dusty arms a yellowish
pup, that squirmed and wriggled and tried to lap his face, and
comported himself in pup-wise antics, till his master was presently
obliged to put him down in self-defence.
The pup knew his duty, as to racing about, bumping into bushes,
snorting in places where game might abide, and thumping everything
he touched with his super-active tail. Almost immediately he scented
mysteries in plenty, for Indian ponies and hunters had left a fine, large
assortment of trails in the sand, that no wise pup could consent to
ignore.
With yelps of gladness and appreciation, the pup went awkwardly
knocking through the brush, and presently halted--bracing abruptly
with his clumsy paws--amazed and confounded by the sight of a
frightened little red-man, sitting with his rabbits in the sand.
For a second the dog was voiceless. Then he let out a bark that made
things jump, especially the tiny man and himself.
"Here, come here, Tintoretto," drawlingly called the man from the trail.
"Come back here, you young tenderfoot."
But Tintoretto answered that he wouldn't. He also said, in the language
of puppy barks, that important discoveries demanded not only his but
his master's attention where he was, forthwith.
There was nothing else for it; the mountain was obliged to come to
Mohammed--or the man to the pup. Then the miner, no less than
Tintoretto, was astonished.
To ward off the barking, the red little hunter had raised his arm across
his face, but his big brown eyes were visible above his hand, and their
childish seriousness appealed to the man at once.
"Well, cut my diamonds if it ain't a kid!" drawled he. "Injun pappoose,
or I'm an elk! Young feller, where'd you come from, hey? What in

mischief do you think you're doin' here?"
The tiny "Injun" made no reply. Tintoretto tried some puppy addresses.
He gave a little growl of friendship, and, clambering over rabbits and
all, began to lick the helpless child on the face and hands with
unmistakable cordiality. One of the rabbits fell and rolled over.
Tintoretto bounded backward in consternation, only to gather his
courage almost instantly upon him and bark with lusty defiance.
"Shut up, you anermated disturbance," commanded his owner, mildly.
"You're enough to scare the hair off an elephant," and, squatting in
front of the wondering child, he looked at him pleasantly. "What you
up to, young feller, sittin' here by yourself?" he inquired. "Scared?
Needn't be scared of brother Jim, I reckon. Say, you 'ain't been left here
for good? I saw the gang of Injuns, clean across the country, from up
on the ridge. It must be the last of their drives. That it? And you got
left?"
The little chap looked up at him seriously and winked his big, brown
eyes, but he shut his tiny mouth perhaps a trifle tighter than before. As
a matter of fact, the miner expected some such stoical silence.
The pup, for his part, was making advances of friendship towards the
motionless rabbits.
"Wal, say, Piute," added Jim, after scanning the country with his kindly
eyes, "I reckon you'd better go home with me to Borealis. The Injuns
wouldn't look to find you now, and you can't go on settin' here a waitin'
for pudding and gravy to pass up the road for dinner. What do you say?
Want to come with me and ride on the outside seat to Borealis?"
Considerably to the man's amazement the youngster nodded a timid
affirmative.
"By honky, Tintoretto, I'll bet he savvies English as well as you," said
Jim. "All right, Borealis or bust! I reckon a man who travels twenty
miles to git him a pup, and comes back home with you and this here
young Piute, is as good as elected to office. Injun, what's your name?"

The tiny man apparently had nothing to impart by way of an answer.
"'Ain't got any, maybe," commented Jim. "What's the matter with me
namin' you, hey? Suppose I call you Aborigineezer? All in favor, ay!
Contrary minded? Carried unanimously and the motion prevails."
The child, for some unaccountable reason, seemed appalled.
"We can't freight all them rabbits," decided the miner. "And, Tintoretto,
you are way-billed to do some walkin'."