Hearts Desire | Page 8

know, and so get all the closeter and
easier to him, or are we goin' to throw him down cold, and leave him

dissatisfied the first day he strikes our camp? It shore looks to me like
there ain't but one way to answer that."
"And that there one answer," said Tom Osby, "is now a-reclinin' in the
snowbank up on Carrizy."
"I reckon that's so, all right, Mac," assented Curly, reflectively. "I could
have et one more oyster or so, but I can quit if it's for the good of the
country."
"Well, I'm feeling just a little bit guilty as it is," said Dan Anderson,
who was in fairly good post-prandial condition. "Here we are, eating
like lords. Now who knows what that poor family from Kansas is
having for Christmas dinner? Mac, I appoint you a committee of one to
see how they are getting along. Pass the hat. Make it about ten for the
cake. Come on, now, let's find out about these folks."
Curly was distinctly unhappy all the time McKinney was away. It was
half an hour before the latter came back, but the look on his face
betrayed him. Dan Anderson made him confess that he still had the ten
dollars in his pocket, that he had been afraid to knock at the door, and
that he had learned nothing whatever of the household from Kansas.
McKinney admitted that his nerve had failed, and that he dared not
knock, but he said that he had summoned courage enough to look in at
the window. The family had either finished its dinner long ago, had not
eaten, or did not intend to eat at all. "The table looked some shy,"
declared McKinney. Beyond this he was incoherent, distressed, and
plainly nervous. Silence fell upon the entire group, and for some time
each man in Dan Andersen's salon was wrapped in thought. Perhaps
each one cast a furtive look from the tail of his eye at his neighbors. Of
all present, Curly seemed the happiest. "Didn't see the Littlest Girl?" he
asked. McKinney shook his head.
"Well, I guess I'll be gettin' up to see about my wagon before long,"
said Tom Osby, rising and knocking his pipe upon his boot-heel. "I've
got a few cans of stuff up here in my load that I don't really need. In the
mornin', you know--well, so long, boys."

"I heard that Jim Peterson killed a deer the other day," suggested Dan
Anderson. "I believe I'll just step over and see if I can't get a quarter of
venison for those folks."
"Shore," said McKinney, "I'll go along. No, I won't; I'll take a pasear
acrost the street and have a look at a little stuff I brung up from the
ranch yesterday."
"No Christmas," said Curly, staring ahead of himself into the tobacco
smoke, and indulging in a rare soliloquy. "No Christmas dinner--and
this here is in Ameriky!"
It is difficult to tell just how it occurred; but presently, had any one of
us turned to look about him, he must have found himself alone. The
moonlight streamed brilliantly over the long street of Heart's Desire. . . .
The scarred sides of old Carrizo looked so close that one might almost
have touched them with one's hand. . . .
It was about three miles from the street, up over the foot-hills, along the
fiat cañon which debouched below the spring where lay the snowbank.
There were different routes which one could take. . . .
I knew the place very well from Curly's description, and found it easy
to follow up the trickle of water which came down the cañon from the
spring. Having found the spring, it was easy to locate the spot in the
snowbank where the oysters had been cached. I was not conscious of
tarrying upon the way, yet, even so, there had been feet more swift than
mine. As I came up to the spring, I heard voices and saw two forms
sitting at the edge of the snowbank.
"Here's another one!" called out Dan Anderson as I appeared; and
forthwith they broke into peals of unrighteous laughter. "You're a little
slow; you're number three; Mac was first."
"I thought I heard an elk as I came up," said I, as I sat down beside the
others and tried to look unconcerned, although plainly out of breath.
"Elk!" snorted McKinney, as he arose and walked to the other edge of

the snowbank. "Here's your elk tracks." McKinney, foreman on
Carrizoso, was an old range-rider, and he was right. Here was the track,
plunging through the snow, and here was a deep hole where an elk, or
something, had digged hurriedly, deeply, and, as it proved, effectively.
"Elk!" said McKinney again, savagely. "Damn that