The Mystery of Lost River Canyon

THE Mystery of Lost River Canyon.

PROLOGUE.

One hot, sultry August afternoon, a weary horse, whose heaving sides and foam-flecked breast bore evidence to the fact that he had been driven long and rapidly, was reined up in front of a little station on the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad. His rider—a tall, broad-shouldered, full-bearded man—was dressed in clothing which seems to have been chosen by the ranchmen of the country of which we write, as a badge distinctive of their calling—a red shirt, wide-brimmed hat, corduroy trousers and heavy top boots.

He was armed and equipped as the law of the plains directs—a heavy Winchester rifle being slung at his back, and a brace of navy revolvers buckled about his waist.

Before his horse had fairly come to a stand-still, he swung himself from the saddle, hurried into the telegraph office, drew a couple of blanks toward him, and, after writing a hasty dispatch upon each, handed them to the operator.

The latter read them with great deliberation, counted the words they contained, and no one would have imagined, by looking at his impassive face, that he had made himself master of a piece of news that was destined to work the most remarkable changes in the lives of some of the characters who are to appear in our story.

Having received pay for the dispatches, the operator seated himself at his instrument and sent them off, while the horseman sprang into his saddle and rode slowly away.

Let us go with these telegrams and see where they went, and how they were received by those to whom they were addressed. They both sped over the same wire until they reached the city of Chicago, and then one turned off and made its way to the little town of Bolton, in Indiana, where we will leave it for the present, while we follow the other, which finally reached its journey’s end in a thriving village in one of our Eastern States.

The operator at the latter place, when he heard his “call” sounded, seated himself at his table with his usual nonchalance; but, before he had written half a dozen words, a surprised and grieved expression settled on his face, and, when the dispatch had been copied, he leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply.

“By George!” he exclaimed aloud.

“What’s the matter?” asked a messenger boy, who stood at his elbow.

“That’s telling,” was the answer. “If you are ever able to run a ticker of your own, you will know that it is against the law to reveal the contents of the messages you receive. Take this up to Mrs. Butler’s, and be quick about it. It is for Bob Howard—all the way from Arizona.”

“By George!” repeated the operator, when the messenger boy was out of hearing. “It’s too bad. It will pretty near kill Bob—and this is his last day at school, and he is going to start for the West to-morrow morning. He’ll go to a desolate home, poor fellow! If I had the money he is heir to, I wouldn’t spend many more hours at this table, I bet you!”

The messenger boy broke into a run as soon as he was out of the office, and presently mounted the steps leading to the door of a modest house in a quiet street.

His pull at the bell was answered by a motherly-looking old lady, who took the message, signed her own name to the receipt book, because she didn’t believe that Mr. Howard had yet come from the academy, and then went up-stairs and laid the dispatch upon the centre-table in a nicely furnished room, propping it up against a book, so that it would be sure to meet the eye of the person for whom it was intended as soon as he entered at the door.

He came a few minutes later—a tall, dark youth, with coal-black hair and eyes, and a countenance so striking, that, when you had taken one look at it, you always wanted to turn and take another. You knew that he was a young gentleman as soon as you put your eyes on him.

He was a favorite with the girls because of his handsome face and figure; with his teachers, because of his studious habits and strict regard for the rules of school; and with his fellows, because of his kindness of heart and his proficiency in every athletic sport.

Frail as he looked, he took the lead of them all. No academy boy had ever taken his measure on the campus, and as for sparring and fencing, his superiority was acknowledged by everybody. He was a good oarsman, a lightning pitcher, a terrific batter, and dead sure of making a double shot on quails or snipe as often as the opportunity was offered. Many a poor student had his money helped out of a tight place; and, although Bob never let one hand know what the other hand did, those who were the recipients of his favors could always tell where they came from.

The companion who followed at his heels was a different sort of boy altogether. He was short and thick-set, and as homely as he was good-natured, and his whole appearance indicated that he had not been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

His name was George Edwards, and he was janitor of the academy. His lot had always been a hard one—how hard you will see as our story progresses—and George could not remember the time when he had not been dependent upon his own exertions for his daily bread.

Up to the hour he made the acquaintance of Bob Howard, his life had been one fierce and constant struggle with poverty; but, since that memorable afternoon, his pathway had been made smoother for him.

Having introduced our heroes, whom we hope you will like, we will describe the circumstances under which they first met, and then we will go back to the telegrams, which bear an important part in our story.

CHAPTER I. GEORGE AND HIS UNCLE.

“Well, George, it is either that or the poorhouse.”

“There’s where I differ with you, Uncle Ruben.”

“You are an ungrateful scamp. Here I am, offerin’ you a good home—”

“I know you offer me shelter, food and clothing, but you can’t give me a home. I shall never have one again, now that my mother is dead.”

“And your father in prison for stealin’.”

“You might have spared me that, Uncle Ruben. I know he is in prison, and there is no need that you and everybody else should constantly remind me of it. I am in no way to blame for what he did.”

“Mebbe you hain’t. But can’t you see how it’s a hurtin’ of you? Who is there about here that would be willin’ to hire the son of a thief?”

“I don’t care to talk to you now, Uncle Ruben. Leave me alone for a day or two, and then I will tell you what I have decided to do.”

“Might as well decide now as any time. I reckon you know that this house an’ everything what’s into it belongs to me, don’t you? I didn’t say nothing to your mother about it when she was alive, ’cause she was my brother’s wife, and I didn’t want to pester her; but now—”

“I know you didn’t say anything about the mortgage, but I notice that you always demanded the interest the moment it was due. You took it, too, when you knew that my mother didn’t have money enough in the house to buy a sack of flour.”

“Well, it was my due, an’ I wanted it.”

George Edwards uttered an exclamation of disgust, and, leaning his elbows on the railing that surrounded the porch, he rested his chin on his hands, and gazed off towards the distant hills; while Uncle Ruben paced up and down in front of the house, thrashing his cowhide boots with his riding whip, and taking a survey of the buildings and grounds that were soon to come into his possession by virtue of the mortgage he held upon them.

He was a very mean man, this Ruben Edwards—the meanest man in all that country, so everybody said—and you would have known it the minute you looked at him. He loved money, and not unfrequently resorted to questionable means in order to get it.

He owned several farms in the neighborhood, and was now congratulating himself on having secured another. True, it was not much of an acquisition. All he saw, as he looked about him, were a few acres of stony, unproductive land, a small, unpainted dwelling-house, and a few outbuildings, all of which showed signs of decay, in spite of the efforts the industrious George had made to keep them in repair.

It was no wonder that George did not want to talk to his uncle on this particular morning. He did not believe that there was a boy in the world who was so utterly miserable as he was, or who had so little to live for.

He had always been looked down on and shunned by the boys of his acquaintance on account of the conduct of his father, who was one of the village vagabonds; and, since the latter had been shut up in the penitentiary for breaking into a store and stealing money that he was too lazy to work for, poor George had had a hard time of it. No one in that village would have anything to do with him.

He left school and tried to find something to do in order to support his mother, who was an invalid; but nobody needed his services.