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Multivariate Statistical
Process Control with
Industrial Applications
ASA-SIAM Series on
Statistics and Applied Probability
The ASA-SIAM Series on Statistics and Applied Probability is published
jointly by the American Statistical Association and the Society for Industrial and
Applied Mathematics. The series consists of a broad spectrum of books on topics
in statistics and applied probability. The purpose of the series is to provide
inexpensive, quality publications of interest to the intersecting membership of the
two societies.
Editorial Board
Robert N. Rodriguez Gary C. McDonald
SAS Institute, Inc., Editor-in-Chief General Motors R&D Center
John C. Young
McNeese State University
Lake Charles, Louisiana
InControl Technologies, Inc.
Houston, Texas
S1HJTL ASA
Society for Industrial and Applied Mathematics American Statistical Association
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Alexandria, Virginia
Copyright © 2002 by the American Statistical Association and the Society for Industrial
and Applied Mathematics.
10987654321
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be
reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any manner without the written permission of the
publisher. For information, write to the Society for Industrial and Applied Mathematics,
3600 University City Science Center, Philadelphia, PA 19104-2688.
is a registered trademark.
The materials on the CD-ROM are for demonstration only and expire after 90 days
of use. These materials are subject to the same copyright restrictions as hardcopy
publications. No warranties, expressed or implied, are made by the publisher, authors,
and their employers that the materials contained on the CD-ROM are free of error.
You are responsible for reading, understanding, and adhering to the licensing terms
and conditions for each software program contained on the CD-ROM. By using this
CD-ROM, you agree not to hold any vendor or SIAM responsible, or liable, for any
problems that arise from use of a vendor's software.
^&o ^Saimen an& Qj^am
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Contents
Preface xi
vii
viii Contents
Bibliography 253
Index 259
Preface
Industry continually faces many challenges. Chief among these is the requirement to
improve product quality while lowering production costs. In response to this need,
much effort has been given to finding new technological tools. One particularly im-
portant development has been the advances made in multivariate statistical process
control (SPC). Although univariate control procedures are widely used in industry
and are likely to be part of a basic industrial training program, they are inadequate
when used to control processes that are inherently multivariate. What is needed
is a methodology that allows one to monitor the relationships existing among and
between the process variables. The T2 statistic provides such a procedure.
Unfortunately, the area of multivariate SPC can be confusing and complicated
for the practitioner who is unfamiliar with multivariate statistical techniques. Lim-
ited help comes from journal articles on the subject, as they usually include only
theoretical developments and a limited number of data examples. Thus, the prac-
titioner is not well prepared to face the problems encountered when applying a
multivariate procedure to a real process situation. These problems are further
compounded by the lack of adequate computer software to do the required complex
computations.
The motivation for this book came from facing these problems in our data con-
sulting and finding only a limited array of solutions. We soon decided that there
was a strong need for an applied text on the practical development and application
of multivariate control techniques. We also felt that limiting discussions to strate-
gies based on Hotelling's T2 statistic would be of most benefit to practitioners. In
accomplishing this goal, we decided to minimize the theoretical results associated
with the T2 statistic, as well as the distributional properties that describe its be-
havior. These results can be found in the many excellent texts that exist on the
theory of multivariate analysis and in the numerous published papers pertaining
to multivariate SPC. Instead, our major intent is to present to the practitioner
a modern and comprehensive overview on how to establish and operate an ap-
plied multivariate control procedure based on our conceptual view of Hotelling's
T2 statistic.
The intended audience for this book are professionals or students involved with
multivariate quality control. We have assumed the reader is knowledgeable about
univariate statistical estimation and control procedures (such as Shewhart charts)
and is familiar with certain probability functions, such as the normal, chi-square,
t, and F distributions. Some exposure to regression analysis also would be helpful.
xi
xii Preface
Robert L. Mason
John C. Young
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Chapter 1
Introduction to the T2 Statistic
1
2 Chapter 1. Introduction to the T2 Statistic
retrieved from the data net for both a good-run time period and the upset time
period. He states that the operations staff is demanding that the source of the
problem be identified. You immediately empathize with them. Having lived
through your share of unit upsets, you know no one associated with the unit
will be happy until production is restored and the problem is resolved. There
is an entire megabyte of data stored on the diskette, and you must decide how
to analyze it to solve this problem.
What are your options ? You import the data file to your favorite spread-
sheet and observe that there are 10,000 observations on 35 variables. These
variables include characteristics of the feedstock, as well as observations on
the process, production, and quality variables. The electronic data collector
has definitely done its job.
You remember a previous upset condition on the unit that was caused by a
significant change in the feedstock. Could this be the problem? You scan the
10,000 observations, but there are too many numbers and variables to see any
patterns. You cannot decipher anything.
The thought strikes you that a picture might be worth 1,000 observations.
Thus, you begin constructing graphs of the observations on each variable plot-
ted against time. Is this the answer? Changes in the observations on a variable
should be evident in its time-sequence graph. With 35 variables and 10,000
observations, this may involve a considerable time investment, but it should
be worthwhile. You readily recall that your college statistics professor used to
emphasize that graphical procedures were an excellent technique for gaining
data insight.
You initially construct graphs of the feedstock characteristics. Success
eludes you, however, and nothing is noted in the examination of these plots.
All the input components are consistent over the entire data set, including
over both the prior good-run period and the upset period. From this analysis,
you conclude that the problem must be associated with the 35 process vari-
ables. However, the new advanced process control (APC) system was working
well when you left the unit. The multivariable system keeps all operational
variables within their prescribed operational range. If a variable exceeded the
range, an alarm would have signaled this and the operator would have taken
corrective action. How could the problem be associated with the process when
all the variables are within their operational ranges?
Having no other options, you decide to go ahead and examine the process
variables. You recall from working with the control engineers in the instal-
lation of the APC system that they had been concerned with how the process
variables vary together. They had emphasized studying and understanding the
correlation structure of these variables, and they had noted that the variables
did not move independently of one another, but as a group. You decide to
examine scatter plots of the variables as well as time-sequence plots. Again,
you recall the emphasis placed on graphical techniques by that old statistics
professor. What was his name?
You begin the laborious task, soon realizing the enormity of the job. From
experience, it is easy to identify the most important control variables and the
1.1. Introduction 3
1.1 Introduction
The problem confronting the young engineer in the above situation is common in
industry. Many dollars have been invested in electronic data collectors because
of the realization that the answer to most industrial problems is contained in the
observations. More money has been spent on multivariable control or APC sys-
tems. These units are developed and installed to ensure the containment of process
variables within prescribed operational ranges. They do an excellent job in reduc-
ing overall system variation, as they restrict the operational range of the variables.
However, an APC system does not guarantee that a process will satisfy a set of
baseline conditions, and it cannot be used to determine causes of system upsets.
As our young engineer will soon realize, a multivariate SPC procedure is needed
to work in unison with the electronic data collector and the APC system. Such a
4 Chapter 1. Introduction to the T2 Statistic
Group Number
procedure will signal process upsets and, in many cases, can be used to pinpoint
precursors of the upset condition before control is lost. When signals are identified,
the procedure allows for the decomposition of the signal in terms of the variables
that contributed to it. Such a system is the main subject of this book.
addition, many of the variables follow certain mathematical relationships and form
a highly correlated set.
The correlation among the variables of a' multivariate system may be due to
either association or causation. Correlation due to association in a production unit
often occurs because of the effects of some unobservable variable. For example, the
blades of a gas or steam turbine will become contaminated (dirty) from use over
time. Although the accumulation of dirt is not measurable, megawatt production
will show a negative correlation with the length of time from the last cleaning of
the turbine. The correlation between megawatt production and length of time since
last cleaning is one of association.
An example of a correlation due to causation is the relationship between tem-
perature and pressure since an increase in the temperature will produce a pressure
change. Such correlation inhibits examining each variable by univariate procedures
unless we take into account the influence of the other variable.
Multivariate process control is a methodology, based on control charts, that is
used to monitor the stability of a multivariate process. Stability is achieved when
the means, variances, and covariances of the process variables remain stable over
rational subgroups of the observations.
The analysis involved in the development of multivariate control procedures
requires one to examine the variables relative to the relationships that exist among
them. To understand how this is done, consider the following example. Suppose
we are analyzing data consisting of four sets of temperature and pressure readings.
The coordinates of the points are given as
where the first coordinate value is the temperature and the second value is the
pressure. These four data points, as well as the mean point of (175, 75), are plotted
in the scatter plot given in Figure 1.3. There also is a line fitted through the points
and two circles of varying sizes about the mean point.
If the mean point is considered to be typical of the sample data, one form of
analysis consists of calculating the distance each point is from the mean point. The
distance, say D, between any two points, (ai, a^) and (&i, 62)5 is given by the
formula
From these calculations, it is seen that points 1 and 4 are located an equal distance
from the mean point on a circle centered at the mean point and having a radius of
3.16. Similarly, points 2 and 3 are located at an equal distance from the mean but
on a larger circle with a radius of 7.07.
1.3. Multivariate Control Procedures 7
There are two major criticisms of this analysis. First, the variation in the
two variables has been completely ignored. From Figure 1.3, it appears that the
temperature readings contain more variation than the pressure readings, but this
could be due to the difference in scale between the two variables. However, in this
particular case the temperature readings do contain more variation.
The second criticism of this analysis is that the covariation between tempera-
ture and pressure has been ignored. It is generally expected that as temperature
increases, the pressure will increase. The straight line given in Figure 1.3 depicts
this relationship. Observe that as the temperature increases along the horizontal
axis, the corresponding value of the pressure increases along the vertical axis. This
poses an interesting question. Can a measure of the distance between two points
be devised that accounts for the presence of a linear relationship between the corre-
sponding variables and the difference in the variation of the variables? The answer
is yes; however, the distance is statistical rather than Euclidean and is not as easy
to compute.
To calculate statistical distance (SD), a measure of the correlation between the
variables of interest must be obtained. This is generally expressed in terms of the
covariance between the variables, as covariance provides a measure of how variables
vary together. For our example data, the sample covariance between temperature
and pressure, denoted as S]2, is computed using the formula
is given by
The sample variances for temperature and pressure as determined from the example
data are 22.67 and 17.33, respectively.
Using the value of the covariance, and the values of the sample variances and the
sample means of the variables, the squared statistical distance, (SD)2, is computed
using the formula
From this analysis it is concluded that our four data points are the same statistical
distance from the mean point. This result is illustrated graphically in Figure 1.4.
All four points satisfy the equation of the ellipse superimposed on the plot.
From a visual perspective, this result appears to be unreasonable. It is obvious
that points 1 and 4 are closer to the mean point in Euclidean distance than points
2 and 3. However, when the differences in the variation of the variables and the
1.4. Characteristics of a Multivariate Control Procedure 9
relationships between the variables are considered, the statistical distances are the
same. The multivariate control procedures presented in this book are developed
using methods based on the above concept of statistical distance.
Although many different multivariate control procedures exist, it is our belief that
a control procedure built on the T2 statistic possesses all the above characteristics.
Like many multivariate charting statistics, the T2 is a univariate statistic. This is
true regardless of the number of process variables used in computing it. However,
because of its similarity to a univariate Shewhart chart, the T2 control chart is
sometimes referred to as a multivariate Shewart chart. This relationship to com-
mon univariate charting procedures facilitates the understanding of this charting
method.
Signal interpretation requires a procedure for isolating the contribution of each
variable and/or a particular group of variables. As with univariate control, out-
of-control situations can be attributed to individual variables being outside their
allowable operational range; e.g., the temperature is too high. A second cause of
a multivariate signal may be attributed to a fouled relationship between two or
more variables; e.g., the pressure is not where it should be for a given temperature
reading.
The signal interpretation procedure covered in this text is capable of separating
a T2 value into independent components. One type of component determines the
contribution of the individual variables to a signaling observation, while the other
components check the relationships among groups of variables. This procedure is
global in nature and not isolated to a particular data set or type of industry.
The T2 statistic is one of the more flexible multivariate statistics. It gives ex-
cellent performance when used to monitor independent observations from a steady-
state continuous process. It also can be based on either a single observation or the
mean of a subgroup of n observations. Minor adjustments in the statistic and its
distribution allow the movement from one form to the other.
Many industrial processes produce observations containing a time dependency.
For example, process units with a decaying cycle often produce observations that
can be modeled by some type of time-series function. The T2 statistic can be readily
adapted to these situations and can be used to produce a time-adjusted statistic.
The T2 statistic also is applicable to situations where the time correlation behaves
as a step function.
We have experienced no problems in applying the T2 statistic to batch or semi-
batch processes with targets specified or unspecified. In the case of target specifica-
tion, the T2 statistic measures the statistical distance the observed value is from the
specified target. In cases where rework is possible, such as blending, components
of the T2 decomposition can be used in determining the blending process.
Sensitivity to small process change is achieved with univariate control proce-
dures, such as Shewhart charts, through applications of zonal charts with run rules.
Small, consistent process changes in a T2 chart can be detected by using certain
components of the decomposition of a T2 statistic. This is achieved by monitoring
the residual error inherent to these terms. The detection of small process shifts is
so important that a whole chapter of the text is devoted to this procedure.
An added benefit of the T2 charting procedure is the potential to do on-line
experimentation that can lead to local optimization. Because of the demand of
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
They came in sight of the abandoned mining camp the next
moment. The interior of the sheet-iron shack which the Indian youth
had occupied was afire.
Smoke and yellow flames poured from the door of the shack. It was
evident that the boy’s outfit was being destroyed.
Dig tossed Poke’s reins to Chet to hold and ran over to the burning
structure. The sides of the shack were red-hot, and he could not get
near to it; but with a long pole he managed to poke something out
of the fire.
“Hi!” he yelled, trying to hold this object up by its bail. “Nobody
home but the beans—and they’re canned! Heap big Injun live on
white man’s grub just the same!”
“Stop, Dig!” commanded Chet. “Suppose John should hear you? And
he did us a mighty big favour.”
“Oh, he isn’t around,” declared Dig. “Think he’d let his outfit burn up
like this?”
“Who did burn it?” asked Mr. Havens. “Looks odd to me. Of course
the Indian boy wouldn’t destroy his own property.”
“I wonder where John went to when he left us so suddenly in that
mine,” Chet remarked.
“He flew the coop, and that’s a fact!” said Dig. “But I couldn’t guess
where he went to. It’s pretty safe to say he did not come this way.”
“That’s so,” agreed Chet. “But I would like to see him; wouldn’t you,
Father?”
“Most certainly,” said Mr. Havens. “Perhaps we might do something
to help the lad. If he has lost his outfit—”
“That white man!” exclaimed Chet, interrupting.
“Hel-lo!” said Mr. Havens.
“What white man?” asked Dig, in surprise. “What are you dreaming
about, Chet?”
“No dream,” said Chet, shaking his head. “But we saw a stranger
talking with John Peep right here; you remember, Dig?”
“Sure. What of it?”
“Maybe he was the fellow who caved in the Crayton shaft. And
maybe he didn’t want anybody to know about that old bears’ den
entrance to the mine. See?”
“Just as clear as mud,” grunted Digby, shaking his head, while Mr.
Havens chuckled.
“Maybe you think it’s far-fetched, Father,” Chet urged earnestly. “But
perhaps because the Indian showed us the way to get you and the
boys out, that white man came back here and burned his stuff.”
“That’s a good deal of villainy,” said his father, ruffling the boy’s hair
with a kindly hand. “You’ve a great imagination, Chetwood.”
So Chet felt rather abashed and said nothing further about the
mystery as they went on toward the Silent Sue. He was convinced,
however, that John Peep had got into trouble because of the help he
had given them.
It was evident as they progressed that Mr. Havens was experiencing
considerable pain from his bruised foot; yet he was troubled more
because of his inability to get to Grub Stake than because of the
injury itself. Chet wanted to say something right then; but he
scarcely dared.
They came to the Silent Sue shaft at length. The five men running
ahead had announced the joyful rescue, and the crowd that was
gathered around the shaft welcomed Mr. Havens and the boys with
loud cheers. A man started immediately for the town to inform Mrs.
Havens of the rescue.
One man stood apart from the others. His face was ugly and morose
of expression. He was a bewhiskered man. His beard had once been
red, but was faded and tobacco stained.
His arms were so long that when he stood with his shoulders sagged
a little, as they were habitually, his great, ham-like hands hung to his
knees. His face and arms were tanned to the colour of old leather,
the skin looking quite as tough.
Altogether, Tony Traddles was not a pleasant person to look at. Now
he was particularly offensive in appearance. He was alone while the
crowd of miners and their wives were congratulating each other
upon the escape of the entombed men from the mine.
Tony Traddles looked as though he would not have cared if Mr.
Havens and the other five men had stayed down in the shaft forever.
CHAPTER VIII—CHET SHOOTS A HAWK
Mr. Fordham had run forward to meet his partner and shake him by
the hand.
“I’m mighty glad to see you, Jim!” he said, assisting Chet’s father to
the ground. “The boys say you’ve hurt your foot. Is it bad?”
“Bad enough,” answered Mr. Havens, with much disgust, and
standing like a stork on one leg until they brought him a stool to sit
upon. “It’s going to keep me from going over to Grub Stake,
Fordham, as I had planned.”
“Well, well! I’m glad you’re out of that hole. That’s enough to be
joyful over. We’ll worry about the other thing later. What about that
scamp yonder?” and Mr. Fordham swung about to point at the ugly,
gorilla-like man who stood at one side, sucking on the stem of an old
pipe.
“Tony Traddles? Let him go—and let him go quick, Fordham,” replied
Mr. Havens earnestly, with a glance around at the rough men.
“I was tempted to have him jailed. A constable was up here,” said
Mr. Fordham.
“No use. We couldn’t prove anything more than malicious mischief—
and we’d have hard work to do that, I think. But it’s only by the
mercy of Heaven that he hasn’t the lives of six men upon his
conscience.”
“Ha!” snapped Dig’s father. “That fellow has no conscience.” Then he
raised his voice: “Come here, you Tony!”
The ugly-looking man shuffled over to his employers. He looked
sheepish as well as ugly, and still pulled furiously at his old pipe.
“Well, Tony, you played us a bad trick that time,” said Mr. Havens
quietly. “You knew when I asked you if the timbering was secure
that you had not wedged your cross-beams. Your neglect came near
costing six lives. We cannot have you work on the Silent Sue any
longer. Mr. Fordham will give you your time and money, and you can
go.”
“I dunno what I done,” growled Tony, in a much injured tone. “I
couldn’t help the shaft caving in.”
“You know it wouldn’t have caved if you had done your work
properly,” said Mr. Fordham sharply.
“I could have forgiven you for that,” Mr. Havens hastened to say.
“But your falsehood led us to suppose that it was safe to fire the
shot. That is your crime, Tony—the misstatement of fact.”
“Aw, yer both down on me,” growled Tony Traddles. “I might as well
take my time and beat it.”
“You might just as well, I think,” said Dig’s father grimly. “Here’s your
money. Count it. Sign here in the book. Now be off—for your own
good; for let me tell you the men who worked with you don’t feel
very kindly toward you.”
“Aw, let ’em blow! I ain’t afraid of ’em,” growled Tony Traddles.
The boys had been watching Tony and the mine owners, but from
such a distance that they could not hear the conversation. They
heard the men talking, however—the men who had been thrown out
of work for several days because of Tony’s carelessness.
Chet, after listening to several threats, looked about for Dig. The
latter had gone to Rafe Peters’ shack for a sandwich. Young Fordham
had already expressed himself as being “half starved.” He was not
used to going without his dinner.
“Hi, Dig!” shouted Chet, beckoning to his chum.
“Now, don’t ask for the core,” mumbled Dig, with his mouth full.
“There ain’t going to be no core. Ask Rafe for a hand-out yourself.”
“Don’t think everybody is as greedy as you are,” said Chet. “Come
on here. I believe there is going to be trouble.”
He said the last in a low voice after his chum had reached his side.
“What d’you mean—trouble?” queried Dig.
“The men are dreadfully sore on Tony Traddles.”
“And why shouldn’t they be?” demanded Digby. “He’d ought to be
tarred and feathered.”
“Sh! Some of them might hear you.”
“And I should worry about that!” cried Dig slangily.
“There’s something going to happen to Tony, I do believe,”
whispered Chet. “You see, your father’s paid him. Now he’s going up
the hill. And a bunch of the men hurried over behind that hill a few
minutes ago.”
“Whew!” exclaimed Dig. “Maybe—maybe they’re going to lynch him!”
“Don’t talk so foolishly!” cried Chet. “These miners aren’t murderers,
I should hope! Why—there’s Bob Fane, and Jeffers, and Ike Pilsbury.
Why, we know most all of them! They’re decent men and wouldn’t
kill even Tony.”
Dig chuckled. “Guess you think he deserves it, whatever they do to
him?” he suggested.
“Come on! Father and your father are busy. I want to see if they do
get Tony Traddles,” Chet said eagerly, and set off for the grove of
trees directly above the mouth of the mine that had been caved in
because of Tony Traddles’ negligence.
The men had melted away from about the shaft. Even Rafe Peters,
the foreman, had disappeared. Mr. Havens and Mr. Fordham were
busy at the corrugated iron shack that served as an office. The
women and children had taken their recovered husbands and fathers
home; it was only the younger and more irresponsible element of
the Silent Sue workmen that had gone over the hill.
And in their tracks sped the two chums. Chet and Dig were both
eager and curious. They saw the bewhiskered and long-armed Tony
Traddles staggering along the rough trail over the hill, occasionally
turning to shake his hairy fist in the direction of the mine. He was
probably muttering threats, too, against the mine and its owners.
The boys had taken a shorter path over the rise; besides, they were
running. But the miners who had been associated with Tony had got
over the hill first. They were hidden in the chaparral on the edge of
the trail Tony was following, and when he came down the slope they
sprang out and surrounded him.
Chet and Digby could not hear what was said at first; but Tony
began to show fight almost at once. He was no coward.
The miners rushed in on him, tied his wrists together, and amid a
great deal of noise and some laughter, hoisted him upon a fence-rail
which four of them carried on their shoulders. His ankles were then
triced together. His helplessness made him ridiculous.
“Oh, bully!” cried Dig, in delight. “That serves him right!”
“I wish they hadn’t done it,” said Chet. “They’re going to ride him
over the mountain.”
“Sure they are! And they are going to warn him not to come back,”
said Dig. “Serves him just right, I tell you.”
“But suppose he does something to get square?” breathed Chet,
much excited as well as anxious.
“Pooh! what could he do?” returned Dig. “He may as well go out and
hunt for that big buffalo he was telling us about. I don’t believe Tony
Traddles would know a buffalo if he met one in his soup.”
“What a ridiculous thing, Dig,” said Chet. “And you needn’t scorn the
fact of the existence of the buffaloes. Rafe told us about them, too.
And maybe we’ll get a shot at them.”
“How?” demanded Digby, fired by the thought.
But at that instant something happened to the miner who was being
ridden on a rail, which attracted their attention again.
“Hi! see that somersault!” cried Dig.
“Oh, dear me!” Chet exclaimed. “That was enough to break his
neck.”
“And serve him just right!” quoth the savage Dig.
Tony Traddles, in struggling to free himself, and while raised on the
shoulders of the men, had turned completely over and now hung
head-down, his long hair brushing the uneven ground over which he
was being carried.
The rough men laughed and cheered; nor did they offer at first to
help the discharged miner. Tony struggled and fought and finally was
helped to a sitting posture again.
The boys were too far away to hear all the prisoner said—and that
was fortunate. But now they ran forward and, above the cheers and
laughter of the gang, heard Tony Traddles mouth out his threats:
“I’ll git square with you all! I’ll make ye all eat dirt fur this day’s
work! Mark me, I’ll do fur ye all yet!”
The men hooted and laughed at him, and Tony’s rage grew.
“I’ll make ye all sing another tune. An’ I’ll git square with old
Havens. Mark what I say now! I’ll git square.”
The rough men went on with their prisoner, tossing the rail up and
down and making his seat as uncomfortable as possible. Chet
stopped in the trail and halted Digby by clinging to his coat-sleeve.
“Let’s go back,” he said. “I wish the men hadn’t angered Tony so.
Perhaps he will do my father some harm.”
“A fat chance he’d have of doing that!” exclaimed the other boy.
“He’ll never dare come back here again. You tell your father. He’ll be
on the lookout for Tony.”
“No, no! He’s got enough to worry him. I wouldn’t say anything now
that would disturb his mind. And say, Dig, that reminds me! Let’s try
and get ’em to let us go to Grub Stake.”
“Huh? To Grub Stake?” cried Digby, in surprise. “What for? Though
I’d go quick enough if it were only to buy a lemon.”
“There’s a bigger reason than that,” laughed Chet Havens. “Didn’t
you hear my father say something about getting some papers signed
by a man named Morrisy who lives at Grub Stake?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, it’s important. Father can’t go because his foot’s hurt. Let’s
tease to go. And on the trail we might run across that big buffalo.”
“By the last hoptoad that was chased out of Ireland!” ejaculated the
excited Dig, falling back upon his favourite exclamation, “that would
be great. But you do the askin’, Chet. My father will think I’ve got
something up my sleeve if I undertake even to hint at such a trip.”
Chet agreed to this; but it was not a propitious moment to broach
the subject when the chums returned to the shaft of the Silent Sue.
Mr. Havens had just been helped upon Chet’s horse again, and was
going home. He expected to remain at home for some weeks, and
the business of the Silent Sue was to be under Mr. Fordham’s sole
direction.
The partners in the mine knew nothing about the trouble Tony
Traddles had gotten into with the rougher element of the miners.
Nor did the boys say anything about what they had seen.
The next morning Digby was over bright and early at the Havens
house to see if Chet had spoken to his father regarding the Grub
Stake trip. He found his chum in the lot beside the corral, where his
mother had a flock of hens, with his small, twenty-two calibre rifle.
It was the little weapon Chet had learned to shoot with.
“What are you doin’ with that little play gun?” chuckled Digby.
“Shootin’ horseflies?”
“Just you keep still a minute,” whispered Chet, who was crouching
behind a shed wall. “Stoop down here. Keep still. I’m watching a
hawk.”
“You can’t shoot even a chicken hawk with that thing!” exclaimed
Dig, scorning a weapon of small calibre.
“You wait and see,” commanded Chet. “There he comes now!”
Far off against the sky appeared a dark spot, circling ever lower and
lower. The great hawk swept down in narrowing circles, its objective
point plainly being Mrs. Havens’ hen-run.
“Why don’t you get a gun?” growled Dig, for although he well knew
Chet’s skill with firearms, he thought the tiny rifle a foolish thing.
Just then a voice behind the boys put in a word:
“I reckon your friend is going to wait for the hawk to drop on the
chicken before he shoots. ’Twon’t carry more’n ten feet, will it?”
Chet turned rather angrily. He did not mind his chum’s joking; but
this stranger’s scornful remark angered him.
And he was a stranger. Chet thought he had never seen the man
before. The fellow wore a big black sombrero, but was not in
working clothes. His boots were polished, he wore a ruffled shirt and
silk tie and cuffs.
His countenance was not pleasant, for his eyes were too sharp and
too near together. He had his brown moustache curled and there
was an odour of strong perfume about him, as though he had just
been to the barber’s.
“You wait a couple of minutes,” Chet Havens said sharply, “and you’ll
see how far this gun carries. Providing that hawk isn’t frightened
away,” he added, glancing upward.
The stranger leaning on the fence immediately became very still. Dig
began to grow nervous—for his friend’s sake.
“Say! let me run in and get you a proper gun, Chet,” he whispered.
“I know you can kill that hawk up there; but not with that dinky little
thing.”
“The first hawk I ever killed I brought down with this rifle,” muttered
Chet. “And I bet I haven’t forgotten the trick— That way!”
As the hawk suddenly swooped, Chet stepped clear of the shed. He
didn’t even bring the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, but fired from
the hip.
There was a shriek from the bird, and with several feathers flying,
the hawk sank fluttering to the ground. Digby Fordham uttered a cry
of admiration.
“I declare!” exclaimed the stranger, as the boys ran across the lot to
secure the still fluttering bird. “I never saw a prettier shot—and him
only a kid!”
He was gone when Chet and Dig returned with the dead hawk
between them, each carrying the bird by an outstretched pinion.
“You gave me the laugh, Chet!” declared Dig, with enthusiasm. “I
didn’t think you could do it. Hello! where’s that fellow gone?”
The stranger had disappeared. Just then, however, Mr. Fordham rode
down from the mine and the boys hurried out to show Chet’s prize
and hear what news he had brought to Mr. Havens, who sat upon
the front porch of the house with his wounded foot on a stool.
“Everything all right at the Silent Sue, Fordham?” Mr. Havens was
asking. “I’m glad to know you’re on the job. But I’m worrying about
that other matter.”
“About those deeds to the Crayton claim?” queried Mr. Fordham.
“Yes,” said his partner. “The doctor says I shall be laid up here for
three weeks. A lot may happen before I can get hold of John
Morrisy. If we had somebody to send—”
Dig had been prodding Chet eagerly, and whispering in his ear. The
other boy dropped the hawk and drew nearer.
“Can’t Digby and I go to Grub Stake for you, Father?” he asked,
timidly. “It’s vacation, we’ve got good horses and know how to shoot
if we need to, and I’ve heard you say yourself the trail is plain. Can’t
we go?”
Mr. Havens and Mr. Fordham looked at each other. To tell the truth,
the gentlemen had discussed this very thing, only the boys did not
know it.
“Your boy is all right,” drawled Mr. Fordham, “but mine is such a
scatter-brained youngster—”
“Oh, Dad! I promise not to scatter my brains—nor let them be
scattered—if you say I can go with Chet to Grub Stake,” cried Dig,
utterly unable to keep silent another minute, so great was his
eagerness.
CHAPTER IX—ON THE TRAIL TO GRUB STAKE
But it was not all settled in a minute. The affair was of a much too
serious nature. First of all the boys were sent away while the fathers
privately discussed the journey and what had to be done when once
the messengers reached the town of Grub Stake, which was fully
two hundred miles from Silver Run.
Banished from the front of the house, Chet and Digby had an eager
discussion of their own, while the former carefully skinned the hawk
so that it could be mounted.
“Oh, Chet! we’ll have just the Jim-dandiest kind of a time if they only
let us go,” sighed Digby Fordham.
“And we’ll get a shot at those buffaloes,” said Chet, his eyes
sparkling.
“Oh, shucks, boy!” drawled Dig. “You’ve that big buffalo on the
brain. I still declare that I don’t believe there is any such animal.”
“Just you take your heavy rifle along. It takes a sizable bullet to kill a
bull buffalo. I am going to borrow father’s big rifle.”
“Say! they haven’t said we could go yet!”
“Who else can go?” returned Chet. “If you’ll only promise to behave
—”
“Whew! how about you?”
“Well,” answered Chet, “they didn’t speak about me being scatter-
brained,” and he laughed.
“I vow,” said Dig, “by all the hoptoads that were chased out of
Ireland—”
“John Peep rather doubted if the toads went with the other reptilian
species,” chuckled Chet.
“Oh—hum! Well, anyway, I vow not to let my brains be scattered,”
Dig remarked. Then he added complainingly, “I think my father is
rather hard on me.”
“By the way,” Chet said suddenly, “queer why John Peep left town to
live up there in that shack.”
“Give it up,” said Dig. “Perhaps he wanted to be ‘heap big Injun.’ I
reckon all redskins are queer.”
“Now, Dig! Don’t you talk that way. John made us hustle in school to
keep anywhere near him in classes. You know it.”
“Well! Tell us the news. Never mind about ancient history.”
“I found out that John wanted to play on the school nine. You know,
the club’s going to play all this summer; some of the storekeepers
have put up money to back it. And the captain and coach wouldn’t
let John play.”
“What? By the last hoptoad that was chased out of Ireland! I’ve seen
him pitch—”
“I know. He’s a great little pitcher,” Chet interrupted. “He’s a
southpaw and he can puzzle most of ’em, you bet! It’s a mean
shame. John Peep got sore and left town. Maybe he was sick of his
family, too. They’re a lazy and dirty lot.”
“Whew! Can’t blame him for that,” said Dig. “They’re an unhealthy
looking crowd. Old Scarface whitewashes fences for a nickel an hour
and they live in a dirty hole of a cabin down in Hardpan.”
“John always looked neat and clean when he came to school.”
“But see how he looked up there in the woods—like a reg’lar
savage!” sniffed Dig. “Not half dressed—and living in that old shack.
I wonder what he’s doing now that his outfit is burned.”
“I believe that stranger burned it—the one we saw talking with him
when we rode by,” declared Chet earnestly. “And I never saw that
man before— Oh, Dig!” and he suddenly made an excited grab for
his chum’s arm.
“Well, goodness! Don’t scare a fellow to death. What’s got you
now?” demanded Digby Fordham.
“That fellow is the one we saw with the lame Indian.”
“What fellow?”
“The man who butted in just now when I shot the hawk.”
“Whew! you don’t mean it?” said Dig.
“Yes, I do. I remember him now. I remember his hat. Now, who can
he be?”
“Give it up! Hello! there’s father calling for us. Oh, Chet! I hope they
let us go to Grub Stake,” said Dig, longingly.
Serious as was the errand to Grub Stake, Mr. Havens and Mr.
Fordham were inclined to trust their sons more than ever before,
and that because of one uncontrovertible fact.
When nobody else had thought of any way to rescue the entombed
miners from the Silent Sue, Chet and Dig had remembered about the
old Crayton shaft and the possibility of getting into the closed mine
through its old tunnel.
“It showed a surprising amount of thought and initiative for boys of
their age,” Mr. Havens said. “I don’t know whether it was my boy or
yours who took the lead, Fordham. At any rate, the two in
conjunction hunted us out.”
“Something is due the boys,” admitted Mr. Fordham, “and the trip
will be a great lark for them.”
“It’s more than a lark. I shall impress that on Chet’s mind,” said his
partner, shaking his head.
“Oh! your boy’s got a head on him,” agreed Mr. Fordham.
“I hope so,” concluded Mr. Havens, and it was then the chums were
recalled to receive permission and instructions for the journey over
the trail to Grub Stake.
Neither Chet nor Digby gave vent to any exuberance of joy at the
prospect—not then, at least. They listened earnestly to what they
were told, and then at once set about the preparations they had to
make, for they were to start the very next morning.
Dig, who never went anywhere on foot if he could help it, brought
his black horse, Poke, and all his outfit over to the Havens corral that
evening. The boys proposed to camp in the open, there being no
ranches at that date along the Grub Stake trail. So they were obliged
to pack a good deal of camp equipment.
“We’d better hire one of Mexican Joe’s burros,” said Dig, “and then
we can take our piano and your mother’s sewing machine and
washtubs.”
“Don’t begin to kick,” Chet said calmly. “You’ll be glad to have all this
stuff before we’re half-way to Grub Stake.”
“And we’ll sound like a procession of junkmen when we pass by,”
grumbled his chum. “Talk about shooting game! Why, unless all the
game is stone deaf, we won’t get within shot of a crippled mine rat!”
“No. I’ll pack this outfit so the tinware won’t rattle,” laughed Chet.
“And we couldn’t take a burro. That would delay us. We want to be
comfortable when we camp. After a long day’s ride, you’ll be the first
one to call for a square meal.”
“Say! how long’s the trip going to take?” demanded Dig. “We’ll be
back by the time school opens next fall, I suppose?”
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” responded Chet. “It’s a rough trail, and if we
go right on with no delays, but for sleep and meals, it will take all of
three days.”
“Whew! my Poke can do it in a day and a half.”
“But why rush like that?” cried Chet. “We want some fun, don’t we?
This is no horse-race, I hope! And father says we can take our own
time—especially coming back.”
“I know what you’re thinking about, Chet Havens!” cried his chum, in
response. “You’re thinking of those buffaloes.”
“Well! and if I am?”
“Huh!” grunted Dig. “If any buffaloes ever see us with all this
tinware and stuff aboard they’ll hike out for the north and never stop
running till they reach the Arctic Circle!”
Chet only laughed at him. He showed Dig how to pack the cooking
utensils and the like in his blanket-roll so that they would not rattle.
When they set out right after breakfast the next morning the
compass of their outfit did not seem so great as Digby supposed it
would.
Chet carried in an inside pocket of his woollen outing shirt the deeds
in duplicate which he was to get Mr. John Morrisy to sign. The old
prospector who had never sold his interest in the Crayton claim was
a queer, illiterate character, well known about Grub Stake.
Mr. Havens had instructed Chet just how to proceed with the
business in hand, and the boy was quite sure he could do it all
without a hitch. The money to be passed in exchange for Mr.
Morrisy’s signature was already on deposit with the Wells Fargo
Company in Grub Stake; and of course Chet had no expectation of
losing the deeds.
The horses were in fine fettle, and so were the boys, when they
rode out of Silver Run. Each of the chums carried a heavy rifle slung
over his shoulder and under his arm, the muzzle pointing down his
bootleg. And you may be sure they were not loaded so that the
hammer rested on a cartridge. The boys had long before been
instructed as to the danger of that piece of carelessness.
They were well supplied with loaded shells, for the day of the
muzzle-loading rifles, with the cumbersome shot-pouch and powder-
horn was long past. Their revolvers were loaded, too, and each boy
wore a keen hunting-knife in a sheath.
They expected to kill most of the meat they ate on the trail. Canned
beans did not greatly appeal to the trail boys; especially when they
were sure there must be plenty of small game along the way.
They aimed to take a trail which wound through the hills to the west
of the town and would lead then by mid-afternoon to the open
plains. In going this way they passed through the poor suburb
known as Hardpan. It was here the family of Lame John, the
Cheyenne Indian, lived.
On one side of a littered lane were grouped a dozen lean cabins,
with barren yards divided from one another by pickets, eked out
with hogshead hoops, gate-bars of old wagons, hoopskirts, and like
rubbish. Here and there an attempt had been made by some of the
Hardpan women or girls to make flowers grow; but they were sorry
gardens.
Across the lane the ground was open—part of it a dump for the
refuse of the neighborhood. As Chet and Dig rode into the head of
the driveway they heard a shrill chorus of cheers, intermixed with
which was the “E-i! e-i! e-i!” of the Indian yell and the “Yee-ee-yip!”
favoured by the cowpunchers of the ranges.
“Something doing, boy!” cried Dig to his chum, at once interested.
“Must be that attack on Silver Run by the Comanches you were
telling your Cousin Tom about,” said Chet, chuckling.
“I reckon it’s a Cheyenne attack. Whew! Look at that! It’s a ball
game.”
“No,” said Chet. “It’s Lame John pitching to his grandfather. Oh, look
at that! Old Scarface has put on a glove and John is trying out his
fast one.”
“Whew!” blew Dig. “I must take a peep at that. Some little old
southpaw, John is. He can show ’em!”
It was a spectacle worth watching. The inhabitants of Hardpan were
out in force to see it.
There was a level diamond and surrounding “garden” cleared in the
open lot. The spectators were gathered back of the foul lines, and
among them were the boys who had recently been playing.
Now John Peep had stepped into the box to throw a few exhibition
balls. The governors of the school nine had refused to accept the
lame Indian boy as one of their pitching staff; to the Hardpanites he
was, nevertheless, something of a hero. He was winding up for
another drive just as Chet and Dig appeared, and the spectators
held their breath.
Behind the plate stood a gnarled, lean old man in ragged, fringed
leggings and a miner’s cast-off shirt, with moccasins on his feet. His
hair was as white as could be; but he was as alert and his eyes as
bright as though he were a young man. Old Scarface, once a brave
of the Cheyenne tribe, was over eighty years of age. When the ball
smashed into his glove he threw it back to his grandson as smartly
as any boy. His muscles were still supple and his eye true.
Although Chet and Dig did not know it, ball playing was not a
strange sport to the American Indian. Most of the tribes were
playing ball before Columbus discovered the New World. Only, of
course, the rules of the game were entirely different from those of
our own baseball.
“Say! the old man is great,” declared Chet, reining in Hero.
“But look at that ball whiz!” murmured Dig, as John Peep sent in
another one. “Why didn’t the other fellows want him to play on the
team? He could have somebody run for him; and he can bat, even if
he has a short leg.”
“Just didn’t want him, that’s all,” said Chet. “But I notice that our
nine has got licked in almost every game they’ve played. And it’s
particularly weak in the pitching—Say! look at that one, will you?”
“E-i! e-i! e-i!”
“Yee-ee-yip! Yee-ee-yip!”
The crowd went wild. A boy had stepped up to the plate and tried to
hit the ball. John Peep’s curve seemed fairly to dodge the bat as the
boy swung at it.
Old Scarface—as serious as a deacon—slammed the ball back to his
grandson and squatted for the next one. The old Indian took the
matter as seriously as he took everything else in life. Nobody ever
saw the ancient Cheyenne “crack a smile,” as Dig expressed it.
Two more balls followed the first in quick succession, and the batter
tossed away his stick in disgust. He had only fanned.
Then John saw the two boys on horseback, and he tossed the ball to
another boy. Scarface stepped out of the catcher’s place and stood
with folded arms beside the field. It was beneath his dignity to play
ball save when his grandson wanted to pitch. Nobody in Hardpan but
Scarface could “hold” the young Cheyenne’s delivery.
The Indian lad ran over to the horsepath and asked Chet:
“You going to take trail?”
“Yes,” said Chet. “We’re hiking for Grub Stake.”
“A-i! So I hear. You’re not going near that shaft I showed you—that
way into the old mine?”
“No,” replied Chet. “We’re not taking that trail.”
“All right. You much better keep away from there,” said John, and
turned away.
“Say!” cried the too curious Digby, “who burned out your shack,
John?”
“Never you mind,” returned the Indian lad, and he showed anger in
the expression of his face at this reminder of his loss. “I’ll get my
pay for that.”
“I hope you do,” commented Chet soothingly, and preparing to ride
on. “We’re all very thankful to you, John. My father would like to see
you, if you’ll go up to the house. You know, he’s laid up for a while.”
John Peep looked back at him sharply. “Ugh!” he grunted, in what
Dig called his “red Indian style.” “Ugh! Your father give Indian cast-
off suit of clothes. Your mother give Indian meal of victuals. Then
shake hand, say, ‘Good-bye, Injun!’ I don’t need those things, Chet
Havens.”
“Well! by all the hoptoads that were chased out of Ireland!”
murmured Dig.
But Chet said calmly: “That isn’t the way my parents will treat you,
John.”
The Indian boy was still flushed and angry. “That isn’t even my
name!” he exclaimed. “‘John’ is white boy’s name. They make me
give it when I go to school. But it does not belong to me.”
“Say! what is your name?” demanded Dig, his curiosity getting the
better of his courtesy.
“Never you mind,” responded the Indian boy sharply, and turned
away again.
But Chet called after him: “Do think better of it, and go to see my
father.” Then he let Hero have his impatient head and he and his
chum went on their way.
That which rose out of this advice of Chet’s to the Indian lad could
scarcely be foreseen by either of the boys; but it was of much
importance.
The chums rode on, soon leaving the last of the scattered cabins
behind them. They met timber wagons from the hills, but nothing
else for the next hour. The lumbermen looked curiously at the
chums’ weapons, for their guns were too heavy for an ordinary
hunting expedition.
“What you goin’ out after?” one timberman drawled. “Grizzlies—or is
there an Injun uprisin’?”
“We expect to bag a brace of humming-birds,” Dig told him gravely.
“Have you seen any?”
“No; but I’ve heard ’em snorin’, sound asleep, in the tops of some of
them cottonwoods,” was the reply. “But, say! They ain’t been a trace
of Ole Ephraim in these hills, since Methuselah was put inter
trousers.” “Ole Ephraim” was the nickname the old-time hunters and
trappers gave to the grizzly bear.
“Nor I didn’t know of any redskins goin’ on the warpath. Has
Blacksnake’s band of dog soldiers broke loose from the reservation?”
pursued the man cheerfully. “Say! ’tain’t old Scarface and his fam’bly
begun crow-hoppin’—has they? If so, we sure will have a tumble
mas-a-cree.”
“That’s all right,” laughed Chet. “We’re going to bag all the game in
the territory—you see.”
“Leave me a mess o’ Molly Cottontails,” said the timberman, driving
on. “I ain’t had a rabbit with fixin’s yet this season.”
“And I shouldn’t think he’d want it,” grumbled Dig, as they left the
man behind. “Who wants to eat rabbit this time o’ year? I told you
how it would be if we took these heavy guns, Chet. Folks will rig us
to death. Huh! Buffalo! A fat chance!”
Chet only laughed at him. He had a deal more faith in the existence
of the buffalo band that had been reported as roaming upon the
plains, across which the trail to Grub Stake lay.
CHAPTER X—MR. HAVENS HAS A VISITOR
Mr. Havens and his wife had bidden the chums good-bye when they
rode away from the house on the outskirts of Silver Run and
watched them as they cantered off down the road. Chet’s mother
secretly feared something might befall her boy on his mission to
Grub Stake; while Mr. Havens was only proud that he had a son
whom he could trust in such an emergency.
When Mrs. Havens had retired to the house her husband sank
comfortably back into his chair and relit his pipe. It was then he
espied the stranger in the black slouch hat coming up the street.
Silver Run was not such a large town that the owner of the Silent
Sue mine did not know most of its regular inhabitants, either by
name or sight. This fellow he never remembered having seen before.
Nevertheless, when the man came opposite to the Havens’ house,
he crossed the road and came up to the porch on which Chet’s
father sat. He was a broadly smiling man; but his eyes did not smile.
They were little and sharp and altogether too near each other to be
honest.
“I reckon you’re Mr. Havens?” queried the stranger, putting out a
hand that Mr. Havens did not appear to see. He was busy re-tamping
his pipe just then.
“Yes, sir,” said the mine owner. “I’m the man.”
“You’ve got an interest in a mine up yonder?” said the stranger,
nodding toward the mountain that loomed above the town.
“Another man and I own the Silent Sue,” was the serious answer.
“Shucks! I don’t mean that,” exclaimed the visitor jovially.
“What do you mean, then?” asked Mr. Havens. “Not that it’s any of
my business.”
“Sure it’s your business,” cried the stranger. “I’ve come here to talk
to you about it.”
“About what?”
“The Crayton claim.”
“Oh!” Mr. Havens eyed him silently and with much curiosity. But he
had learned to wait and let the other man do the talking. That was
why he was so successful in business.
“Yes,” said the stranger. “I got hold of a share of the Crayton claim in
a curious way. And I’d like to own it all, Mr. Havens. I learn at the
Office of Record that you own a part. Will you sell?”
“That’s odd,” said Chet’s father slowly, and still examining the
stranger with serious gaze. “I became possessed of a share of the
claim in a curious way, too, and I want to control it. Will you sell,
Stranger?”
“No. I tell you I want to buy,” said the man, with some warmth. “I
didn’t come here to peddle my share.”
“And I didn’t ask you to come,” said Mr. Havens softly. “I don’t want
to sell.”
“I’ve come here prepared to buy,” declared the man blusteringly.
“Sorry. Looks like a deadlock to me,” said Mr. Havens coolly. “By the
way, what is your name, Stranger?”
“Steve Brant. You don’t know me,” said the man ungraciously.
“No. You’re not at home in Silver Run, I take it?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Nothing particular to bring you here but a desire to buy my interest
in the Crayton claim?”
“No,” repeated the man.
“Then,” drawled Mr. Havens, “there’s nothing to keep you from
taking the next stage-coach out. It leaves the Silver Run Hotel this
afternoon at two.”
The man who called himself Brant flushed dully under Mr. Havens’
tone of raillery; but he managed to control his temper.
“You’d better think it over, Mr. Havens. I can give you a good trade.”
“Don’t want to trade.”
“You’re not the only man I can deal with!” exclaimed Steve Brant,
looking at the mine owner slyly.
“No?”
“I can get control without buying you out.”
“That so?” returned Mr. Havens with apparent curiosity.
“Yes. You’re not the only one who owns a bit of the Crayton claim.
There may not be ten cents’ worth of pay ore left in it, but I have a
fancy to open it up.”
“Everybody ought to be free to follow his fancy,” said Mr. Havens
cheerfully.
“But you’d better take your chance while you have it offered to you.
I’ve only got to go to Grub Stake and buy,” went on the visitor.
“That so? Then shares in the old claim are offered in Grub Stake?”
queried Mr. Havens. “Never heard of that before.”
“You don’t know everything,” sneered Steve Brant “Old John
Morrisy’s never sold his share in the Crayton mine. I can get it and
that will give me control.”
“No,” said Mr. Havens, quietly shaking his head.
“Why not, I’d like to know?” demanded Steve Brant angrily.
“Because I’ve got an option on John Morrisy’s holdings—that’s why,
Stranger.”
“What d’ye mean—option?”
“Just what I say. John’s agreed to sell it to me.”
“And you tied down here with a broken foot?” cried the other. “I
know old John Morrisy. The man who can show him ready cash first
will get his share in the old diggings, sure!”
“You’re so sure,” sighed Mr. Havens. “Go ahead. You’ll learn.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Go ahead. I might as well tell you, though,” said Chet’s father, “that
I’ve got my money on the spot and the papers are on the way to
Grub Stake right now. I reckon I’ve beat you to it, Stranger.”
“Say! you don’t know me,” remarked Steve Brant threateningly. “I’m
not so easily beaten.”
“And I don’t care whether I beat you or not. I never saw you
before,” said Mr. Havens; “and I don’t care to see you again. But
take it from me: I’m going to control the old Crayton claim. It won’t
be you. Mark that now!”
The mine owner had become a little heated. Now he sank back in
his chair again, and puffed strongly on his pipe. He appeared to
have no further interest in the discussion.
Steve Brant turned away from the porch—on which he had not been
invited to sit—in plain wrath. He did not bid Mr. Havens good-bye,
nor did the latter look after Brant when he walked down the street.
Had he done so he could not have heard what the man was saying
to himself. He felt that Mr. Havens had the best of him—for the time,
at least. And it made him very angry.
“Something has ’woke him up. He must know something about that
old claim—he knows as well as I do,” muttered Steve Brant. “He’s in
communication with old John Morrisy, is he?
“By gracious! that’s where those boys were bound for when I saw
them ride away this morning. I waited for them to get away first, for
I was afraid they might have remembered my being up there with
that young redskin.
“Ha! I’d like to see what kind of papers they carry. Old John Morrisy
is a queer duck—and he can’t read. Pshaw! I ought to be able to get
the better of a couple of boys. Now, why not? That Tony knows the
trail like a book—Humph!
“If I’m not smarter than a couple of boys and a man that’s tied to his
piazza like a poodle-dog, I’ll eat my hat,” declared Steve Brant, as he
turned the nearest corner below the Havens’ house.
Mr. Brant was evidently a man who would bear watching.
CHAPTER XI—THE FIRST ADVENTURE
As Chet Havens and Digby Fordham mounted into the hills, the
country about them became wilder and quite free from signs of
man’s habitation. Even the behaviour of the birds and the squirrels
was different from their conduct nearer town.
“I could knock the head off that fellow,” Dig declared, referring to a
big grey squirrel that flirted his tail and chattered in a tall hemlock
not far off the trail, “if I only had my little rifle. This thing is a reg’lar
elephant gun, Chet,” and he shifted the heavy rifle to his other
shoulder.
“Knock the head off it, hey?” repeated Chet.
“Not a very sportsmanlike way to get a squirrel.”
“Huh! I’m not so particular how I get my game, as long as I get it. I
don’t claim to be a fancy shot like you, Chet.”
“If you were like Davy Crockett, you’d say a squirrel didn’t count in a
game score if it wasn’t shot in the eye,” chuckled Chet. “Of course,
anybody can shoot the head off a squirrel.”
“Whew!” ejaculated Dig. “Do you s’pose Davy always shot his
squirrels in the eye? When a fellow wants a mess of squirrel pot-pie
I don’t believe he is going to trouble about which end he kills his
squirrel at.”
“He was a great shot, though,” Chet remarked admiringly. “My
grandfather saw him shoot in a match once, and he said Davy
Crockett carried off every prize.”
“I suppose all the yarns they tell about him are true,” said Digby, his
eyes twinkling; “but I always liked that one about his shooting the
coon the best.”
“What is that?” asked his chum innocently.
“Why,” said Dig, “when the coon saw Davy Crockett aiming at him,
he sang out:
“‘Hol’ on, Mars’ Crockett! Don’ shoot! I’ll come down!’”
“That’s a yarn, Dig,” laughed Chet. “But it’s a good one. Come on!
Here’s a straight piece of road. I’ll race you.”
“Hold on!” exclaimed Dig. “I’ve shaken down my breakfast enough
already. Do you see those raspberries, Chet?”
“Cracky! what a lot of them!” cried Chet.
“Let’s have a mess of them,” his chum said eagerly, and leaped down
from his saddle.
“Here! here!” called Chet. “Hitch your horse, old man. We don’t want
to be chasing Poke all over the pasture.”
“All right. And hang your tinware on the saddle,” urged Dig, slipping
the strap of his own rifle over the cantle after hitching Poke. He
raced to the nearest clump of raspberry bushes as though he
thought they would mysteriously disappear if he did not reach there
in a minute.
Chet climbed more slowly after him out of the well-defined trail into
the rocky berry pasture. Both boys were unarmed save for the
knives in their belts, for even their revolvers were in their saddle
holsters. The bushes hung heavy with the ripe fruit and Dig, who
was inordinately fond of the berries, at once filled both hands and
began to cram the fruit into his mouth.
“Look out! you’ll choke yourself,” his chum admonished him.
“Don’t you worry, old boy,” mumbled Dig, still eating greedily. “It
would be a lovely way of dyin’—”
Just then, as though conjured for Dig’s particular punishment, there
rose up on the other side of the clump of raspberry bushes a
shaggy, black figure, almost within reach of Dig’s outstretched arm.
“Oh! oh! ah!” gasped Digby. “It’s yo—your buf—buffalo, Chet!” and
he fell back upon his chum, the crushed raspberries running out of
his mouth in two streams.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked his chum, who did not, on the
instant, observe the object that had surprised Dig. “Stop joking
about that buffalo.”
“Give me a gun! Give me a gun!” groaned the other boy, his mouth
finally freed from the crushed fruit.
Then Chet saw the bear—a big black fellow, standing erect, and to
all appearances just as scared as Digby Fordham was.
It had the funniest expression on its muzzle. Its jaws were all
beslobbered with crushed raspberries, as were its paws. It had been
pressing the berries into its mouth just as Dig had been doing, and
Chet thought the sight of the two—the boy and the bear—was one
of the funniest he had ever seen.
The bear’s little ears were cocked, and its eyes were amazingly
sharp. But its surprise was plain and it staggered back just as Dig
had done.
“Give me a gun!” begged the latter again, hoarsely.
The bear turned and both boys thought it was coming around the
clump of bushes to get at them. Dig uttered a squeal of fright and
tumbled backwards down the hill. Chet whipped out his skinning-
knife, that being the only weapon he had with him, and stood his
ground.
But the bear only swung around to drop to all fours, and with a
startled “Woof! woof!” he galloped away across the hill, soon
disappearing in the thick jungle.
But the bear had startled something besides Digby Fordham. While
Chet hugged his sides in laughter at the sight of his chum sprawling
down the hill, wild snorts and a sudden clatter rose from the trail.
“Look out for the horses, Dig!” yelled Chet, breaking off his spasm of
laughter in the middle.
Poke had caught a glimpse of the bear or had smelled him. The
black horse flung himself back upon his strap and snapped it.
Then Chet saw the bear—a big black fellow, standing erect
“Whoa, Poke!” cried Dig, and ran quickly down the hill.
Yelling “Whoa!” to a whirlwind would have done about as much
good. Poke started on a gallop, and when his master rolled down to
the trail the black horse was already three lengths away.
Hero did not try to escape. Perhaps his nostrils were not so sensitive
to the smell of the bear. But his master hurried to soothe him.
Poke shook off the swinging rifle at almost his first leap, and its
striking his heels frightened the horse all the more. Then he began
to strew Dig’s camping outfit along the trail, one piece at a time.
Following the rifle, the pistol was tossed out of its holster—Dig had
forgotten to fasten the flap of the pocket. His lasso was only hung
on the saddle horn and that dropped off, banging the galloping
horse about the heels.
Dig, running after him, yelled “Whoa!” until he almost lost his voice,
but to no purpose.
The blanket roll became unfastened and it whipped Poke over the
flanks. One article after another was spewed from the roll, and after
striking the frightened horse, bounded off into the trail or beside it.
A can of condensed milk hit a boulder and burst. A skillet was kicked
into the air as Poke ran, and when it was found there was a hole
through it as big as one’s fist.
“By all the hoptoads that were chased out of Ireland! That creature
never will stop.”
“Get on my horse, Dig,” begged his chum.
“All right. But unhitch all that truck. I’ll take your lariat.”
“Going to lasso Poke?” demanded Chet, still much amused.
“I don’t care if I hang him,” declared Dig, leaping on the bay horse,
and whirling him into the trail.
Dig was a splendid rider. No matter how hard-bitted the horse was
he rode, he always made a good appearance in the saddle. The
black horse could outrun the bay; but Poke lacked the guidance of
his master’s hand. He was still going at a heavy gallop, and Hero
gained upon him at every leap.
The camp equipment was still dropping out of Dig’s blanket-roll, and
as long as that occurred Poke would undoubtedly run. Dig rose up in
Hero’s stirrups, uncoiled the rope, and prepared to cast it over the
black’s head when he got near enough.
Meanwhile Chet came on behind, loading himself down with the
scattered camp outfit and the rifles. He was soon too heavily laden
to travel fast; besides, he had to stop now and then to laugh.
Poke gave his master a two-mile chase, and then Dig roped him and
brought the black horse back with him at the end of the lariat.
“I’d trade him for a cast-off pair of boots, and then swap the boots
for a broken-bladed jackknife,” grumbled Dig, who always made
frightful threats against Poke when the black horse had misbehaved.
“Whew! I thought I’d have to walk all the way to Grub Stake by the
way this villain started.”
Chet was choked with laughter again. Dig turned on him sternly.
“Say! what’s the matter with you now?” he demanded. “What are
you laughing at?”
“I—I wonder if that—that buf—buffalo you thought you saw is still—
still running,” cried Chet, holding his aching sides.
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