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Title: A bear-raising ride
Author: Ray Humphreys
Illustrator: Harry T. Fisk
Release date: September 29, 2026 [eBook #79684]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Street & Smith Corporation, 1928
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79684
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BEAR-RAISING RIDE ***
A Bear-Raising Ride
By Ray Humphreys
With an expression of mingled horror and disgust on his leathery,
weather-beaten face, old “Whiskers” Graham, senior driver for the Wells
Fancher Stage Company, Como to Fairplay and all intermediate points,
shrank back from the Como barn boss.
“_What’s that?_” he exclaimed, uneasily.
Jim Burgess, the barn boss, looked surprised.
“Why, gee whiz!” he said, in astonishment, “this here ain’t nuthin’,
Whiskers, ’ceptin’ one b’arskin overcoat, belongin’, as yuh should know,
to Joe McGraw, the superintendent, who left it stored up here las’
winter, afore he was transferred to Fairplay, an’ who wants it brung
down to him on the stage.”
Whiskers fixed watery, faded, blue eyes on the big coat.
“Huh!” he grunted, “ain’t _that_ the same b’arskin overcoat Bill Troy,
Joe McGraw’s uncle, had on the time he was shot through the head an’
kilt by that rustler over on Elk Creek?”
The barn foreman shook the big, shaggy, black coat.
“Waal,” he muttered, “supposin’ so; what of it?”
Whiskers shrank back again, putting his hands up in front of him as if
to shut out the unwelcome sight of the overcoat.
“An’ wasn’t Sam Reedy wearin’ that same b’arskin coat when lightnin’
struck him top o’ Rabbit Ear Pass an’ knocked him seventeen ways from
Sunday?” demanded Whiskers.
Again the barn boss shrugged his shoulders.
“Waal, what ef so?” he grumbled, “I kain’t see——”
Whiskers folded his arms and glared at the barn boss. No wonder such a
dumb-bell as Jim Burgess wasn’t fit for anything but to take care of the
stage lines’ stock in the Como terminal!
“Huh!” said Whiskers, with scorn, “what ef so, yuh ask. Has it ever
sunken through yuhr thick skull, Jim, that this here b’arskin overcoat
is bad luck, mebbe? Jus’ like a dang black ket crossin’ the road in
front o’ yuhr team, eh? Huh, I wouldn’t wear that b’arskin overcoat fer
all the money thar is in——”
Burgess scowled.
“Who in Hail Columbia, Gem o’ the Ocean, is askin’ _yuh_ to _wear_ this
coat, Santa Claus?” he asked, angrily, “I ain’t; I’m just a-carryin’ out
the supe’s orders, which cum in by mail las’ night, sayin’ fer me to
send down his b’arskin overcoat with yuh t’day—that’s all! He’s mighty
proud o’ that coat.”
Whiskers grunted disdainfully.
“Dang, haunted, bad luck b’arskin!” he declared, “I won’t have nuthin’
to do with it, Jim—not me—I——”
Jim Burgess laughed out loud.
“Orders,” he reminded the old stage driver, “is orders; when the supe
says fer me to send that b’arskin overcoat down to Fairplay with yuh
t’-day, yuh takes it! An’ they ain’t no argument—they ain’t no exchange
o’ words worth mentionin’.”
Whiskers Graham glared.
“However,” said the barn boss, deciding not to antagonize the old driver
further, “I’m also sendin’ something else down with yuh o’ more interest
to yuh, mebbe. I’ve booked that purty schoolteacher who is goin’ out on
her vacation fer yuhr down trip t’-day—she’s goin’ to Fairplay to see
some friends.”
Whiskers smiled at that announcement.
“Miss Rosie Roach?” he asked, hopefully.
“The same,” said the barn boss, “an’ seein’ yuh ain’t sentimental about
the b’arskin overcoat, I’ll wrap it fer yuh an’ put it up on the seat
with yuh, whar yuh kin watch it. The supe wrote he wouldn’t take
twenty-five dollars for that b’arskin overcoat—so yuh gotta be keerful;
ef yuh want, I’ll wrap up that purty schoolma’am, too—ef yuh’re
bashful.”
The old driver shook his head.
“Leave her be,” he said, “but as fer the supe not takin’ twenty-five
dollars fer that b’arskin coat, sa-a-ay, I wouldn’t give him two-bits!”
The stage started for Fairplay fifteen minutes later. High on the
driver’s seat, handling the reins on the six frisky mustangs, sat
Whiskers Graham, known up and down the South Park district as not only
the oldest driver on the Q-B lines, and the man with the longest,
whitest whiskers, but the most fearless driver in Colorado as well. An
expert, with half a century’s service on the mountain trails behind him,
old Whiskers took delight in handling the meanest bronchos he could get
in his six-horse hitch. He picked his teams for speed—and he let ’em
run. That was why he always covered the long, winding Como to Fairplay
route in faster time than any of the other drivers. He wasn’t reckless,
but he “knew his onions,” as the bosses said.
Now, as he started his agile broncs and the big creaking stage out of
Como, old Whiskers was divided between two strong emotions. He was
tickled to death, for instance, that right beside him, on the driver’s
long seat, sat Miss Rosie Roach, yellow-haired, blue-eyed,
dimple-cheeked, the fairest girl in the South Park region, and
schoolteacher at the Como school. She was his only passenger, but she
made up in beauty and charm for lack of numbers. It was nice to have her
along to chat with, but——
Whiskers cast a wary eye at a big package done up in tough brown
wrapping paper that rested on the seat between himself and the pretty
girl. That was Superintendent Joe McGraw’s b’arskin overcoat, which
Whiskers was taking down much against his will. It wasn’t so nice to
have that thing along! Dark thoughts raced through Whiskers’ mind as he
stared at that bulky package, containing the tanned and dressed and
tailored remains of what had once been a mighty big Colorado black bear.
“’Tain’t right,” grumbled Whiskers, under his breath, as cold
perspiration broke out on his brow, “to make _me_ take that _thing_ down
to Fairplay! It’s bad luck, sure! Pore ol’ Bill Troy was wearin’ that
when that Elk Creek rustler ambushed him an’ plugged him right through
the haid—ugh! An’ Sam Reedy was wearin’ it, havin’ borrowed it, when
lightnin’ got _him_.”
The old stage driver glanced at the heavens.
“Waal, it won’t lightnin’ t’-day, anyhow!” he said.
“I beg pardon?” the pretty Miss Roach said questioningly.
“I was jus’ remarkin’ foolishness to myself,” explained Whiskers,
shaking out the reins in an embarrassed manner and clucking hastily to
his six-horse outfit. “How yuh like these hosses, Miss Roach, ef I may
ask? Them roan leaders are sure fancy steppers, ain’t they? I got ’em
off a Three H rancho grub wagon—they was too fast fer the cook—ran away
twice.”
“My goodness!”
“Ya,” went on Whiskers proudly, “an’ them swing hosses—them bays—purty,
ain’t they? That off bay came from Monte Vista. He was a outlaw until he
was six year ol’, too! Buck, my lands! But not any more—but he still kin
travel some. His mate I got off a ore wagon from Central City, an’ the
wheelers, here, the blacks, I got from the circus was through here three
years back—they was too gay fer the circus.”
“My goodness!” said the young woman, shivering slightly, “an’ are yuh
sure they’re—they’re safe?”
Whiskers misunderstood the girl’s shiver.
“Come, Miss Roach, it is kinda cool t’-day,” he said, “yuh just take
this here raincoat slicker an’ slip it over yuhr shoulders. Thar
now—yuh’ll feel warmer—I should o’ knowed it would be breezy up here fer
yuh, an’ yuh not used to it.”
“Thank you!” said Miss Roach.
“Funny thing!” chuckled Whiskers, getting back to his favorite subject
after a suspicious look at the paper bundle containing the b’arskin
overcoat, “it was jus’ a day like this, with the breezes driftin’ down
off Mount Baldy up yonder, in October er November, las’ year, that them
dog-gone bay swing hosses got to actin’ frisky! That off hoss he kicks
out one side o’ the traces, scarin’ my leaders, what start humpin’
theirselves, while the wheelers, gettin’ scared——”
The pretty schoolteacher’s face went white, and she gripped the edge of
the seat with trembling hands, while her eyes went wide as saucers as
she stared down on the sleek backs of Whiskers’ six fast-trotting
horses.
“Please, Mr. Driver!” she begged, “can’t we—oh, I’m scared—don’t talk
any more about—about——”
“What?” asked Whiskers above the rumble of the coach.
“I’m frightened,” repeated the girl, “let’s change the subject from
hosses to—to—well—the weather.”
Whiskers put a hand to his ear.
“Hey?”
The pretty schoolteacher became desperate.
“Let’s talk about robbers,” she suggested, wildly. “You know,
sir—robbers—_r-o-b-b-e-r-s_—or anything else—but not, please, about
these hosses! I’m really a ’fraidy cat, I suppose.”
Whiskers caught the word “robbers” and grinned. He started to fish in an
inner pocket of his old leather jacket just as the six-horse team took a
sharp curve at a smart trot. The old stagecoach swayed dangerously. Miss
Roach’s face went pale. At that, Whiskers decided that he wouldn’t do as
he intended. He brought his hand out of his pocket—empty—and laid it on
the trembling girl’s arm to reassure her.
“Why, sister!” he bellowed, above the roar of the screeching stage,
“don’t be so scared, gal! I ain’t seen a robber up this road in ten
years! O’ course thar used to be some—like ol’ ‘Jagged Knife Keating,’
who kilt them four men at Mesquite Town in the ’80s—he was a bad
aigg—yessir—I mean yes, ma’am! _He_ was a tough cooky; an’ then thar was
‘Lame Pete,’ that guy who——”
Old Whiskers broke off suddenly.
“But ef yuh’re scared o’ robbers, gal,” he said, “we won’t talk about
’em no more. I’ll jus’ tell yuh about the time I was comin’ down this
grade right here with a full load o’ tourists, from the mines yonder,
when that off roan sees a rattlesnake in the road ahead an’ shies, an’ a
wheel comes off and I sure had to——”
“_Please!_” begged the unhappy, jolting girl, and at the same moment
Whiskers’ hand slipped down off her shaking arm and lit, for a fraction
of a split second, on the brown paper package that rested on the seat.
Whiskers jumped as if the rattlesnake he had just been telling about had
struck at him. The mere touch of that b’arskin overcoat package sent
shivers racing up and down his back. The girl’s scream further alarmed
him.
“What——?” he began, glancing at her, but at that moment both roan
leaders jumped halfway out of their harness, skidding toward the far
edge of the road, which overhung a deep gulch. The bay swing team shied,
too, and jumped.
“_Whoa!_” whooped Whiskers, hauling back on his ribbons.
And at that moment, a couple of yards ahead of the roan leaders, a
hatless, coatless man stepped from a clump of willows, a large gun in
one hand. He waved the gun at Whiskers threateningly.
“Stop!”
The old driver was already sawing on the lines before he saw the
apparition ahead. It was too late to disobey. He played in the reins,
expertly, all the time calling soothingly to his horses. The big
stagecoach stopped within its own length, so that the stranger was
waiting at the right front wheel hub.
“Say,” he growled, gruffly, “good thing yuh stopped, ol’-timer! I’m sot
on gettin’ me a lift down the road a piece. I’m kinda bunged up—hoss
stepped in a gopher hole back o’ here a bit in the hills an’ threw
me—hurt my arm an’ laig.”
Whiskers was shaking like a leaf.
“Dog-gone!” he began, “I guess——”
The stranger waved the gun at him again.
“Yuh’re guessin’ outa turn, grandpa!” he cried. “Yuh clamp them teeth
t’gether an’ keep yuhr guessin’ to yoreself. I’m comin’ up—hold them
danged broncs quiet!”
The man came up. He tossed a little, heavy bag into the stage seat and
then came up himself, with a painful effort. He grinned at the
speechless schoolteacher. Then he picked up a length of rope off the top
of the stage and, without a word, tied Whiskers’ feet together snugly.
Then he tied his hands together in front. Then he pushed the old man
rudely, shoving him along the seat.
“I’m sure lucky,” said the stranger, holstering his gun serenely. “I
wanted a nice ride in a hurry. I’ll handle these nags fer a few miles,
an’ I’d throw yuh out now, ol’-timer, ef it wasn’t that we might meet
somebody an’ it wouldn’t look nice ef yuh wasn’t along with us, but
we’ll pass ’em so fast that nobody will notice that yuh are trussed up
like a calf fer brandin’, an’ ef yuh holler I’ll——”
“Whar yuh want to go?” asked Whiskers miserably.
“That’s my business!” snapped the stranger, reaching over to pat the
cringing girl on one shoulder, “it’s whar we’re goin’, honey, that
really counts! I never figgered on finding a stagecoach an’ a purty gal
all to once, an’ me needin’ transportation an’ charmin’ company, too.”
“Say, yuh!” protested Whiskers, bristling.
“Aw, shet up!” said the gunman, shoving Whiskers farther along the seat.
“I ain’t talkin’ to yuh, Merry Christmas! But I’ll tell yuh how far
_yuh’re_ goin’, brother! When we gits down around that red rock section
me an’ the lady here is gettin’ off—an’ yuh an’ yuhr hosses are goin’
on—over the cliff inter Big Muddy River—ef I figgers correctly. Yuh
kain’t drive tied up, an’ ef I whack them nags after we’re off——”
The girl screamed in terror.
“Waal, I might have knowed this!” howled Whiskers dismally. “Dog-gone
that Burgess anyhow—that——”
Whiskers’ eyes dropped to the bad-luck b’arskin.
“Ho!” cried the stranger, suddenly, “what have we here, folks, done up
like a million dollars? Must be kinda precious seein’ how ol’
Me-Thuse-Lum here looks at it. Let’s see!”
The gunman ripped the package open with an oath.
“A _coat_!” he yelled, delightedly. “_A b’arskin overcoat, an’ me like
to freezin’ t’ death, too!_”
He slipped into the big, shaggy coat. Then he sat down, between Whiskers
and the girl, and took over the reins. He swore at the horses and swung
the whip, and the big coach lurched forward suddenly. The pretty
schoolteacher put her little hands to her face in terror. Old Whiskers
groaned aloud in his misery. Everything would go wrong now, with the
bandit wearing that unlucky b’arskin overcoat! The whole outfit would
probably plunge off the road at the first sharp turn and drop a hundred
to a hundred and fifty feet into the Big Muddy River or onto the
spear-like points of some pine trees in the canyon below. Pleasant
thought! Whiskers shivered and cursed the superintendent roundly, but
silently, while the gunman swore at the six-horse hitch and whipped them
forward. The stranger was evidently in a hurry.
Down the road whirled the stagecoach, swaying from side to side, all six
horses at a gallop, with a madman in a great shaggy overcoat handling
the ribbons. The girl began to sob, while Whiskers continued to swear
over the b’arskin coat and to wonder where in heck the stage would land
eventually. The old driver held his breath as the vehicle took the turns
on two wheels, scraping the hubs on the jutting rocks in the cliff face.
The stranger wanted speed, and he was getting it. The six horses were
running madly. They seemed to sense that something terrible was wrong
and they wanted to get away from it. The whip cracked over their ears.
Curses urged them on.
“Giddap—dag-gone it all—giddap!”
And then the whip would crack again.
The stage covered the first mile in nothing flat, almost. There was
nothing on the road, fortunately. The second mile took a trifle longer
to cover, seeing it was up grade; but whatever time the bandit driver
lost on the second mile he made up on the third mile, which was mostly
downhill. How the stage did fly! It threatened, at times, to overtake
the black wheelers and literally run over them. The wheelers had their
tails tucked down between their hind legs and were running like deer,
occasionally stumbling on the galloping heels of the swing team, which
would have run faster if the roan leaders weren’t in the way. The roans,
bless their hearts, were not as excited as the other four horses in the
hitch. They couldn’t hear the ominous threat of the rumbling coach right
on them, as the wheelers could, for one thing. And for another, the whip
wouldn’t reach their flanks, no matter how hard the bandit driver tried
to make it stretch, for the whip was short. Old Whiskers had never
needed a whip for the speedy roans. He thanked his stars now that the
leaders couldn’t be reached. If they could——
Another mile spun under the shrieking wheels. Miss Roach was pale and
her red eyes told their own story. The bandit was roaring profanity at
the horses. Old Whiskers was mumbling prayers now, convinced that his
time had surely come. With all his daring, he had never driven his
horses along this stretch of treacherous road at such a breakneck speed!
Another mile! Another! And another! The big coach scraped a sapling
along the road and snapped it off clean. The coach swayed dizzily for a
second. Whiskers’ groan echoed loudly.
“Shet up!” whooped the bandit driver.
“Sufferin’ cats!” wailed old Whiskers, hopelessly.
“Oh, please!” screamed the frightened girl.
“_Shet up_, both o’ yuh, I say!” roared the wild driver, with a volley
of oaths, and he shook out the reins again, so that the six-horse hitch
fairly flew. But old Whiskers could not remain silent any longer.
“Holy mackerel!” he moaned.
“Say!” shouted the madman in the bearskin overcoat, glancing at Whiskers
suddenly, “what ails yuh? Didn’t I tell yuh to dry up? Ef yuh don’t,
I’ll throw yuh off.”
Old Whiskers blubbered in his fright.
“_Mister!_” he yelled shrilly. “I—I jus’ kain’t help it—I—that is—that
off roan leader thar has the bit clean outa his mouth—another minute an’
we’ll smash.”
The bandit peered at the roan leaders.
“Naw, he ain’t!” he howled, “I kain’t see——”
“He has!” wailed Whiskers, “he has! Yuh gotta fix it afore he gits in
his haid to jump off the road—he’s a spirited hoss, anyhow.”
The bandit sawed on the reins.
“I’ll fix it,” he cried, “seein’ it ain’t time fer the ol’ trap to go
over yit! But ef he ain’t got that bit out, as yuh say, I’ll come back
here an’ throw yuh off.”
“Yuh look an’ see!” insisted Whiskers.
Hauling on the ribbons, setting the big brake, the madman driver
eventually brought the six-horse hitch to a panting stop. He lumbered
down off the stage, after drawing the reins through the dash rail, and
after pausing to plant a kiss on the white face of the pretty
schoolteacher, who shrank back in terror from him. He looked like a
great nightmare, in that huge, shaggy, black bearskin overcoat.
“Lissen, girlie,” he purred, huskily, “I’ll fix that bit, an’ then we’ll
fly fer the next few miles; then yuh an’ me will git off an’ watch this
ol’ stage an’ ol’ grandpa here go skyrocketin’ off the trail straight
inter space.”
Grumbling the man climbed down the side of the stage.
He groped his way along the steaming horses. The off wheeler, Blackie,
started as the stranger passed him, and Whiskers grunted softly. Steve,
the off swing horse, likewise jumped as the man passed him, and Whiskers
grunted again, louder this time. He was gasping now. The man in the big
coat reached the leaders and stepped quickly around in front of Bluey,
the off leader. The roans saw that apparition simultaneously. A huge,
shaggy, black bear, stalking on its hind legs! The roans were half
frightened before they saw _that_, and now, just as the black monster
stepped in front of them, came a wild yell from old Whiskers.
“_Yip-pee-eee-yow-ow-ow-eeee!_”
The roans jumped into their collars as if a bolt of lightning had
touched their sensitive flanks. The bay wheelers plunged forward
instantly. A roan shoulder caught the walking “bear” and sent it
spinning headlong off the road. The black wheelers tightened the traces
immediately. The big coach shot forward like a cannon ball! A black
something, shaggy and indistinct, went rolling down the rocky
embankment, headed straight for the Big Muddy River. The six horses were
running now—_running as they had not run before_—because that wild,
“_yip-pee-yowie_,” in that familiar voice, had been enough, to say
nothing of the bear that had appeared under their noses! That yell they
recognized as their master’s war cry. They stretched!
Bracing his knees against the dash, old Whiskers worked at the tangled
reins with his tied hands. The schoolteacher, who might have been a
help, had fainted. Eventually, he gave up the task and began to call out
soothingly to the running team. Again and again he spoke to them, as he
worked frantically to untie the knots on his hands with his teeth. It
was a long job, but finally he got one hand free. It took but a moment
to loose the other one. Quickly he bent and untied the rope from his
feet. Then he got the reins and got them quick.
The schoolteacher regained consciousness just as the big coach lumbered
slowly across the bridge into Fairplay.
“Where—where is that—that man?” she asked, opening her big blue eyes
anxiously, but Whiskers was at ease now.
“Everything is hunkydory,” he assured her. “We’re in Fairplay; be at the
barn in a minnit—the stage station is thar—I’ll help yuh off.”
The six-horse hitch stopped of its own accord at the stage barn. For
some reason, no one ran out to assist in the unloading, so old Whiskers
himself helped the pretty Miss Roach down. She was weak and trembling.
He helped her to a bench just beside the stage station door, where she
sat down. Then Whiskers went back up on the stage for the girl’s grip
and the little bag the stranger had tossed aboard.
A man ran out of the barn.
“Hey, Whiskers, got my b’arskin coat?”
The old driver climbed down before he replied.
“No, Mr. McGraw, sir, I ain’t got yuh b’arskin coat!” cried Whiskers,
gruffly. “I lost it—in the Big Muddy River—eight miles back up the
road.”
“_Lost it?_”
“Yessir, lost it!” repeated Whiskers, sourly, “an’ ut was a blamed fine
loss, too, all things considered. That b’arskin coat was unlucky, sir.”
“I wouldn’t o’ took twenty-five dollars fer it!” said McGraw angrily,
“an’ ef yuh lost it through carelessness, ol’ man, I’ll——”
Whiskers held up a protesting hand.
“I lost it through design an’ deceit!” he cried, hotly. “Thar was a man
inside o’ it—a man with a gun—a danged outlaw who held me up, took over
the reins, an’ said he was goin’ to wreck the whole shebang. He put on
the coat. I happened to recollect that my roans had once run away on
account o’ seein’ a b’ar, so I lied to him to git him down to examine
their bits. I lost the b’arskin coat, boss, but I lost the feller, too,
at the same time.”
“_Who?_”
“I figger it was ‘Demon’ Bosler, a danged bank robber,” said Whiskers
softly, reaching into an inside pocket to pull out a circular. “I
recognized him right off. It says here in this circular which I got six
months ago that he’s holdin’ up banks right an’ left an’ that thar’s a
reward o’ five hundred dollars on his haid. I’m goin’ back to fish him
outa the river.”
“Bosler!” cried the young superintendent, “why, a man by that name held
up the bank at Caseyville jus’ a few hours ago—got away with three thou—
“He didn’t git far,” said Whiskers, holding up the heavy sack the bandit
had left in the stage. “I guess this is it. I saved it, an’ the team,
an’ the stage, an’ the gal——”
The superintendent gasped.
“What gal?”
“Her!” said Whiskers, pointing to the schoolteacher, and then he dived
into a pocket, “but seein’ yuh valued that dog-gone unlucky b’arskin so
high I’ll just pay yuh twenty-five dollars fer it, boss.”
Whiskers counted out five five-dollar bills and looked up, holding them
out to his boss. But his boss wasn’t standing where he had been a moment
before. Instead, the superintendent was ten feet away, his arms around
pretty Miss Roach, who had run forward to meet him. Her head was on his
shoulder. His face was all aglow with happiness.
Old Whiskers gasped.
“Dang sentimental wimmen!” he exploded. “Here it was me as saved her an’
she collapses in the arms o’ the _fust_ young man she sees! Huh—here,
boss.” The superintendent chuckled.
“Keep yuhr money, Whiskers!” he exclaimed, happily. “I don’t care about
no b’arskin coat as long as yuh brought Rosie here through safe, which
she says yuh did with a awful lot o’ trouble! Rosie was comin’
to-morrow, I thought—an’—waal, yuh see, Whiskers, nobody knows it but
yuh—she was—we are engaged—an’ we’re to be married right away an’——”
The old stage driver blinked.
“Waal!” he exclaimed, “it’s a good thing I’m goin’ to collect some
rewards ef I got to buy a big weddin’ present. Congratulations, boss—an’
Missus Boss—but—but——”
“Yes?” asked the supe, genially.
“I kain’t see fer the life o’ me how a feller ownin’ a unlucky b’arskin
like yuh did could win a gal like—like——”
Whiskers stammered, stuttered, blushed, and turned away, while the
superintendent and his bride-to-be smiled at him.
“Mebbe,” admitted Whiskers, softly, “that ol’ b’arskin wasn’t so
unlucky, after all!”
[Notes on the Text: This story appeared in _Western Story Magazine_,
January 7, 1928. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United
States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
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