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Title: The Twins of Suffering Creek
Author: Ridgwell Cullum
Release Date: August 8, 2009 [EBook #29638]
Language: English
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THE TWINS OF SUFFERING CREEK
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE ONE-WAY TRAIL
THE TRAIL OF THE AXE
THE SHERIFF OF DYKE HOLE
THE WATCHERS OF THE PLAINS
[Illustration: "Say--Jessie," he breathed hotly, "you're--you're fine!"]
THE TWINS OF SUFFERING CREEK
BY
RIDGWELL CULLUM
AUTHOR OF
"THE ONE-WAY TRAIL," "THE WATCHERS OF THE PLAINS," ETC.
PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1912, by
George W. Jacobs & Company
TO
MY TWO LITTLE CHUMS
CHRIS AND RIDGE
THIS BOOK
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
CONTENTS
I POTTER'S CLAY 9
II THE HARVEST OF PASSION 23
III THE AWAKENING OF SCIPIO 37
IV SCIPIO BORROWS A HORSE 54
V HUSBAND AND LOVER 69
VI SUNNY OAK PROTESTS 87
VII SUNNY OAK TRIES HIS HAND 94
VIII WILD BILL THINKS HARD--AND HEARS NEWS 108
IX THE FORERUNNER OF THE TRUST 116
X THE TRUST 124
XI STRANGERS IN SUFFERING CREEK 136
XII THE WOMAN 142
XIII BIRDIE AND THE BOYS 154
XIV BIRDIE GIVES MORE ADVICE 167
XV THE TRUST AT WORK 177
XVI ZIP'S GRATITUDE 188
XVII JESSIE'S LETTER 196
XVIII ON THE ROAD 205
XIX A FINANCIAL TRANSACTION 216
XX HOW THE TRUST BOUGHT MEDICINE 225
XXI SCIPIO MAKES PREPARATIONS 236
XXII SUNDAY MORNING IN SUFFERING CREEK 240
XXIII A BATH AND-- 247
XXIV --A BIBLE TALK 259
XXV WILD BILL FIRES A BOMB 267
XXVI WILD BILL INSPECTS HIS CLAIM 274
XXVII SUSPENSE 285
XXVIII JAMES 296
XXIX THE GOLD-STAGE 304
XXX ON THE SPAWN CITY TRAIL 316
XXXI THE BATTLE 325
XXXII A MAN'S LOVE 335
XXXIII THE REASON WHY 346
XXXIV THE LUCK OF SCIPIO 353
XXXV HOME 363
THE TWINS OF SUFFERING CREEK
CHAPTER I
POTTER'S CLAY
Scipio moved about the room uncertainly. It was characteristic of him.
Nature had given him an expression that suggested bewilderment, and,
somehow, this expression had got into his movements.
He was swabbing the floor with a rag mop; a voluntary task, undertaken
to relieve his wife, who was lounging over the glowing cookstove,
reading a cheap story book. Once or twice he paused in his labors, and
his mild, questioning blue eyes sought the woman's intent face. His
stubby, work-soiled fingers would rake their way through his
straw-colored hair, which grew sparsely and defiantly, standing out at
every possible unnatural angle, and the mop would again flap into the
muddy water, and continue its process of smearing the rough boarded
floor.
Now and again the sound of children's voices floated in through the
open doorway, and at each shrill piping the man's pale eyes lit into a
smile of parental tenderness. But his work went on steadily, for such
was the deliberateness of his purpose.
The room was small, and already three-quarters of it had been
satisfactorily smeared, and the dirt spread to the necessary
consistency. Now he was nearing the cookstove where the woman sat.
"I'd hate to worry you any, Jess," he said, in a gentle, apologetic
voice, "but I'm right up to this patch. If you'd kind of lift your
feet, an' tuck your skirts around you some, guess you could go right
on reading your fiction."
The woman looked up with a peevish frown. Then something like a
pitying smile warmed her expression. She was a handsome creature, of a
large, somewhat bold type, with a passionate glow of strong youth and
health in every feature of her well-shaped face. She was taller than
her diminutive husband, and, in every detail of expression, his
antithesis. She wore a dress with some pretensions to display, and
suggesting a considerable personal vanity. But it was of the tawdry
order that was unconvincing, and lacked both refinement and tidiness.
Scipio followed up his words with a glance of smiling amiability.
"I'm real sorry--" he began again.
But she cut him short.
"Oh, bother!" she exclaimed; and, thrusting her slippered feet upon
the stove, tucked her skirts about her. Then, utterly ignoring him,
she buried herself once more in her book.
The mop flapped about her chair legs, the water splashed the stove.
Scipio was hurrying, and consequently floundering. It was his endeavor
not to disturb his wife more than was necessary.
Finally he wrung out his mop and stood it outside the door in the sun.
He emptied his bucket upon the few anæmic cabbages which grew in an
untidy patch at the side of the hut, and returned once more to the
room.
He glanced round it with feeble appreciation. It was a hopeless sort
of place, yet he could not detect its shortcomings. The rough,
log-built walls, smeared with a mud plaster, were quite unadorned.
There was one solitary opening for a window, and in the center of the
room was a roughly manufactured table, laden with the remains of
several repasts. Breakfast was the latest, and the smell of coffee and
fried pork still hung about the room. There were two Windsor chairs,
one of which his wife was occupying, and a ramshackle food cupboard.
Then there were the cookstove and a fuel box, and two or three iron
pots hanging about the walls.
Out of this opened a bedroom, and the rough bedstead, with its tumbled
blankets, was in full view where Scipio stood. Although the morning
was well advanced the bed was still unmade. Poor as the place was, it
might, in the hands of a busy housewife, have presented a very
different appearance. But Jessie was not a good housewife. She hated
the care of her little home. She was not a bad woman, but she had no
sympathy with the harshnesses of life. She yearned for the amplitude
to which she had been brought up, and detested bitterly the pass to
which her husband's incapacity had brought her.
When she had married Scipio he had money--money that had been left to
him for the purpose of embarking in business, a purpose he had
faithfully carried out. But his knowledge of business was limited to
the signing of checks in favor of anyone who wanted one, and, as a
consequence, by the time their twins were three years old he had
received an intimation from the bank that he must forthwith put them
in credit for the last check he had drawn.
Thus it was that, six months later, the thirty or forty inhabitants of
Job's Flat on Suffering Creek--a little mining camp stowed away in the
southwest corner of Montana, almost hidden amongst the broken
foothills of the Rocky Mountains--basking in the sunshine of a Sunday
afternoon haze, were suddenly startled by the apparition of a small
wagon, driven by a smaller man with yellow hair, bearing down upon
them. But that which stirred them most surely was the additional sight
of a handsome girl, sitting at his side, and, crowded between them on
the seat, a pair of small children.
Scipio, in a desperate effort to restore his fortunes, and set his
precious family once more on a sound financial basis, had come in
search of the gold which report said was to be had on Suffering Creek
for the trouble of picking it up.
This vision startled Suffering Creek, which, metaphorically, sat up
and rubbed its eyes. Here was something quite unaccustomed. The
yellow-haired fragment of humanity at the end of the reins was like
nothing they had ever seen; the children were a source of wondering
astonishment; but the woman--ah! There was one woman, and one woman
only, on Suffering Creek until Jessie's arrival, and she was only the
"hash-slinger" at Minky's store.
The newcomer's face pleased them. Her eyes were fine, and full of
coquetry. Her figure was all that a woman's should be. Yes, the camp
liked the look of her, and so it set out to give Scipio a hearty
welcome.
Now a mining camp can be very cordial in its rough way. It can be
otherwise, too. But in this case we have only to do with its
cordiality. The men of Suffering Creek were drawn from all sorts and
conditions of society. The majority of them lived like various grades
of princes when money was plentiful, and starved when Fortune frowned.
There were men amongst them who had never felt the softer side of
life, and men who had been ruthlessly kicked from that downy couch.
There were good men and scoundrels, workers and loafers; there were
men who had few scruples, and certainly no morals whatever. But they
had met on a common ground with the common purpose of spinning
fortune's wheel, and the sight of a woman's handsome face set them
tumbling over each other to extend the hand of friendship to her
husband.
And the simple-minded Scipio quickly fell into the fold. Nor was it
long before his innocence, his mildness, his never-failing
good-nature got hold of this cluster of ruffians. They laughed at
him--he was a source of endless amusement to them--but they liked him.
And in such men liking meant a great deal.
But from the first Scipio's peculiar nature, and it was peculiar, led
him into many grievous mistakes. His mind was full of active purpose.
He had an enormous sense of responsibility and duty to those who
belonged to him. But somehow he seemed to lack any due sense of
proportion in those things which were vital to their best interests.
Ponderous thought had the effect of turning his ideas upside down,
leaving him with but one clear inspiration. He must do. He must
act--and at once.
Thus it was he gave much consideration to the selection of the site of
his house. He wanted a southern aspect, it must be high up, it must
not be crowded amongst the other houses. The twins needed air. Then
the nearer he was to the creek, where the gold was to be found, the
better. And again his prospecting must tap a part of it where the
diggers had not yet "claimed." There were a dozen and one things to be
considered, and he thought of them all until his gentle mind became
confused and his sense of proportion completely submerged.
The result was, he settled desperately upon the one site that common
sense should have made him avoid. Nor was it until the foundations of
the house had been laid, and the walls were already half their full
height, that he realized, from the desolation of refuse and garbage
strewn everywhere about him, that his home was overlooking the camp
"dumps."
However, it was too late to make any change, and, with characteristic
persistence, he completed his work and went into residence with his
wife and the twins.
The pressure of work lessened, he had a moment in which to look
around. And with the thought of his twins on his mind, and all his
wife had once been accustomed to, he quickly realized the necessity of
green vegetables in his _ménage_. So he promptly flew to the task of
arranging a cabbage patch. The result was a foregone conclusion. He
dug and planted his patch. Nor was it until the work was completed
that it filtered through to his comprehension that he had selected the
only patch in the neighborhood with a heavy underlay of gravel and
lime stone.
But his crowning effort was his search for gold. There are
well-established geological laws governing the prospector's craft
which no experienced gold-seeker ever departs from. These were all
carefully explained to him by willing tongues. Then, after poring over
all he had learned, and thought and searched for two days and two
nights, he finally discovered a spot where no other prospector had
staked the ground.
It was a curious, gloomy sort of patch, nearly half-a-mile up the
creek from the camp, and further in towards the mountains. Just at
this spot the banks of the creek were high, there was an unusual
blackness about the soil, and it gave out a faint but unrecognizable
odor, that, in the bright mountain air, was quite pleasant. For
several hundred yards the ground of this flat was rankly spongy, with
an oozy surface. Then, beyond, lay a black greasy-looking marsh, and
further on again the hills rose abruptly with the facets of
auriferous-looking soil, such as the prospector loves to contemplate.
Scipio pondered. And though the conditions outraged all he had been
told of the craft he was embarking upon, he plunged his pick into this
flat, and set to work with characteristic good-will.
The men of the camp when they discovered his venture shook their heads
and laughed. Then their laugh died out and their hard eyes grew
serious. But no one interfered. They were all seeking gold.
This was Scipio's position on Suffering Creek, but it does not tell
half of what lay somewhere in the back of his quaintly-poised mind. No
one who knew him failed to realize his worship for his wife. His was a
love such as rarely falls to the lot of woman. And his devotion to his
girl and boy twins was something quite beyond words. These things were
the mainspring of his life, and drove him to such superlative degrees
of self-sacrifice that could surely only have been endured by a man of
his peculiar mind.
No matter what the toil of his claim, he always seemed to find leisure
and delight in saving his wife from the domestic cares of their home.
And though weary to the breaking-point with his toil, and consumed by
a hunger that was well-nigh painful, when food was short he never
seemed to realize his needs until Jessie and the children had eaten
heartily. And afterwards no power on earth could rob him of an hour's
romp with the little tyrants who ruled and worshiped him.
Now, as he stood before the littered table, he glanced out at the sun.
The morning was advancing all too rapidly. His eyes drifted across to
his wife. She was still reading. A light sigh escaped him. He felt he
should be out on his claim. However, without further thought he took
the boiler of hot water off the stove and began to wash up.
It was the clatter of the plates that made Jessie look up.
"For goodness' sake!" she exclaimed, with exasperation. "You'll be
bathing the children next. Say, you can just leave those things alone.
I've only got a bit more to read to the end of the chapter."
"I thought maybe it 'ud help you out some. I--"
"You give me a pain, you sure do," Jessie broke in. "You get right out
and hustle gold, and leave things of that sort to others."
"But I don't mind doing it, truth I don't," Scipio expostulated
mildly. "I just thought it would save you--"
Jessie gave an artificial sigh.
"You tire me. Do you think I don't know my work? I'm here to do the
chores--and well I know it. You're here to do a man's work, same as
any other man. You get out and find the gold, I can look after the
house--if you can call it a house," she added contemptuously.
Her eyes were quite hopeless as she let them wander over the
frowsiness in the midst of which she sat. She was particularly
discontented this morning. Not only had her thoughts been rudely
dragged back from the seductive contemplation of the doings of the
wealthy ones as the dime fiction-writer sees them, but there was a
feeling of something more personal. It was something which she hugged
to her bosom as a priceless pearl of enjoyment in the midst of a
barren, rock-bound life of squalor.
The sight of him meandering about the room recalled these things.
Thoughts, while they troubled her, yet had power to stimulate and
excite her; thoughts which she almost dreaded, but which caused her
exquisite delight. She must get rid of him.
But as she looked about the room something very like dismay assailed
her. There were the hated household duties confronting her; duties she
was longing to be free of, duties which she was tempted to abandon
altogether, with everything else that concerned her present sordid
life.
But Scipio knew none of this. His unsuspicious nature left him utterly
blinded to the inner workings of her indolent, selfish spirit, and was
always ready to accept blame for her ill-humors. Now he hurriedly
endeavored to make amends.
"Of course you can, Jess," he said eagerly. "I don't guess there's
another woman around who can manage things like you. You don't never
grumble at things, and goodness knows I couldn't blame you any, if
you did. But--but ther' seems such a heap to be done--for you to do,"
he went on, glancing with mild vengefulness at the litter. "Say," he
cried, with a sudden lightening and inspiration, "maybe I could buck
some wood for you before I go. You'll need a good fire to dry the
kiddies by after you washened 'em. It sure wouldn't kep me long."
But the only effect of his persistent kindliness was to further
exasperate his wife. Every word, every gentle intention on his part
made her realize her own shortcomings more fully. In her innermost
heart she knew that she had no desire to do the work; she hated it,
she was lazy. She knew that he was far better than she; good, even
noble, in spite of his mental powers being so lamentably at fault. All
this she knew, and it weakly maddened her because she could not rise
above herself and show him all the woman that was so deeply hidden
under her cloak of selfishness.
Then there was that other thought, that something that was her secret.
She had that instinct of good that made it a guilty secret. Yet she
knew that, as the world sees things, she had as yet done no great
harm.
And therein lay the mischief. Had she been a vicious woman nothing
would have troubled her, but she was not vicious. She was not even
less than good in her moral instincts. Only she was weak, hopelessly
weak, and so all these things drove her to a shrewish discontent and
peevishness.
"Oh, there's no peace where you are," she cried, passionately flinging
her book aside and springing to her feet. "Do you think I can't look
to this miserable home you've given me? I hate it. Yes, I hate it all.
Why I married you I'm sure I don't know. Look at it. Look round you,
and if you have any idea of things at all what can you see but a
miserable hog pen? Yes, that's it, a hog pen. And we are the hogs. You
and me, and--and the little ones. Why haven't you got some 'get up'
about you? Why don't you earn some money, get some somehow so we can
live as we've been used to living? Why don't you do something, instead
of pottering around here trying to do chores that aren't your work,
an' you can't do right anyway? You make me mad--you do indeed. But
there! There's no use talking to you, none whatever!"
"I'm sorry, Jess. I'm real sorry you feel like this."
Scipio left the table and moved to the cupboard, into which he
mechanically began to stow the provender. It was an unconscious action
and almost pathetic in its display of that kindly purpose, which,
where his wife was concerned, was never-failing. Jessie saw, angry as
she was, and her fine eyes softened. Perhaps it was the maternal
instinct underlying the selfishness that made her feel something akin
to a pitying affection for her little husband.
She glanced down at the boiler of water, and mechanically gathered
some of the tin plates together and proceeded to wash them.
"I'm kind of sorry, Zip," she said. "I just didn't mean all that.
Only--only it makes me feel bad seeing all this around, and you--you
always trying to do both a man's and a woman's work. Things are bad
with us, so bad they seem hopeless. We're right here with two kiddies
and--and ourselves, and there's practically no money and no prospects
of there being any. It makes me want to cry. It makes me want to do
something desperate. It makes me hate things--even those things I've
no right to hate. No, no," as the man tried to stop her, "don't you
say anything. Not a word till I've done. You see, I mayn't feel like
talking of these things again. Maybe I shan't never have a chance of
talking them again."
She sighed and stared out of window.
"I want you to understand things as I see them, and maybe you'll not
blame me if I see them wrong. You're too good for me, and I--I don't
seem grateful for your goodness. You work and think of others as no
other man would do. You don't know what it is to think of yourself.
It's me, and the children first with you, and, Zip--and you've no call
to think much of me. Yes, I know what you'd say. I'm the most perfect
woman on earth. I'm not. I'm not even good. If I were I'd be glad of
all you try to do; I'd help you. But I don't, and--and I just don't
seem able to. I'm always sort of longing and longing for the old days.
I long for those things we can never have. I think--think always of
folks with money, their automobiles, their grand houses, with lots and
lots of good things to eat. And it makes me hate--all--all this. Oh,
Zip, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm not good. But I'm not, and I--I--"
She broke off and dashed the back of her hand across her eyes in time
to wipe away the great tears that threatened to roll down her rounded
cheeks. In a moment Scipio was at her side, and one arm was thrust
about her waist, and he seized one of her hands.
"You mustn't to cry," he said tenderly, as though she were a child.
"You mustn't, Jess--truth. You ain't what you're saying. You ain't
nothing like it. You're dear and good, and it's 'cause you're that
good and honest you're saying all these things. Do you think I don't
know just how you're suffering? Do you? Why, Jess, I know just
everything about you, and it nigh breaks my heart to think of all I've
brought you to. It ain't you, Jess, it's me who's bad. It's me who's a
fool. I hain't no more sense than a buck rabbit, and I ain't sure a
new-littered pup couldn't put me to sleep for savvee. Now don't you go
to crying. Don't you indeed. I just can't bear to see those beautiful
eyes o' yours all red and running tears. And, say, we sure have got
better prospects than you're figgering. You see, I've got a claim
there's no one else working on. And sure there's minerals on it.
Copper--or leastways it looks like copper, and there's mica, an'
lots--an' lots of stuff. I'll sure find gold in that claim. It's just
a matter of keepin' on. And I'm going to. And then, when we find it,
what a blow-out we'll have. We'll get automobiles and houses, and--and
we'll have a bunch of sweet corn for supper, same as we had at a hotel
once, and then--"
But the woman had suddenly drawn away from his embrace. She could
stand no more of her little husband's pathetic hopes. She knew. She
knew, with the rest of the camp, the hopelessness of his quest, and
even in her worst moments she had not the heart to destroy his
illusions. It was no good, the hopelessness of it all came more than
ever upon her.
"Zip dear," she said, with a sudden, unwonted tenderness that had
something strangely nervous in it, "don't you get staying around here
or I'll keep right on crying. You get out to your work. I'm feeling
better now, and you've--you've made things look kind of brighter," she
lied.
She glanced out of window, and the height of the sun seemed suddenly
to startle her. Her more gentle look suddenly vanished and one of
irritability swiftly replaced it.
"Now, won't you let me help you with all these things?" Scipio
coaxed.
But Jessie had seemingly quite forgotten her moment of tenderness.
"No," she said sharply. "You get right out to work." Then after a
pause, with a sudden warming in her tone, "Think of Jamie and Vada.
Think of them, and not of me. Their little lives are just beginning.
They are quite helpless. You must work for them, and work as you've
never done before. They are ours, and we love them. I love them.
Yes"--with a harsh laugh--"better than myself. Don't you think of me,
Zip. Think of them, and work for them. Now be off. I don't want you
here."
Scipio reluctantly enough accepted his dismissal. His wife's sudden
nervousness of manner was not hidden from him. He believed that she
was seriously upset, and it pained and alarmed his gentle heart. But
the cause of her condition did not enter into his calculations. How
should it? The reason of things seemed to be something which his mind
could neither grasp nor even inquire into. She was troubled, and
he--well, it made him unhappy. She said go and work, work for the
children. Ah, yes, her thoughts were for the children, womanly,
unselfish thoughts just such as a good mother should have. So he went,
full of a fresh enthusiasm for his work and for his object.
Meanwhile Jessie went on with her work. And strangely enough her
nervousness increased as the moments went by, and a vague feeling of
apprehension took hold of her. She hurried desperately. To get the
table cleared was her chief concern. How she hated it. The water grew
cold and greasy, and every time she dipped her cloth into it she
shuddered. Again and again her eyes turned upon the window surveying
the bright sunlight outside. The children playing somewhere beyond the
door were ignored. She was even trying to forget them. She heard their
voices, and they set her nerves jangling with each fresh peal of
laughter, or shrill piping cry.
At last the last plate and enameled cup was washed and dried. The
boiler was emptied and hung upon the wall. She swabbed the table
carelessly and left it to dry. Then, with a rush, she vanished into
the inner room.
The moments passed rapidly. There was no sound beyond the merry games
of the twins squatting out in the sun, digging up the dusty soil with
their fat little fingers. Jessie did not reappear.
At last a light, decided step sounded on the creek side of the house.
It drew nearer. A moment or two later a shadow flitted across the
window. Then suddenly a man's head and shoulders filled up the
opening. The head bent forward, craning into the room, and a pair of
handsome eyes peered curiously round.
"Hi!" he cried in a suppressed tone. "Hi! Jessie!"
The bedroom curtain was flung aside, and Jessie, arrayed carefully in
her best shirtwaist and skirt, suddenly appeared in the doorway. Her
eyes were glowing with excitement and fear. But her rich coloring was
alight with warmth, and the man stared in admiration. Yes, she was
very good to look upon.
CHAPTER II
THE HARVEST OF PASSION
For one passionate moment the woman's radiant face held the gaze of
the man. He was swayed with an unwholesome hunger at the sight of her
splendid womanhood. The beautiful, terrified eyes, so full of that
allurement which ever claims all that is vital in man; the warm
coloring of her delicately rounded cheeks, so soft, so downy; the
perfect undulations of her strong young figure--these things caught
him anew, and again set raging the fire of a reckless, vicious
passion. In a flash he had mounted to the sill of the window-opening,
and dropped inside the room.
"Say--Jessie," he breathed hotly. "You're--you're fine."
His words were almost involuntary. It was as though they were a mere
verbal expression of what was passing through his mind, and made
without thought of addressing her. He was almost powerless in his
self-control before her beauty. And Jessie's conscience in its weakly
life could not hold out before the ardor of his assault. Her eyelids
lowered. She stood waiting, and in a moment the bold invader held her
crushed in his arms.
She lay passive, yielding to his caresses for some moments. Then of a
sudden she stirred restlessly. She struggled weakly to free herself.
Then, as his torrential kisses continued, sweeping her lips, her eyes,
her cheeks, her hair, something like fear took hold of her. Her
struggles suddenly became real, and at last she stood back panting,
but with her young heart mutely stirred to a passionate response.
Nor was it difficult, as they stood thus, to understand how nature
rose dominant over all that belonged to the higher spiritual side of
the woman. The wonderful virility in her demanded life in the full
flood of its tide, and here, standing before her, was the embodiment
of all her natural, if baser, ideals.
The man was a handsome, picturesque creature bred on lines of the
purer strains. He had little enough about him of the rough camp in
which she lived. He brought with him an atmosphere of cities, an
atmosphere she yearned for. It was in his dress, in his speech, in the
bold daring of his handsome eyes. She saw in his face the high
breeding of an ancient lineage. There was such a refinement in the
delicate chiseling of his well-molded features. His brows were widely
expressive of a strong intellect. His nose possessed that wonderful
aquilinity associated with the highest type of Indian. His cheeks were
smooth, and of a delicacy which threw into relief the perfect model of
the frame beneath them. His clean-shaven mouth and chin suggested all
that which a woman most desires to behold in a man. His figure was
tall and muscular, straight-limbed and spare; while in his glowing
eyes shone an irresistible courage, a fire of passion, and such a
purpose as few women could withstand. And so the wife of Scipio
admitted her defeat and yielded the play of all her puny arts, that
she might appear sightly in his eyes.
But she only saw him as he wished her to see him. He showed her the
outward man. The inner man was something not yet for her to probe. He
was one of Nature's anachronisms. She had covered a spirit which was
of the hideous stock from which he sprang with a gilding of
superlative manhood.
His name was James, a name which, in years long past, the Western
world of America had learned to hate with a bitterness rarely equaled.
But all that was almost forgotten, and this man, by reason of his
manner, which was genial, open-handed, even somewhat magnificent,
rarely failed, at first, to obtain the good-will of those with whom he
came into contact.
It was nearly nine months since he first appeared on Suffering Creek.
Apparently he had just drifted there in much the same way that most of
the miners had drifted, possibly drawn thither out of curiosity at the
reports of the gold strike. So unobtrusive had been his coming that
even in that small community he at first passed almost unobserved. Yet
he was full of interest in the place, and contrived to learn much of
its affairs and prospects. Having acquired all the information he
desired, he suddenly set out to make himself popular. And his
popularity was brought about by a free-handed dispensation of a
liberal supply of money. Furthermore, he became a prominent devotee at
the poker table in Minky's store, and, by reason of the fact that he
usually lost, as most men did who joined in a game in which Wild Bill
was taking a hand, his popularity increased rapidly, and the
simple-minded diggers dubbed him with the dazzling sobriquet of "Lord
James."
It was during this time that he made the acquaintance of Jessie and
her husband, and it was astonishing how swiftly his friendship for the
unsuspicious little man ripened.
This first visit lasted just three weeks. Then, without warning, and
in the same unobtrusive way as he had come, he vanished from the
scene. For the moment Suffering Creek wondered; then, as is the way of
such places, it ceased to wonder. It was too busy with its own affairs
to concern itself to any great extent with the flotsam that drifted
its way. Scipio wondered a little more than the rest, but his twins
and his labors occupied him so closely that he, too, dismissed the
matter from his mind. As for Jessie, she said not a word, and gave no
sign except that her discontent with her lot became more pronounced.
But Suffering Creek was not done with James yet. The next time he came
was nearly a month later, just as the monthly gold stage was preparing
for the road, carrying with it a shipment of gold-dust bound for Spawn
City, the nearest banking town, eighty miles distant.
He at once took up his old position in the place, stayed two weeks,
staked out a claim for himself, and pursued his intimacy with Scipio
and his wife with redoubled ardor.
Before those two weeks were over somehow his popularity began to wane.
This intimacy with Scipio began to carry an ill-flavor with the men of
the place. Somehow it did not ring pleasantly. Besides, he showed a
fresh side to his character. He drank heavily, and when under the
influence of spirits abandoned his well-polished manners, and
displayed a coarseness, a savage truculence, such as he had been
careful never to show before. Then, too, his claim remained unworked.
The change in public opinion was subtle, and no one spoke of it. But
there was no regret when, finally, he vanished again from their midst
in the same quiet manner in which he had gone before.
Then came the catastrophe. Two weeks later a gold stage set out on its
monthly journey. Sixty miles out it was held up and plundered. Its two
guards were shot dead, and the driver mortally wounded. But
fortunately the latter lived long enough to tell his story. He had
been attacked by a gang of eight well-armed horsemen. They were all
masked, and got clear away with nearly thirty thousand dollars' worth
of gold.
In the first rush of despairing rage Suffering Creek was unable to
even surmise at the identity of the authors of the outrage. Then Wild
Bill, the gambler, demanded an accounting for every man of the camp on
the day of the tragedy. In a very short time this was done, and the
process turned attention upon Lord James. Where was he? The question
remained unanswered. Suspicions grew into swift conviction. Men asked
each other who he was, and whence he came. There was no answer to any
of their inquiries at first. Then, suddenly, news came to hand that
the gang, no longer troubling at concealment, was riding roughshod
over the country. It was a return to the régime of the "bad man," and
stock-raiding and "hold-ups," of greater or less degree, were being
carried on in many directions with absolute impunity; and the man
James was at the head of it.
It was a rude awakening. All the old peace and security were gone. The
camp was in a state of ferment. Every stranger that came to the place
was eyed askance, and unless he could give a satisfactory account of
himself he had a poor chance with the furious citizens. The future
dispatch of gold became a problem that exercised every mind, and for
two months none left the place. And this fact brought about a further
anxiety. The gang of robbers was a large one. Was it possible they
might attempt a raid on the place? And, if so, what were their chances
of success?
Such was the position at Suffering Creek, and the nature of the threat
which hung over it. One man's name was in everybody's mind. His
personality and doings concerned them almost as nearly as their search
for the elusive gold which was as the breath of life to them.
And yet Lord James was in no way deterred from visiting the
neighborhood. He knew well enough the position he was in. He knew well
enough all its possibilities. Yet he came again and again. His visits
were paid in daylight, carefully calculated, even surreptitiously
made. He sought the place secretly, but he came, careless of all
consequences to himself. His contempt for the men of Suffering Creek
was profound and unaffected. He probably feared no man.
And the reason of his visits was not far to seek. There was something
infinitely more alluring to him at the house on the dumps than the
gold which held the miners--an inducement which he had neither wish
nor intention to resist. He reveled in the joy and excitement of
pursuing this wife of another man, and had the camp bristled with an
army of fighting men, and had the chances been a thousand to one
against him, with him the call of the blood would just as surely have
been obeyed. This was the man, savage, crude, of indomitable courage
and passionate recklessness.
And Jessie was dazzled, even blinded. She was just a weak, erring
woman, thrilling with strong youthful life, and his dominating nature
played upon her vanity with an ease that was quite pitiful. She was
only too ready to believe his denials of the accusations against him.
She was only too ready to--love. The humility, devotion, the goodness
of Scipio meant nothing to her. They were barren virtues, too
unexciting and uninteresting to make any appeal. Her passionate heart
demanded something more stimulating. And the stimulant she found in
the savage wooing of his unscrupulous rival.
Now the man's eyes contemplated the girl's ripe beauty, while he
struggled for that composure necessary to carry out all that was in
his mind. He checked a further rising impulse, and his voice sounded
almost harsh as he put a sharp question.
"Where's Zip?" he demanded.
The girl's eyelids slowly lifted. The warm glow of her eyes made them
limpid and melting.
"Gone out to his claim," she said in a low voice.
The other nodded appreciatively.
"Good."
He turned to the window. Out across the refuse-heaps the rest of the
camp was huddled together, a squalid collection of huts, uninspiring,
unpicturesque. His glance satisfied him. There was not a living soul
in view; not a sound except the prattle of the children who were
still playing outside the hut. But the latter carried no meaning to
him. In the heat of the moment even their mother was dead to the
appeal of their piping voices.
"You're coming away now, Jess," the man went on, making a movement
towards her.
But the girl drew back. The directness of his challenge was startling,
and roused in her a belated defensiveness. Going away? It sounded
suddenly terrible to her, and thrilled her with a rush of fear which
set her shivering. And yet she knew that all along this--this was the
end towards which she had been drifting. The rich color faded from her
cheeks and her lips trembled.
"No, no," she whispered in a terrified tone. For the moment all that
was best in her rose up and threatened to defeat his end.
But James saw his mistake. For a second a flash of anger lit his eyes,
and hot resentment flew to his lips. But it found no expression.
Instead, the anger died out of his eyes, and was replaced by a fire of
passion such as had always won its way with this girl. He moved
towards her again with something subtly seductive in his manner, and
his arms closed about her unresisting form in a caress she was
powerless to deny. Passive yet palpitating she lay pressed in his
arms, all her woman's softness, all her subtle perfume, maddening him
to a frenzy.
"Won't you? I love you, Jessie, so that nothing else on earth counts.
I can't do without you--I can't--I can't!"
His hot lips crushed against hers, which yielded themselves all too
willingly. Presently he raised his head, and his eyes held hers.
"Won't you come, Jess? There's nothing here for you. See, I can give
you all you wish for: money, a fine home, as homes go hereabouts. My
ranch is a dandy place, and," with a curious laugh, "stocked with some
of the best cattle in the country. You'll have horses to ride, and
dresses--See! You can have all you want. What is there here? Nothing.
Say, you don't even get enough to eat. Scipio hasn't got more backbone
in him than to gather five cents when it's raining dollars." He kissed
her upturned face again, and the warm responsive movement of her lips
told him how easy his task really was.
But again she pressed him back, so that he held her only at arms'
length. Her swimming eyes gazed long and ardently into his.
"It isn't that, Jim," she said earnestly; "it isn't that. Those things
don't count. It's--it's you. I--I don't want dresses. I don't want the
money. I--I--want you."
Then she started, terrified again.
"But, Jim, why did you come up to this hut?" she cried. "Why didn't
you wait for me down in the bush at the river, as usual? Oh, Jim, if
anybody sees you they'll shoot you down like a dog--"
"Dog, eh?" cried the man, with a ringing laugh. "Let 'em try. But
don't you worry, Jess. No one saw me. Anyway, I don't care a curse if
they did."
"Oh, Jim!"
Then she nestled closer to him for a moment of passionate silence,
while he kissed her, prolonging the embrace with all the fire with
which he was consumed. And after that she spoke again. But now it was
the mother that would no longer be denied, even in the midst of her
storm of emotion.
"But I--I can't leave them--the little ones. I can't, I can't!" she
cried piteously. "Jim, I love you. God knows how badly I love you, but
I--I love them, too. They are mine. They are part of me, and--and I
can't do without them. No--no. I can't go--I won't go," she hurried
on, without conviction. "I can't. I want my babies--my little boy and
girl. You say you love me. I know you love me. Then take them with us,
and--and I'll do as you wish. Oh, I'm wicked, I know. I'm wicked, and
cruel, and vile to leave Scipio. And I don't want to, but--but--oh,
Jim, say you'll take them, too. I can never be happy without them. You
can never understand. You are a man, and so strong." He drew her to
him again, and she nestled close in his arms. "You don't know what it
is to hear a child's voice, and know that it is part of you, your
life, one little tiny atom beginning all over again. No, no--I must
have them."
She slowly drew herself away, watching his handsome face, half
fearfully, half eagerly. She knew in her heart that she was waiting
for his verdict, and, whatever it might be, she would have to abide by
it. She knew she must do as he wished, and that very knowledge
gladdened her, even in spite of her maternal dread of being parted
from her babies.
She saw his expression change. She saw the look of perplexity in the
sudden drawing together of his finely marked brows, she saw the
half-angry impatience flash into his eyes, she saw this again replaced
with a half-derisive smile. And each emotion she read in her own way,
molding it to suit and fall in with her own desires, yet with a
willing feeling that his decision should be paramount, that she was
there to obey him.
He slowly shook his head, and a curious hardness set itself about his
strong mouth.
"Not now," he said. "I would, but it can't be done. See here, Jess,
I've got two horses hidden away down there in the bush beside the
creek--one for you, and one for me. We can't fetch those kiddies along
with us now. It wouldn't be safe, anyhow. We've got sixty-odd miles to
ride through the foothills. But see, I'll fetch 'em one day, after, if
you must have 'em. How's that?"
"But they'll never let you," cried Jessie. "The whole camp will be up
in arms when they know I've gone. You don't know them, Jim. They're
fond of Zip, and they'll stand by him."
James laughed contemptuously.
"Say, Jess," he cried, "you come right along with me now. And if
you need those kiddies, not all Suffering Creek--no, nor hell
itself--shall stop me bringing 'em along to you." Then he chuckled
in an unpleasant manner. "Say, it would tickle me to death to set
these mutton-headed gophers jumping around. You'll get those kiddies
if you need 'em, if I have to blow hell into this mud-heap of a
city."
Jessie's eyes glowed at the man's note of savage strength and
confidence. She knew he could and would do as he said, and this very
fact yielded her to him more surely than any other display could have
done. It was this wonderful daring, this reckless, savage manhood that
had originally won her. He was so different from all others, from her
puny husband. He swept her along and dazzled her. Her own virility
cried out for such a mate, and no moral scruples could hope to stay so
strong a tide of nature.
"You'll do it?" she cried fervently. Then she nodded joyously. "Yes,
yes, you'll do it. I know it. Oh, how good you are to me. I love you,
Jim."
Again she was in his arms. Again his kisses fell hot and fast upon her
glowing face. Nature was rushing a strong flood tide. It was a moment
that could have no repetition in their lives.
They stood thus, locked in each other's arms, borne along by a passion
that was beyond their control--lost to all the world, lost to all
those things which should have mattered to them. It was the fervid
outpouring of two natures which had nothing that was spiritual in
them. They demanded the life of the senses, and so strong was the
desire that they were lost to all else.
Then suddenly in the midst of their dream came the disturbing patter
of small feet and the joyous, innocent laughter of infantile glee. Two
tiny mud-stained figures rushed at the doorway and fell sprawling into
the hut. They were on their feet again in a moment, laughing and
crowing out their delight. Then, as the man and woman sprang apart,
they stood round-eyed, wondering and gaping.
Jamie and Vada paused only till the grown-up eyes were turned in their
direction, then their chorus broke out in one breath.
"We got fi' 'piders--"
"An' two bugs!"
The important information was fairly shrieked, to the accompaniment of
dancing eyes and flushed cheeks.
Jessie gasped. But her emotion was not at the news so rudely broken.
It was the breaking of the spell which had held her. Just for one
horrific moment she stood staring helplessly at the innocent picture
of her four-year-old twins, beautiful in spite of their grimy
exterior, beautiful as a Heaven-inspired picture to the mother.
The man smiled. Nor was it an unpleasant smile. Perhaps, somewhere in
his savage composition, he had a grain of humor; perhaps it was only
the foolish smile of a man whose wits are not equal to so incongruous
a situation.
"They're most ev'ry color," piped Vada, with added excitement.
"Uh!" grunted Jamie in agreement. "An' the bugs has horns."
But the man had recovered himself. The interruption had brought with
it a realization of the time he had spent in the hut.
"You'd best go and find more," he said. "There's heaps outside." Then
he turned to Jessie. "Come on. We must be going. Have you got the
things you need ready?"
But the mother's eyes were on the small intruders. Something was
gripping at her heart, and somehow it felt like four small and dirty
hands.
"Wher' you goin'?" demanded Vada, her childish curiosity roused, and
all her beautiful spiders forgotten for the moment.
Her question remained unanswered, leaving the room in ominous silence.
Then Jamie's treble blundered into its midst, dutifully echoing his
sister's inquiry.
"'Es, wher' you doin'?"
The man's eyes were narrowly watching the woman's face. He noted the
tremulous lips, the yearning light in her eyes. In a moment he was
answering the children, lest their innocent words should upset his
plans.
"Say, your momma's going for a horse-ride. She's just going right out,
and I'm going to show her a dandy place where she can fetch you, so
you can catch heaps an' heaps of bugs and spiders. She's just wanting
you to stop right here and catch more bugs, till I come along and
fetch you."
"O--oh!" cried Vada, prolonging her exclamation gleefully. "Say, can't
us go now?"
"Me do too," murmured her faithful shadow.
One quick glance at the mother's face and the man spoke again.
"Not now, kiddies. I'll come and fetch you. Run along." Then he turned
swiftly upon Jessie. "Where's your bundle?" he asked in his usual
masterful manner.
And her reply came in a tone of almost heart-broken submission.
"In there," she said, with a glance at the inner room.
The man gave her no time to add anything more. He felt the ground he
was treading was more than shaky. He knew that with the coming of
these children a tremendous power was militating against him--a power
which would need all his wits to combat. He passed into the inner
room, and returned in a moment with the girl's bundle. And with his
return one glance showed him how nearly his plans were upset. Jessie
was clasping Jamie in her arms, kissing him hungrily, tears streaming
down her cheeks, while, out of sheer sympathy, little Vada was
clinging to her mother's skirts, her small face buried in amongst
them, sobbing as though her heart would break.
In a moment he was at her side. This was not a time when any drastic
methods could serve him, and he adopted the only course which his
shrewd sense told him would be likely to avail. Gently but firmly he
took the boy out of her arms.
"You want him to go with us?" he said kindly. "Very well. Maybe we're
doing wrong--I mean, for his sake. Anyhow, I'll carry him, and then
I'll come back for Vada. It's not good. It's too hard on him, carrying
him all that distance--too dangerous. Still, I want you to be happy,
Jess. I'd do anything for that, even--even at his expense. So--"
"No--no!" cried the mother, carried away by the fear he expressed so
subtly, and warmed by his carefully expressed sympathy. "Don't take
any notice of me. I'm foolish--silly. You're right--he--he couldn't
make the journey with us. No, no, we--won't--take him now. Set him
down, Jim. I'll go now, and you'll--you'll come back for them. Yes,
yes, let's go now. I--I can't stay any--longer. I've left a letter for
Zip. Swear I shall have them both. You'll never--never break your
word? I think I'd--die without them."
"You shall have them. I swear it." The man spoke readily enough. It
was so easy to promise anything, so long as he got her.
But his oath brought neither expression of gratitude nor comment. The
woman was beyond mere words. She felt that only flight could save her
from breaking down altogether. And, thus impelled, she tore herself
from the presence of the children and rushed out of the hut. The
horses were down at the creek, and thither she sped, lest her purpose
should fail her.
James followed her. He felt that she must not be left by herself to
think. But at the door he paused and glanced keenly around him. Then
he breathed a sigh of relief. Not a living soul was to be seen
anywhere. It was good; his plans had worked out perfectly.
He set Jamie down, and, all unconscious of the little drama being
played round his young life, the child stretched out a chubby hand in
the direction of the soap-box he and his sister had been playing
with.
"'Piders," he observed laconically.
Vada rushed past him to inspect their treasures, her tears already
dried into streaks on her dirty little cheeks.
"An' bugs," she cried gleefully, squatting beside the box.
They had forgotten.
* * * * *
The man hurried away down towards the creek, bearing the pitiful
bundle of woman's raiment. The girl was ahead, and, as she again came
into his view, one thought, and one thought only, occupied his mind.
Jessie was his whole world--at that moment.
He, too, had forgotten.
"They've runned away," cried Vada, peering into the box.
"Me don't like 'piders," murmured Jamie definitely.
Vada's great brown eyes filled with tears. Fresh rivulets began to run
down the muddy channels on her downy cheeks. Her disappointment found
vent in great sobbing gulps.
Jamie stared at her in silent speculation. Then one little fat hand
reached out and pushed her. She rolled over and buried her wet face in
the dusty ground and howled heart-brokenly. Then Jamie crawled close
up beside her, and, stretching himself out, wept his sympathy into the
back of her gaping frock.
CHAPTER III
THE AWAKENING OF SCIPIO
At noon the camp began to rouse. The heavy eyes, the languid stretch,
the unmeaning contemplation of the noontide sunlight, the slow
struggles of a somnolent brain. These things were suggested in the
gradual stirring of the place to a ponderous activity. The heavy
movement of weary diggers as they lounged into camp for their dinner
had no suggestion of the greedy passion which possessed them. They had
no lightness. Whatever the lust for gold that consumed them, all their
methods were characterized by a dogged endeavor which took from them
every particle of that nervous activity which belongs to the finely
tempered business man.
The camp was a single row of egregious dwellings, squat, uncouth,
stretching away on either side of the veranda-fronted store and
"gambling hell" which formed a sort of center-piece around which
revolved the whole life of the village. It was a poor, mean place,
shapeless, evil-smelling in that pure mountain air. It was a mere
shelter, a rough perch for the human carrion lusting for the orgy of
gold which the time-worn carcass of earth should yield. What had these
people to do with comfort or refinement? What had they to do with
those things calculated to raise the human mind to a higher spiritual
plane? Nothing. All that might come later, when, their desires
satisfied, the weary body sick and aching, sends fearful thoughts
ahead towards the drab sunset awaiting them. For the moment the full
tide of youth is still running strong. Sickness and death have no
terrors. The fine strength of powerful bodies will not allow the mind
to focus such things.
Out of the rugged hills backing the camp the gold-seekers struggle to
their resting-place. Here, one man comes clambering over the rough
bowlder-strewn path at the base of a forest-clad hill. Here, an atom
of humanity emerges from the depths of a vast woodland that dwarfs all
but the towering hills. Another toils up a steep hillside from the
sluggish creek. Another slouches along a vague, unmade trail. Yet
another scrambles his way through a low, dense-growing scrub which
lines the sides of a vast ravine, the favored locality of the
gold-seeker.
So they come, one by one, from every direction radiating about the
building, which is Minky's store. Their faces are hard. Their skin is
tanned to a leathery hue, and is of a texture akin to hide. They are
silent, thoughtful men, too. But their silence is of the vast world in
which they delve, and their thought is the thought of men absorbed in
their quest. No, there is no lightness, even in their happiest
moments. To be light, an intelligent swiftness of brain is needed. And
these derelicts have little of such. Although, when Minky's spirit has
circulated its poison through their veins, they are sometimes apt to
assume a burlesque of it.
Now the camp is wide awake. But it is only the wakefulness of the
mother who is roused by the hungry crying of her infant. It will
slumber again when appetites have been duly appeased.
The milk of human kindness is soured by the intense summer heat. The
men are "grouchy." They jostle harshly as they push up to Minky's
counter for the "appetizers" they do not need. Their greetings are
few, and mostly confined to the abrupt demand, "Any luck?" Then, their
noon-day drink gulped down, they slouch off into the long, frowsy
dining-room at the back of the store, and coarsely devour the rough
fare provided by the buxom Birdie Mason, who is at once the kindliest
and worst caterer imaginable.
This good-natured soul's position was not as enviable as one might
reasonably have supposed. The only woman in a camp of men, any one of
whom might reasonably strike a fortune in five minutes. The situation
suggests possibilities. But, alas, Birdie was just a woman, and, in
consequence, from a worldly point of view, her drawbacks were many.
She was attractive--a drawback. She was given to a natural desire to
stand first with all men--another drawback. She was eminently
sentimental--a still greater drawback. But greatest of all she was a
sort of public servant in her position as caterer, and, as such, of
less than no account from the moment the "beast" had been satisfied.
She had her moments, moments when the rising good-nature of her
customers flattered her, when she was fussed over, and petted, as men
are ever ready to treat an attractive member of the opposite sex. But
these things led nowhither, from a point of view of worldly advantage,
and, being just a woman, warm-hearted, uncalculating and profoundly
illogical, she failed to realize the pitfalls that lay before her, the
end which, all unsuspecting, she was steadily forging towards.
Scipio, like the rest, came into camp for his dinner. His way lay
along the bank of the creek. It was cooler here, and, until he neared
his home, there were no hills up which to drag his weary limbs. He had
had, as usual, an utterly unprofitable morning amidst the greasy ooze
of his claim. Yet the glitter of the mica-studded quartz on the
hillside, the bright-green and red-brown shading of the milky-white
stone still dazzled his mental sight. There was no wavering in his
belief. These toilsome days were merely the necessary probation for
the culminating achievement. He assured himself that gold lay hidden
there. And it was only waiting for the lucky strike of his pick. He
would find it. It was just a matter of keeping on.
In his simple mind he saw wonderful visions of all that final
discovery. He dreamt of the day when he should be able to install his
beautiful Jessie in one of those up-town palaces in New York; when an
army of servants should anticipate her every desire; when the twins
should be launched upon the finest academies the country possessed, to
gorge their young minds to the full with all that which the minds of
the children of earth's most fortunate must be stored. He saw his
Jessie clad in gowns which displayed and enhanced all those beauties
with which his devoted mind endowed her. She should not only be his
queen, but the queen of a social world, which, to his mind, had no
rival. And the happiness of such dreams was beyond compare. His labor
became the work of a love which stimulated his puny muscles to a pitch
which carried him beyond the feeling of any weariness. For himself he
wanted nothing. For Jessie and the twins the world was not great
enough as a possession.
And was she not worth it? Were they not worth it? Look at her, so
splendid! How she bore with him and all his petty, annoying ways! Her
disposition was not of this earth, he told himself. Would any other
woman put up with his ill-humors, his shortcomings? He realized how
very trying he must be to any bright, clever woman. He was not clever,
and he knew it, and it made him pity Jessie for the lot he had brought
her to.
And the twins. Vada was the image of her mother. The big, round, brown
eyes, the soft, childish mouth, the waving brown hair. And Jamie. He
had her eyes, too, and her nose, and her beautiful coloring. What a
mercy of Providence neither of them resembled him. But, then, how
could they, with such a mother? How it delighted him to think that he
was working for them, for her. A thrill of delight swept over him,
and added a spring to his jaded step. What mattered anything else in
the world. He was to give them all that which the world counted as
good. He, alone.
But it was not yet. For a moment a shadow crossed his radiant face as
he toiled up the hill to his hut. It was gone in a moment, however.
How could it stay there with his thought gilded with such high hopes?
It was not yet, but it would come--must come. His purpose was
invincible. He must conquer and wrench this wealth which he demanded
from the bosom of the hard old earth. And then--and then--
"Hello, kiddies," he cried cheerily, as his head rose above the
hilltop and his hut and the two children, playing outside it, came
into his view.
"Pop-pa!" shrieked Vada, dropping a paper full of loose dirt and
stones upon her sprawling brother's back, in her haste to reach her
diminutive parent.
"Uh!" grunted Jamie, scrambling to his feet and tottering heavily in
the same direction.
There was a curious difference in the size and growth of these twins.
Probably it utterly escaped the adoring eyes of their father. He only
saw the reflected glory of their mother in them. Their resemblance to
her was all that really mattered to him, but, as a matter of fact,
this resemblance lay chiefly in Vada. She was like her mother in an
extraordinary degree. She was well-grown, strong, and quite in advance
of her years, in her speech and brightness of intellect. Little Jamie,
while he possessed much of his mother in his face, in body was
under-sized and weakly, and his mind and speech, backward of
development, smacked of his father. He was absolutely dominated by his
sister, and followed her lead in everything with adoring rapture.
Vada reached her father and scrambled agilely up into his work-soiled
arms. She impulsively hugged his yellow head to her cheeks with both
her arms, so that when Jamie came up he had to content himself by
similarly hugging the little man's left knee, and kissing the
mud-stains on his trousers into liquid patches.
But Scipio was impartial. He sat Vada down and picked her brother up.
Then, taking the former's hand in his horny clasp, bore the boy
towards the house.
"You found any gold?" inquired Vada, repeating a question she had so
often heard her mother put.
"'Es any--dold?" echoed Jamie, from his height above Scipio's head.
"No, kiddies," the man replied, with a slight sigh.
"Oh," said Vada. But his answer had little significance for her.
"Where's your momma?" inquired Scipio, after a pause.
"Momma do hoss-ridin'," replied Jamie, forestalling his sister for
once.
"Yes," added Vada. "She gone ridin'. An' they'll come an' take us
wher' ther's heaps an' heaps o' 'piders, an'--an' bugs an' things. He
said so--sure."
"He? Who?"
They had reached the hut and Scipio set Jamie on the ground as he put
his question.
"The dark man," said Vada readily, but wrinkling her forehead
struggling for the name.
"Uh!" agreed Jamie. "Mister Dames."
Just for a moment a sharp question lit Scipio's pale eyes. But the
little ones had no understanding of it. And the next moment, as their
father passed in through the doorway, they turned to the sand and
stone castle they had been laboriously and futilely attempting to mold
into some shape.
"Now you bring up more stones," cried Vada authoritatively. "Run
along, dear," she added patronizingly, as the boy stood with his small
hands on his hips, staring vacantly after his father.
Scipio gazed stupidly about the living-room. The slop-stained table
was empty. The cookstove fire was out. And, just for a second, the
thought flashed through his mind--had he returned too early for his
dinner? No, he knew he had not. It was dinner-time all right. His
appetite told him that.
For the moment he had forgotten what the children had told him. His
simple nature was not easily open to suspicion, therefore, like all
people of slow brain, this startling break in the routine of his daily
life simply set him wondering. He moved round the room, and, without
being aware of his purpose, lifted the curtain of turkey red, which
served as a door to the rough larder, and peered in. Then, as he let
the curtain fall again, something stirred within him. He turned
towards the inner room, and his mild voice called--
"Jess."
His answer was a hollow echo that somehow jarred his nerves. But he
called again--
"Jess."
Again came the echo. Then Vada's small face appeared round the
door-casing.
"Mom-ma gone hoss-ridin'," she reminded him.
For an instant Scipio's face flushed. Then it paled icily under its
tan. His brain was struggling to grasp something which seemed to be
slowly enveloping him, but which his honest heart would not let him
believe. He stared stupidly at Vada's dirty face. Then, as the child
withdrew to her play, he suddenly crossed the room to the curtained
bedroom doorway. He passed through, and the flimsy covering fell to
behind him.
For a space the music of childish voices was the only sound to break
the stillness. The hum of buzzing insects seemed to intensify the
summer heat. For minutes no movement came from the bedroom. It was
like the dread silence before a storm.
A strange sound came at last. It was something between a moan and the
pained cry of some mild-spirited animal stricken to death. It had no
human semblance, and yet--it came from behind the dingy print curtain
over the bedroom doorway.
A moment later the curtain stirred and the ghastly face of Scipio
suddenly appeared. He moved out into the living-room and almost fell
into the Windsor chair which had last been occupied by his wife. A
sheet of notepaper was in his shaking hand, and his pale eyes were
staring vacantly at it. He was not reading. He had read. And that
which he had read had left him dazed and scarcely comprehending. He
sat thus for many minutes. And not once did he stir a muscle, or lift
his eyes from their fixed contemplation.
A light breeze set the larder curtain fluttering. Scipio started. He
stared round apprehensively. Then, as though drawn by a magnet, his
eyes came back to the letter in his hand, and once more fixed
themselves upon the bold handwriting. But this time there was
intelligence in his gaze. There was intelligence, fear, despair,
horror; every painful emotion was struggling for uppermost place in
mind and heart. He read again carefully, slowly, as though trying to
discover some loophole from the horror of what was written there. The
note was short--so short--there was not one spark of hope in it for
the man who was reading it, not one expression of feeling other than
selfishness. It was the death-blow to all his dreams, all his desire.
"I've gone away. I shall never come back. I can't stand this life
here any longer. Don't try to find me, for it's no use. Maybe what
I'm doing is wicked, but I'm glad I'm doing it. It's not your
fault--it's just me. I haven't your courage, I haven't any courage
at all. I just can't face the life we're living. I'd have gone
before when he first asked me but for my babies, but I just
couldn't part with them. Zip, I want to take them with me now, but
I don't know what Jim's arrangements are going to be. I must have
them. I can't live without them. And if they don't go with us now
you'll let them come to me after, won't you? Oh, Zip, I know I'm a
wicked woman, but I feel I must go. You won't keep them from me?
Let me have them. I love them so bad. I do. I do. Good-by
forever.
"JESSIE."
Mechanically Scipio folded the paper again and sat grasping it tightly
in one clenched hand. His eyes were raised and gazing through the
doorway at the golden sunlight beyond. His lips were parted, and there
was a strange dropping of his lower jaw. The tanning of his russet
face looked like a layer of dirt upon a super-whited skin. He scarcely
seemed to breathe, so still he sat. As yet his despair was so terrible
that his mind and heart were numbed to a sort of stupefaction,
deadening the horror of his pain.
He sat on for many minutes. Then, at last, his eyes dropped again to
the crushed paper, and a quavering sigh escaped him. He half rose from
his seat, but fell back in it again. Then a sudden spasm seized him,
and flinging himself round he reached out his slight, tanned arms upon
the dirty table, and, his head dropping upon them, he moaned out the
full force of his despair.
"I want her!" he cried. "Oh, God, I want her!"
But now his slight body was no longer still. His back heaved with mute
sobs that had no tears. All his gentle soul was torn and bleeding. He
had not that iron in his composition with which another man might have
crushed down his feelings and stirred himself to a harsh defense. He
was just a warm, loving creature of no great strength beyond his
capacity for human affection and self-sacrifice. And for the time at
least, his sufferings were beyond his control.
In the midst of his grief two little faces, and two pairs of round,
wondering eyes appeared in the doorway. Two small infantile minds
worked hard at the sight they beheld. Vada, whose quickness of
perception was so much in advance of her brother's, murmured in his
ear--
"Sleep."
"Uh, seep," nodded the faithful boy.
Then four little bare feet began to creep into the room. Four big
brown eyes shone with gleeful anticipation. Four chubby arms were
outstretched as though claiming the victim of their childish prank.
Vada led, but Jamie was close behind. They stole in, their small feet
making not the slightest sound as they tiptoed towards the stricken
man. Each, thrilling with excitement, was desperately intent upon
frightening him.
"Boo-h!" cried Vada, her round eyes sparkling as she reached Scipio's
side.
"Bo-oh!" echoed Jamie a second later, chuckling and gurgling a delight
he had no other means of expressing at the moment.
Scipio raised his haggard face. His unsmiling eyes, so pale and
unmeaning, stared stupidly at the children. And suddenly the merry
smile died out of the young faces, and an odd contraction of their
brows suggested a dawning sympathy which came wholly from the heart.
"You'se cryin', poppa," cried Vada impulsively.
"Uh," nodded the boy.
And thereupon great tears welled up into their sympathetic eyes, and
the twins wept in chorus. And somehow the tears, which had thus far
been denied the man, now slowly and painfully flooded his eyes. He
groped the two children into his arms, and buried his face in the
soft wavy hair which fell in a tangle about the girl's head.
For some moments he sat thus, something of his grief easing in the
flood of almost womanish tears. Until, finally, it was Jamie who saved
the situation. His sobs died out abruptly, and the boy in him
stirred.
"Me want t' eat," he protested, without preamble.
The man looked up.
"Eat?" he echoed vaguely.
"Yes. Dinner," explained Vada, whose tears were still flowing, but who
never failed as her little brother's interpreter.
There was a moment's pause while Scipio stared down at the two
faces lifted so appealingly to his. Then a change came into his
expressionless eyes. A smoldering fire began to burn, which seemed
to deepen their weakly coloring. His drawn face seemed to gather
strength. And somehow even his straw-colored hair, so scanty,
ill-grown and disheveled, looked less like the stubble it so much
resembled. It was almost as though a latent, unsuspected strength
were rousing within him, lifting him from the slough of despair by
which he was so nearly submerged. It was as though the presence of
his twins had drawn from him an acknowledgment of his duty, a sense
which was so strongly and incongruously developed in his otherwise
uncertain character, and demanded of him a sacrifice of all personal
inclination. They were her children. Yes, and they were his. Her
children--her children. And she was gone. They had no one to look
to, no one to care for them now, but--him.
He sprang to his feet.
"Why, yes, kiddies," he said, with a painful assumption of lightness.
"You're needing food sure. Say, I guess we won't wait for your momma.
We'll just hand her an elegant surprise. We'll get dinner ourselves."
Jamie gurgled his joyous approval, but Vada was more intelligible.
"Bully!" she cried. "We'll give her a surprise." Then she turned to
Jamie. "Surprise is when folks do things that other folks don't guess
you're going to, dear," she explained, to his utter confusion.
Scipio went to the larder and gathered various scraps of food, and
plates, and anything that seemed to him as being of any possible use
in a meal. He re-kindled the fire in the cookstove and made some
coffee. That he understood. There was no sign of his despair about him
now. Perhaps he was more than usually silent, but otherwise, for the
time at least, he had buried his trouble sufficiently deeply out of
sight, so that at any rate the inquiring eyes of the happy children
could see nothing of it.
They, too, busied themselves in the preparation. Vada dictated to her
father with never flagging tongue, and Jamie carried everything he
could lift to and fro, regardless of whether he was bringing or taking
away. Vada chid him in her childishly superior way, but her efforts
were quite lost on his delicious self-importance. Nor could there be
any doubt that, in his infantile mind, he was quite assured that his
services were indispensable.
At last the meal was ready. There was nearly everything of which the
household consisted upon the table or in close proximity to it. Then,
when at last they sat down, and Scipio glanced over the strange
conglomeration, his conscience was smitten.
"Seems to me you kiddies need bread and milk," he said ruefully. "But
I don't guess there's any milk."
Vada promptly threw herself into the breach.
"On'y Jamie has bread an' milk, pop-pa. Y'see his new teeth ain't
through. Mine is. You best cut his up into wee bits."
"Sure, of course," agreed Scipio in relief. "I'll get along down to
Minky's for milk after," he added, while he obediently proceeded to
cut up the boy's meat.
It was a strange meal. There was something even tragic in it. The
children were wildly happy in the thought that they had shared in this
wonderful surprise for their mother. That they had assisted in those
things which childhood ever yearns to share in--the domestic doings of
their elders.
The man ate mechanically. His body told him to eat, and so he ate
without knowing or caring what. His distraught mind was traveling
swiftly through the barren paths of hopelessness and despair, while
yet he had to keep his children in countenance under their fire of
childish prattle. Many times he could have flung aside his mask and
given up, but the babyish laughter held him to an effort such as he
had never before been called upon to make.
When the meal was finished Scipio was about to get up from his chair,
but Vada's imperious tongue stayed him.
"We ain't said grace," she declared complainingly.
And the man promptly dropped back into his seat.
"Sure," he agreed helplessly.
At once the girl put her finger-tips together before her nose and
closed her eyes.
"Thank God for my good dinner, Amen, and may we help fix up after?"
she rattled off.
"Ess," added Jamie, "tank Dod for my dood dinner, Amen, me fix up,
too."
And with this last word both children tumbled almost headlong from the
bench which they were sharing. Nor had their diminutive parent the
heart to deny their request.
The next hour was perhaps one of the hardest in Scipio's life. Nothing
could have impressed his hopeless position upon him more than the
enthusiastic assistance so cordially afforded him. While the children
had no understanding of their father's grief, while with every
heart-beat they glowed with a loving desire to be his help, their
every act was an unconscious stab which drove him until he could have
cried aloud in agony.
And it was a period of catastrophe. Little Vada scalded her hand and
had to be petted back to her normal condition of sunny smiles. Jamie
broke one of the few plates, and his tears had to be banished by
assurances that it did not matter, and that he had done his father a
kindness by ridding him of such an ugly plate. Then Vada stumbled into
the garbage pail and had to be carefully wiped, while Jamie smeared
his sparse hair with rancid dripping and insisted he was "Injun,"
vociferously proclaiming his desire to "talp" his sister.
But the crowning disaster came when he attempted to put his threat
into execution. He seized a bunch of her hair in his two chubby hands
and began to drag her round the room. Her howls drew Scipio's
attention from his work, and he turned to find them a struggling heap
upon the floor. He dashed to part them, kicked over a bucket of
drinking water in his well-meant hurry, and, finally, had to rescue
them, both drenched to the skin, from the untimely bath.
There was nothing for it but to strip off all their clothes and dress
them up in their nightgowns, for as yet he had no knowledge of their
wardrobe, and send them out to get warm in the sun, while he dried
their day-clothes at the cookstove.
It was the climax. The man flung himself into a chair and buried his
face in his hands. The mask had dropped from him. There was no longer
any need for pretense. Once more the grief and horror of his disaster
broke through his guard and left him helpless. The whole world, his
life, everything was engulfed in an abyss of black despair.
He was dry-eyed and desperate. But now somehow his feelings contained
an emotion that the first shock of his loss had not brought him. He
was no longer a prey to a weak, unresisting submission, the grief of
a tortured gentle heart. There was another feeling. A feeling of anger
and resentment which slowly grew with each moment, and sent the hot
blood surging furiously to his brain. Nor was this feeling directed
against Jessie. How could it be? He loved her so that her cruel
desertion of him appeared to be a matter for which he was chiefly to
blame. Yes, he understood. He was not the husband for her. How could
it be otherwise? He had no cleverness. He had always been a failure.
No, his anger was not against Jessie. It was the other. It was the man
who had robbed him of all he cared for in the world.
His anger grew hotter and hotter. And with this growing passion there
came an absolute revulsion of the motive force that had always
governed him. He wanted to hurt. He wanted to hurt this man, Lord
James. And his simple mind groped for a means to carry out his desire.
He began to think more quickly and clearly, and the process brought
him a sort of cold calmness. Again his grief was thrust out of his
focus, and all his mental energy was concentrated upon his desire. And
he conjured up a succession of pictures of the tortures and sufferings
he desired for this villain who had so wronged him.
But the pictures were too feeble and wholly inadequate to satisfy. So
gentle was his nature, that, even stirred as he was, he could not
conceive a fitting punishment for so great an offense. He felt his own
inadequacy, his own feebleness to cope with the problem before him,
and so he sat brooding impotently.
It was all useless. And as the minutes slipped by his anger began to
die out, merging once more into the all-absorbing grief that underlay
it. He was alone. Alone! He would never see her again. The thought
chilled him to a sudden nervous dread. No, no, it was not possible.
She would come back. She must come back. Yes, yes. She was his
Jessie. His beautiful Jessie. She belonged to him. And the children.
She loved them. How she loved them. They were theirs. Yes, she would
come back. Maybe she would come back at supper-time. She would
understand by then. Because she was good, and--and kind, and--No, no,
Fate could never be so cruel as to take her from him.
He rose and paced the floor with nervous, uneven strides. He plunged
his hand into his coat pocket and drew out the letter again. He
re-read it, with hot eyes and straining thought. Every word seemed to
sear itself upon his poor brain, and drive him to the verge of
distraction. Why? Why? And he raised his bloodshot eyes to the roof of
his hut, and crushed the paper in one desperate hand.
Then suddenly he started. His pale eyes took on a furtive frightened
expression. He glanced fearfully round the room as though someone was
in hiding to surprise his inspiration. Yes, that was it. Why not? He
was not afraid. He was afraid of no one. Yes, yes, he had the means.
He must make the opportunity. She was his. No one else had a right to
her. It was justifiable. It was no more than justice.
He moved towards the inner room. He was less furtive now. His purpose
had startled him at first, but now he was convinced it was right. To a
man of his character his resolve once taken there was only one thing
to do--to carry it out.
He passed into the bedroom, and, in a few moments, reappeared. Now he
was bearing something in his hand. He held it carefully, and in his
eyes was something like terror of what he held. The thing he carried
was an old-fashioned revolver. It was rusty. But it had a merciless
look about it. He turned it up gingerly. Then he opened the breach,
and loaded all the six chambers. Then he carefully bestowed it in his
coat pocket, where it bulged obtrusively.
Now he moved to the open doorway, and somehow his original furtiveness
had returned to him. Here he paused as the voice of the twins reached
and held him. They were still playing in the sun, banking up the sand
and stones in their futile attempt at castle building. He breathed
hard, as though summoning up all his decision. Then he spoke.
"Say, kiddies," he said firmly. "I'll be right back at supper."
And he moved out without another look in their direction, and walked
off in the direction of Minky's store.
CHAPTER IV
SCIPIO BORROWS A HORSE
Scipio found an almost deserted camp after floundering his way over
the intricate paths amongst the refuse-heaps.
The miners had departed to their claims with a punctuality that
suggested Trades Union principles. Such was their existence. They ate
to live; they lived to work, ever tracking the elusive metal to the
earth's most secret places. The camp claimed them only when their
day's work was done; for the rest, it supported only their most urgent
needs.
Sunny Oak, lounging on a rough bench in the shadiest part of the
veranda facing Minky's store, raised a pair of heavy eyelids, to
behold a dejected figure emerge from amidst the "dumps." The figure
was bearing towards the store in a dusty cloud which his trailing feet
raised at every step. His eyes opened wider, and interested thought
stirred in his somnolent brain. He recognized the figure and wondered.
Scipio should have been out on his claim by this time, like the rest.
The lean long figure of the lounger propped itself upon its elbow.
Curiously enough, lazy as he was, the smallest matter interested him.
Had he suddenly discovered a beetle moving on the veranda he would
have found food for reflection in its doings. Such was his mind. A
smile stole into his indolent eyes, a lazy smile which spoke of
tolerant good-humor. He turned so that his voice might carry in
through the window which was just behind him.
"Say, Bill," he cried, "here's Zip comin' down the trail."
As though his announcement were sufficient to rouse an equal interest
in those inside the store, he returned again to his contemplation of
the approaching figure.
"What's he doin' around camp this hour?" inquired a harsh voice from
beyond the window.
"Guess I ain't a lightnin' calc'lator," observed Sunny, without
withdrawing his gaze.
"Nope," came the prompt retort from the invisible speaker; "guess it
'ud keep you busy trackin' a fun'ral."
"Which don't need contradiction! I'm kind o' makin' holiday these
times. Guess you ain't never heerd tell o' the 'rest cure'?"
A rough laugh broke on the drowsy atmosphere.
"Sunny's overworked just now," said another voice, amidst the rattle
of poker chips.
"Wher' you bin workin', Sunny?" inquired the harsh voice of the man
addressed as Bill.
"Workin'!" cried the loafer, with good-natured scorn. "Say, I don't
never let a hobby interfere with the bizness of life."
A half-smothered laugh answered him. Even the exigencies of a poker
hand could not quite crush out the natural humor of these men, who
always followed on the golden trail of the pioneers.
"Say, what's your bizness?" demanded another voice presently.
"Restin'!" the man on the veranda answered easily.
The shuffle of cards and rattle of chips came with a snigger. And the
answering lazy smile of Sunny Oak was good to see. It lit his unshaven
face from his unwashed brow to his chin. And to an onlooker it might
well have appeared a pity that an intense bodily indolence should so
dominate his personality. He looked vastly capable, both mentally and
physically.
But his eyes never left the on-coming Scipio. The little man moved
with bowed head and trailing footsteps. The utter dispiritedness of
his gait stirred even the self-centered watcher. But Scipio saw
nothing of Sunny Oak. He saw nothing of anything but the despairing
picture in his own mind. The ramshackle shanties which lined one side
of the trail were passed unheeded. The yapping of the camp dogs at the
unusual sight of so deplorable a figure at this hour of the day was
quite unnoticed by him. The shelving rise of attenuated grassland
which blocked the view of Suffering Creek on his left never for a
moment came into his focus. His eyes were on the trail ahead of him,
and never more than a few feet from where he trod. And those eyes were
hot and staring, aching with their concentration upon the hideous
picture which filled his brain.
As Scipio drew near Sunny Oak further bestirred himself, which was a
concession not often yielded by that individual to anyone. He sat up,
and his smile broadened. Then it faded out as he beheld the usually
mild expression of the yellow-haired prospector now so set and
troubled.
"Gee!" he murmured in an undertone. Then, with an evident effort, he
offered a greeting.
"Ho, you, Zip! Drawn a blank way up ther' on your mudbank?"
Scipio looked up in a dazed fashion. Then he halted and seemed to pull
himself together. Finally he spoke.
"Howdy?" he said in a mechanical sort of way.
"Guess I'm a heap better," responded Sunny, with twinkling eyes.
Scipio gazed up at the store in a bewildered way. He saw the great
letters in which Minky's name and occupation were inscribed on its
pretentious front, and it seemed to bring back his purpose to his
distracted mind. Instantly the other's words became intelligible to
him, and his native kindliness prompted him.
"You been sick?" he demanded.
"Wal, not rightly sick, but--ailin'." Sunny's smile broadened till a
mouthful of fairly decent teeth showed through the fringe of his
ragged mustache.
"Ailin'?"
"Yep. Guess I bin overdoin' it."
"It don't do, working too hard in the heat," said Scipio absently.
"Sure," replied Sunny. "It's been a hard job avoidin' it. Ther's allus
folk ready to set me workin'. That's just the way o' things. What I
need is rest. Say, you ain't workin'?"
Scipio started.
"No. I'm looking for Wild Bill."
Sunny Oak jerked his head backwards in the direction of the window.
"Guess he's at work--in ther'."
"Thanks."
Scipio mounted the veranda and passed along to the door of the store.
Sunny's eyes followed him, but he displayed no other interest. With
ears and brain alert, however, he waited. He knew that all he required
to know would reach him through a channel that was quite effortless to
himself. Again he stretched himself out on the bench, and his
twinkling eyes closed luxuriously.
Minky's store was very little different from other places of its kind.
He sold everything that could possibly be needed in a newly started
mining camp. He did not confine himself to hardware and clothing and
canned goods, but carried a supply of drugs, stationery and general
dry goods, besides liquor in ample quantities, if of limited quality.
There was rye whisky, there was gin, and there was some sort of French
brandy. The two latter were in the smallest quantities. Rye was the
staple drink of the place.
The walls of the store were lined with shelves on every side, and the
shelves were full, even overflowing to a piled-up confusion of goods
which were stacked around on the floor. In the somewhat limited
floor-space there were tables and benches which could be used for the
dual purpose of drink and cards. But wherein Minky's store was
slightly out of the usual was the fact that he was not a Jew, and
adopted no Jewish methods of trading. He was scrupulously honest with
his customers, and fairly moderate in his charges, relying on this
uncommon integrity and temperateness of disposition to make personal
liking the basis of his commercial success.
It was perhaps a much further-sighted policy than one would suppose.
Several men had endeavored to start in the store business in
opposition to him, but in each case their enterprise had proved an
utter failure. Not a man in the place would trade elsewhere. Minky was
just "Minky," whom they liked and trusted. And, what was much more to
the point, who was ever ready to "trust" them.
Wild Bill was at the poker table with Minky, Sandy Joyce and Toby
Jenks when Scipio entered the place. He was a gambler out and out. It
was his profession. He was known as Wild Bill of Abilene, a man whose
past was never inquired into by even the most youthful newcomer,
whose present was a thing that none ever saw sufficient reason to
question, and whose future suggested nothing so much as the general
uncertainty of things human. He was a man of harsh exterior and,
apparently, harsh purpose. His eyes were steely and his tongue
ironical; he possessed muscles of iron and a knowledge of poker and
all its subtleties that had never yet failed him. He was a dead
shot with a pistol, and, in consequence, fear and respect were laid
at his feet by his fellow-townsmen. He was also Minky's most
treasured friend.
Sandy Joyce had to his credit a married past, which somehow gave him a
certain authority in the place. He was expected to possess a fund of
wisdom in matters worldly, and he did his best to live up to this
demand. He was also, by the way, an ex-cowpuncher suffering from gold
fever, and between whiles played poker with Wild Bill until he had
lost the result of his more regular labors. He was a slight, tall,
bright-eyed man of thirty, with an elaborate flow of picturesque
language. He was afraid of no man, but all women.
Toby Jenks was as short and squat as his friends were long and thin.
He was good-tempered, and spent large remittances which reached him at
regular intervals in the lulls which occurred in his desultory search
for gold.
Minky, a plain, large man of blunt speech and gruff manners, looked up
swiftly as Scipio entered, and a moment later three more pairs of eyes
were fixed inquiringly upon the newcomer.
"Struck color?" inquired Minky, with his gruffest cordiality.
"No."
Scipio's entire attitude had distinctly undergone a change since Sunny
Oak's lazy eyes first discovered his approach. Where before the
hopelessness of despair had looked out from every line of his mild
face, now his mouth was set obstinately, and a decided thrust to his
usually retiring chin became remarkable. Even his wispy hair had an
aggression in the manner in which it obtruded from under the brim of
his slouch hat. His eyes were nearly defiant, yet there was pleading
in them, too. It was as if he were sure of the rightness of his
purpose, but needed encouragement in its execution.
For the moment the poker game was stopped, a fact which was wholly due
to the interest of the steely eyes of Wild Bill.
"Layin' off?" inquired the gambler, without a moment's softening.
"Guess you're passin' on that mud lay-out of yours," suggested Sandy,
with a laugh.
Scipio shook his head, and his lips tightened.
"No. I want to borrow a good horse from Bill here."
The gambler set down the cards he had been shuffling. The statement
seemed to warrant his action. He sat back in his chair and bit a chew
of tobacco off a black plug. Minky and the others sat round and stared
at the little man with unfeigned interest.
"You're needin' a hoss?" demanded Bill, without attempting to disguise
his surprise. "What for?"
Scipio drew a hand across his brow; a beady sweat had broken out upon
it.
"Oh, nothing to bother folk with," he said, with a painful attempt at
indifference. "I've got to hunt around and find that feller, 'Lord'
James."
A swift glance flashed round the table from eye to eye. Then Sunny
Oak's voice reached them from beyond the window--
"Guess you've a goodish ways to travel."
"Time enough," said Scipio doggedly.
"What you need to find him for?" demanded Wild Bill, and there was a
change in the glitter of his fierce eyes. It was not that they
softened, only now they had the suggestion of an ironical smile,
which, in him, implied curiosity.
Scipio shifted his feet uneasily. His pale eyes wandered to the sunlit
window. One hand was thrust in his jacket pocket, and the fingers of
it fidgeted with the rusty metal of the gun that bulged its sides.
This pressure of interrogation was upsetting the restraint he was
putting on himself. All his grief and anger were surging uppermost
again. With a big effort, which was not lost upon his shrewd audience,
he choked down his rising emotion.
"Oh, I--I'd like to pay him a 'party call,'" he blurted out.
Minky was about to speak, but Wild Bill kept him silent with a sharp
glance. An audible snigger came from beyond the window.
"Guess you know jest wher' you'll locate him?" inquired the gambler.
"No, but I'm going to find him, sure," replied Scipio doggedly. Then
he added, with his eyes averted, "Guess I shan't let up till I do."
There was a weak sparkle in the little man's eyes.
"What's your game?" rasped Bill curiously.
"Oh, just nothin'."
The reply caused a brief embarrassed pause. Then the gambler broke it
with characteristic force.
"An' fer that reason you're--carryin' a gun," he said, pointing at the
man's bulging pocket.
Sandy Joyce ceased stacking his "chips"; Toby squared his broad
shoulders and drained an already empty glass. Minky blinked his
astonishment, while Wild Bill thrust his long legs out and aggressively
pushed his hat back on his head. It was at that moment that curiosity
overcame Sunny Oak's habitual indolence, and his face appeared over
the window-sill.
"He's stole from me," said Scipio in a low tone.
"What's he stole?" demanded the gambler savagely.
"My wife."
The stillness of the room remained unbroken for some moments. Actions
came far easier to these men than mere words. Scipio's words had a
paralyzing effect upon their powers of speech, and each was busy with
thoughts which they were powerless to interpret into words. "Lord"
James was a name they had reason to hate. It was a name synonymous
with theft, and even worse--to them. He had stolen from their
community, which was unforgivable, but this--this was something new to
them, something which did not readily come into their focus. Wild Bill
was the first to recover himself.
"How d'you know?" he asked.
"She wrote telling me."
"She went 'cos she notioned it?" inquired Sandy.
"He's stole her--he's stole my Jessie," said Scipio sullenly.
"An' you're goin' to fetch her back?" Bill's question whipped the
still air.
"Sure--she's mine."
Scipio's simplicity and single-mindedness brought forth a sigh of
intense feeling from his hearers.
"How?" Wild Bill's method of interrogation had a driving effect.
"She's mine, an'--I'm going to get her back." There was pity at the
man's obstinate assertion in every eye except Wild Bill's.
"Say, Zip, he'll kill you," said the gambler, after a pause.
"She's my wife. She's mine," retorted Scipio intensely. "An' I'll
shoot him dead if he refuses to hand her over."
"Say," the gambler went on, ignoring the man's protest--the idea of
Scipio shooting a man like James was too ludicrous--"you're up agin a
bad proposition, sure. James has stole your--wife. He's stole more.
He's a stage-robber."
"A cattle-thief," broke in Sandy.
"A 'bad man' of the worst," nodded Minky.
"He's all these, an' more," went on Bill, scowling. "He's a low-down
skunk, he's a pestilence, he's a murderer. You're goin' to hunt him
back ther' to his own shack in the foothills with his gang of toughs
around him, an' you're goin' to make him hand back your wife. Say,
you're sure crazy. He'll kill you. He'll blow your carkis to hell, an'
charge the devil freightage for doin' it."
There was a look of agreement in the eyes that watched Scipio's mild
face. There was more: there was sympathy and pity for him, feelings
in these men for which there was no other means of expression.
But Scipio was unmoved from his purpose. His underlip protruded
obstinately. His pale eyes were alight with purpose and misery.
"He's stole my--Jessie," he cried, "an' I want her back." Then, in a
moment, his whole manner changed, and his words came with an
irresistible pleading. Hard as was the gambler, the pathos of it
struck a chord in him the existence of which, perhaps, even he was
unaware.
"You'll lend me a horse, Bill?" the little man cried. "You will, sure?
I got fifty dollars saved for the kiddies' clothes. Here it is," he
hurried on, pulling out a packet of bills from his hip pocket. "You
take 'em and keep 'em against the horse. It ain't sufficient, but it's
all I got. I'll pay the rest when I've made it, if your horse gets
hurted. I will, sure. Say," he added, with a happy inspiration, "I'll
give you a note on my claim--ha'f of it. You'll do it? You--"
Bill's face went suddenly scarlet. Something made him lower his
eyelids. It was as though he could not look on that eager face unmoved
any longer. Somehow he felt in a vague sort of way that poor Scipio's
spirit was altogether too big for his body. Bigger by far than that of
those sitting there ready to deride his purpose, and crush it to a
weak yielding such as, in their minds, was the only possible thing for
a man of his like.
"You set them bills right back in your dip," he cried, with a
savageness that was only a mask to his real feelings; "I don't need
'em. You ken get right out to the barn an' have your pick o' my plugs,
an' anythin' you need else. Guess you best take the black mare. She'll
carry you all day for a week, sure, an' then laff at you. Get right
on, an'--an'--good luck!"
There are actions performed in every man's life for which he can
never account, even to himself. Such was the act Wild Bill performed
at that moment. Gambling was his living, but his horses were a passion
with him. He possessed, perhaps, some of the finest in the country,
and he worshiped them. He had never been known to lend a horse to his
best friend, and no one but himself had ever been allowed to feed or
groom them. He was prouder of them than a father might be of his
firstborn son, and as careful of them as any doting mother. Therefore
his assent to Scipio's request was quite staggering to his companions.
Nor did he know why he did it, and a furious anger followed
immediately upon this unusual outburst of good-nature.
Scipio was profuse in his thanks. But he was cut short with a violence
that seemed quite unnecessary. For the moment, at least, Bill hated
the little man almost as much as he hated this "Lord" James he was
setting out in search of.
After that no word passed until Scipio had left the store for the
barn. Bill sat wrapt in moody thought, his fierce eyes lowered in
contemplation of his well-shod feet. His cards were forgotten, the men
around him were forgotten. Sandy and the storekeeper were watching his
harsh face in wonder, while Toby's head was turned in the direction of
the departing man. It was Sunny Oak from his post at the window who
finally broke the silence.
"Guess you gone plumb 'bug,' Bill," he said, with an amiable grin.
Then, as only a flicker of a smile from the others answered him, and
Bill ignored his charge altogether, he hurried on, "You're helpin'
that misguided feller to a dose of lead he'll never have time to
digest. If ever Zip runs foul of James, he'll blow him to hell as
sure--as ther's allus work for those as don't need it. An', wot's
more, you'll never set eyes on your black mare agin, 'less it's under
James' saddle. You're sure 'bug.' You oughter be seen to."
It was only Sunny Oak who would have dared to say so much to the
gambler. But then, for some unstated reason, Sunny was a privileged
person on Suffering Creek. Nobody paid much attention to the manner in
which he allowed his tongue to run on, and, besides, he was too lazy
to be afraid of anybody.
Bill looked round.
"You're side-tracked," he observed contemptuously. "James won't shoot
Jessie's husband. Maybe he'll kick him out, maybe he'll roast him bad,
and tongue-lash him. Anyways, every man's got to play his own hand.
An'--it's good to see him playin' hard, win or lose. But Zip'll git
back, sure. An' he'll bring my mare with him. Go to sleep, Sunny; your
thinkin'-pan's nigh hatched out."
"I don't guess he'll ever get alongside James," observed Minky
thoughtfully. "We've all looked for him a piece. We know he's got a
shanty back in the foothills, but I don't seem to remember hearin' of
anybody findin' it. I don't guess Zip's wise to where it is."
Bill's eyes lit with a curious fire.
"Guess Zip'll find him," he said quietly. "Maybe it'll take him
time--"
"An'," cried Sunny, "how's them pore kiddies to live meanwhiles?"
The loafer fired his little bomb with the desired effect. The men had
no answer for some moments. And gradually all eyes fixed themselves
upon Bill's face, as though acknowledging his leadership. He answered
the challenge in characteristic fashion.
"Guess we'll turn Sunny loose to wet-nurse 'em."
An announcement which set Sunny plunging headlong to his own defense.
"Say, ain't ther' no sort o' peace for a feller as needs rest? You're
all mighty smart settin' folks to work. But this is your game, Bill,
an' it's up to you to put it thro'. I 'low you'd make an elegant
wet-nurse--so soft and motherish."
But Bill had had enough, and turned upon the face at the window in his
most savage manner.
"See here," he cried, with fierce irony, "we've all know'd you since
Sufferin' Creek was Sufferin' Creek, an' nobody ain't never kicked.
But it's kind o' ne'ssary for every feller around these parts to
justify 'emselves. Get me? You need 'justifyin'.' Wal, I guess you'll
see to them kiddies till Zip comes back. It's going to be your work
seein' they don't get fixed into any sort o' trouble, an' when Zip
gets back you'll hand 'em over clean an' fixed right. Get that? I'm
payin' for their board, an' I'm payin' you a wage. An' you're goin' to
do it, or light right out o' here so quick your own dust'll choke
you."
"Here, here!" cried Toby, with a delighted laugh.
Sandy grinned into the loafer's angry face, while Minky nodded an
unsmiling approval.
"Gee, you beat hell for nerve!" cried Sunny.
"Guess I ken do better. I ken beat you," retorted Bill contemptuously.
"You'll do it, or--you ken start gettin' out now," he added.
Sunny realized his position by the expression of the other men's
faces, and, quickly resuming his good-humored plaint, he acquiesced
with a grumble.
"Gee! but it's a tough world," he complained, dropping back on to his
bench hurriedly, lest fresh demands should be made upon him, and just
in time to witness Scipio leading a beautiful black mare up to the
tying-post.
The men in the store turned out at the sound of horse's hoofs, and
stood gathered on the veranda. Bill's keen eyes were fixed regretfully
on the shining sides of his favorite animal. She was a picture of lean
muscle and bone, with a beautiful small head, and ears that looked
little larger than well-polished mussel-shells. She stood pawing the
ground impatiently while Scipio tied her to the post, and she nuzzled
his ribs playfully with her twitching lips in the most friendly
spirit. But Bill's eyes were suddenly arrested by the manner in which
she was saddled and bridled. Poor Scipio had blundered in a hopeless
fashion.
Other eyes, too, had seen the blunder, and Sandy Joyce suddenly
pointed.
"Mackinaw! Jest get that," he cried.
"By Gee!" laughed Sunny.
But Wild Bill cut them all short in a surprising manner.
"Say, guess you fellers ain't never made no sort o' mistakes--any o'
you. You're laffin' a heap. Quit it, or--" His eyes flashed
dangerously. Then, as the men became silent, he darted across to where
Scipio was still fumbling with the neck rope.
The little man's attempt at saddling, under any other circumstances,
would have brought forth Bill's most scathing contempt. The saddle was
set awry upon an ill-folded blanket. It was so far back from the
mare's withers that the twisted double cinchas were somewhere under
her belly, instead of her girth. Then the bit was reversed in her
mouth, and the curb-strap was hanging loose.
Bill came to his rescue in his own peculiar way.
"Say, Zip," he cried in a voice that nothing could soften, "I don't
guess you altered them stirrups to fit you. I'll jest fix 'em." And
the little man stood humbly by while he set to work. He quickly
unfastened the cinchas, and set the blanket straight. Then he shifted
the saddle, and refastened the cinchas. Then he altered the stirrups,
and passed on to the mare's bridle--Scipio watching him all the while
without a word. But when the gambler had finished he glanced up into
his lean face with an almost dog-like gratitude.
"Thanks, Bill," he said. "I never done it before."
"So I guessed." And the gambler's words, though wholly harsh, had no
other meaning in them. Then he went on, as Scipio scrambled into the
saddle, "You don't need to worry any 'bout things here. Your
kiddies'll be seen to proper till you get back, if you're on the trail
a month."
Scipio was startled. He had forgotten his twins.
"Say--you--"
But Bill wanted no thanks or explanations.
"We're seein' to them things--us, an' that all-fired lazy slob, Sunny
Oak. Ther' won't be no harm--" He flicked the restive mare, which
bounded off with the spring of a gazelle. "Ease your hand to her," he
called out, so as to drown Scipio's further protestations of
gratitude, "ease your hand, you blamed little fule. That's it. Now let
her go."
And the mare raced off in a cloud of dust.
CHAPTER V
HUSBAND AND LOVER
Where all the trail-wise men of Suffering Creek and the district had
failed, Scipio, the incompetent, succeeded. Such was the ironical
pleasure of the jade Fortune. Scipio had not the vaguest idea of
whither his quest would lead him. He had no ideas on the subject at
all. Only had he his fixed purpose hard in his mind, and, like a
loadstone, it drew him unerringly to his goal.
There was something absolutely ludicrous in the manner of his search.
But fortunately there are few ready to laugh at disaster. Thus it was
that wherever he went, wherever he paused amongst his fellows in
search of information he was received perfectly seriously, even when
he told the object of his search, and the story of its reason.
An ordinary man would probably have hugged such a story to himself. He
would have resorted to covert probing and excuse in extracting
information. But then it is doubtful if, under such circumstances, his
purpose would have been so strong, so absolutely invincible as
Scipio's. As it was, with single-minded simplicity, Scipio saw no
reason for subterfuge, he saw no reason for disguising the tragedy
which had befallen him. And so he shed his story broadcast amongst the
settlers of the district until, by means of that wonderful prairie
telegraphy, which needs no instruments to operate, it flew before him
in every direction, either belittled or exaggerated as individual
temperament prompted.
At one ranch the news was brought in from the trail by a hard-faced
citizen who had little imagination, but much knowledge of the
country.
"Say, fellers," he cried, as he swung out of the saddle at the
bunkhouse door, "ther's a tow-headed sucker on the trail lookin' fer
the James outfit. Guess he wants to shoot 'em up. He's a sawed-off
mutt, an' don't look a heap like scarin' a jack-rabbit. I told him he
best git back to hum, an' git busy fixin' his funeral right, so he
wouldn't have no trouble later."
"Wher's he from?" someone asked.
"Sufferin' Creek," replied the cowpuncher, "an' seems to me he's got
more grit than savvee."
And this opinion was more or less the general one. The little man rode
like one possessed, and it was as well that of all his six treasured
horses Wild Bill had lent him his black beauty, Gipsy. She was quite
untiring, and, with her light weight burden, she traveled in a spirit
of sheer delight.
At every homestead or ranch Scipio only paused to make inquiries and
then hurried on. The information he received was of the vaguest. James
or some of his gang were often seen in the remoter parts of the lower
foothills, but this was all. At one farm he had a little better luck,
however. Here he was told that the farmer had received an intimation
that if he wished to escape being burnt out he must be prepared to
hand over four hundred dollars when called upon by the writer to do
so; and the message was signed "James."
"So ye see," said the farmer--a man named Nicholls--despondently,
"he's som'eres skulkin' around hyar."
"Seems like it," acquiesced Scipio.
Then, of a sudden, a suspicion flashed through the other's mind, and
the man-hunter spent an uncomfortable few seconds.
"Say, you're lookin' fer him?" the farmer questioned harshly. Then he
leant forward, his eyes lighting with sudden anger. "If I tho't you
was--"
But Scipio's mild blue eyes, and his simple reply had a pacific effect
at once.
"I'm looking for him because he's stole my wife. And I'm goin' on
chasin' till I find him."
There was such mild sincerity in his visitor's manner that it was
impossible for the farmer to retain his suspicion.
"What you goin' to do about that four hundred?" inquired Scipio
later.
"He'll get no dollars out o' me. I ain't got 'em," replied Nicholls
hopelessly. Then his temper rose. "But I'm just goin' to sleep with a
gun to my hand, an' he'll get it good an' plenty, if he shoots the
life out of me, an' burns every stick I got, after."
Scipio nodded sympathetically.
"I'd feel that ways," he said. "Well, I guess I'll be gettin' on. My
mare'll be fed an' rested by this. Thanks for the feed. Guess I'll
hunt around this district a piece. Maybe I'll find--"
But suddenly the farmer awoke from the contemplation of his own
troubles and eyed the diminutive figure of his guest wonderingly, as
he stood up to go.
"Say," he observed critically, "guess you must be bustin' with grit
chasin' this feller."
Scipio shook his head.
"No," he said, with a wan smile. "But he's got--my wife."
"Ah."
And there was a world of understanding in the man's monosyllable.
Five minutes later the man-hunter was on the trail again. It was the
afternoon of the second day of his quest. He was saddle-sore and
weary, but his purpose knew no weakening. Gipsy was going fresh and
strong, and though she had already traveled probably a hundred miles
in her rider's aimless wanderings, she moved as though she was out for
a morning's exercise on a liberal diet of oats.
True to his intention Scipio scoured the district with an excess of
enthusiasm which carried him far, and sundown found him amongst the
beehive hummocks which form the approach to the greater hills. Up and
down these wonderful grassy dunes he roamed searching a resting-place
for himself and his mare. There was nothing of the sort in sight,
nothing but the endless series of grassy knolls, and the dividing
hollows which might conceal anything, from a ranch house to an
outlying cattle station. And finally he abandoned all hope of
shelter.
He had certainly lost himself. But, even so, he was not greatly
concerned. Why should he be? What did it matter? He knew that if the
worst came to the worst his mare could eat her fill of grass, and, for
himself, sleep in the open had no terrors. Of food for himself he had
not even begun to think. So he rode on until the last blaze of the
setting sun dropped behind the sky-line.
He was descending into a hollow, something deeper than usual. Hope ran
high that it was one of those hidden breaks, which, at intervals,
cross the sea of grassy dunes, and mark a mountain waterway. Nor was
he disappointed. A few moments later, to his delight, he found himself
gazing into the depths of one of the many rivulets trickling its
shallow way between low cut banks. Promptly he made up his mind that
it was the place for him to camp.
At the water's edge he scrambled out of the saddle and began to seek a
place where his mare could drink. It was a little difficult, for the
banks were sharp, and the bushes plentiful, and he had wandered at
least a hundred yards in his search for an opening when a human voice
abruptly hailed him from the far side of the stream. He looked across
without answering, and, to his intense surprise, beheld a horseman on
the opposite bank. The man, judging by his appearance, was a
cowpuncher, and, to Scipio's simple mind, was, like himself,
benighted.
"Hello," he replied at last, after a thoughtful stare.
The man was eyeing the yellow-headed figure with no very friendly
eyes, but this fact was lost upon Scipio, who saw in him only a fellow
man in misfortune. He saw the lariat on the horn of the saddle, the
man's chapps, his hard-muscled broncho pony gazing longingly at the
water. The guns at the man's waist, the scowling brow and shifty eyes
passed quite unobserved.
"Wher' you from?" demanded the man sharply.
"Suffering Creek," replied Scipio readily.
"Guess you've come quite a piece," said the other, after a considering
pause.
"I sure have."
"What you doin' here?"
The man's inquiry rapped out smartly. But Scipio had no suspicion of
anybody, and answered quite without hesitation.
"I'm huntin' a man called James. You ain't seen him?"
But the man countered his question with another.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Scipio--and yours?"
In the dying light the man's saturnine features seemed to relax for a
moment into something like a smile. But he spoke at once.
"Come right over," he invited. "Guess my name's Abe--Abe Conroy. I'm
out chasin' cattle." And the fact that he finished up with a
deliberate laugh had no meaning at all for his companion.
Scipio gladly accepted the invitation, and, in response to the man's
instructions, moved farther along the stream until he came to a
shelving in the bank where his mare could climb down. He crossed
over, letting his horse drink by the way, and a few moments later was
at his new acquaintance's side.
The stranger's mood seemed to have entirely changed for the better by
the time Scipio came up. His smile was almost amiable, and his manner
of speech was comparatively jocular.
"So you're chasin' that crook, James," he said easily. "Queer, ain't
it?"
"What?"
"Why, he's run off a bunch of our stock. Leastways, that's how I'm
guessin'. I'm makin' up to his place right now to spy out things. I
was jest waitin' fer the sun to go. Y'see we're organizin' a vigilance
party to run--Say, I'd a notion fer a moment you was one of his
gang."
But Scipio disclaimed the honor promptly.
"No. I just need to find him. I'm needin' it bad."
"Wot fer?"
For once the man-hunter hesitated. A quite unaccountable feeling gave
him a moment's pause. But he finally answered frankly, as he always
answered, with a simple directness that was just part of him.
"He's stole my wife," he said, his eyes directly gazing into the
other's face.
"Gee, he's a low-down skunk," declared the other, with a curse. But
the ironical light in his eyes quite escaped his companion's
understanding.
Scipio was full of his good fortune in falling in with a man who knew
of James' whereabouts. A dozen questions sprang into his mind, but he
contented himself with stating his intention.
"I'll ride on with you," he said.
"What, right up to James' lay-out?"
"Sure. That's wher' I'm makin'."
For a moment the man calling himself Conroy sat gazing out at the
afterglow of the setting sun. His whole appearance was ill-favored
enough to have aroused distrust in anybody but a man like Scipio. Now
he seemed to be pondering a somewhat vexed question, and his brows
were drawn together in a way that suggested anything but a clear
purpose. But finally he seemed to make up his mind to a definite
course. He spoke without turning to his companion, and perhaps it was
for the purpose of hiding a lurking derisive smile.
"If you're set on makin' James' shanty, you best come right along.
Only"--he hesitated for the barest fraction of a second--"y'see, I'm
out after this cattle racket, an' I guess I owe it to my folks to git
their bizness thro' without no chance of upset. See?"
Scipio nodded. He saw the man's drift, and thought it quite splendid
of him.
"Now, I got to spy out things," the man went on, "an' if you get right
up ther' first it'll likely upset things fer me--you goin' ther' to
hold him up as it were." His smile was more pronounced. "Now I guess
I'll show you where his lay-out is if you'll sure give me your promise
to let me hunt around fer ha'f-an-hour around his corrals--'fore you
butt in. Then I'll get right back to you an' you can go up, an'--shoot
him to hell, if you notion that fancy."
Scipio almost beamed his thanks. The man's kindness seemed a noble
thing to him.
"You're a real bully fellow," he said. "Guess we'll start right now?"
The man turned and his shrewd eyes fixed themselves piercingly on the
little man's face.
"Yes," he said shortly, "we'll get on."
He led the way, his horse slightly in advance of the mare, and for
some time he made no attempt to break the silence that had fallen. The
twilight was rapidly passing into the deeper shadows of night, but he
rode amongst the hills as though he were traveling a broad open trail.
There was no hesitation, no questioning glance as to his direction.
He might have been traveling a trail that he had been accustomed to
all his life. At last, however, he glanced round at his companion.
"Say, what you goin' to do when--you get there?" he asked.
"Fetch my wife back," replied Scipio earnestly.
"What'll James be doin'?"
"He can't keep her--she's mine."
"That's so. But--if he notions to keep her?"
Scipio was silent for some moments. His pale eyes were staring
straight ahead of him out into the growing darkness.
"Maybe, I'll have to shoot him," he said at last, as though there
could be no question about the matter.
The man nodded.
"Got useful guns?" he inquired casually.
"Got one."
"Ah, what is it? Magazine?"
Scipio pulled his antique possession out of his pocket and handed it
over for the man's inspection.
"It's all right," he said. "Guess the sights ain't good over a
distance, but at close range it'll make a nasty hole."
Conroy took the weapon in his hand. His keen eyes noted the age of the
pattern. He also saw the battered condition of the sights, and the
clumsy, rusted, protruding hammer. It was six-chambered, and he knew
that it must be all of forty years old. One of the earliest pattern
revolvers. The sight of it filled him with cruel amusement, but he
kept a serious face.
"I 'lows that should bring James to his senses," he observed, as he
handed it back to its owner.
Scipio read his answer as approval, and warmed towards him.
"I'd say so," he said, returning his antiquity to his pocket. "You
see, a gun's li'ble to rattle a feller like James. A man who can get
around when a feller's back's turned, an' make love to his wife, ain't
much of a man, is he? I mean he hasn't much grit. He's a coward sure.
If he'd got grit he wouldn't do it. Well, that's how I figger 'bout
this James. He's mean, an' a cowardly dog. I don't guess I'll have to
use that gun, but I jest brought it along to scare him to his senses,
if he needs it. Maybe though he won't need it when he sees me come
along--y'see, I'm Jessie's husband--guess that'll fix him sure."
"Guess you got James sized up good," observed the man, with his eyes
fixed ahead. "No, I don't see you'll need that gun."
They rode on, Scipio's spirits rising with every yard they traveled.
He knew he was nearing his wife with every passing moment. He had no
doubts, no fears. So long as he could reach her side he felt that all
would be well. In spite of her letter it never entered his head that
she cared for the man she had gone off with. He blamed James, and it
was no mere figure of speech when he said that he believed he had
"stolen" her. He believed such to be the case. He believed she had
gone unwillingly. In his mind it was a case of abduction. Again and
again he thanked Providence that he had fallen in with this man,
Conroy. He was a good fellow, he told himself, a good friend. And his
ideas were so coincident with his own about James.
They were approaching the higher hills. Towering, broken crags loomed
ahead darkly in the gathering gloom. The vast riven facets cut the
sky-line, and black patches of pine forests, and spruce, gave a
ghostly, threatening outlook. They must have been riding over two
hours when Scipio realized they were passing over a narrow cattle
track on the summit of a wooded hill. Then presently their horses
began a steep shelving descent which required great caution to
negotiate. And as they proceeded the darkness closed in upon them,
until they appeared to be making an almost precipitate descent into a
vast black pit. There was no light here at all except for the stars
above, for the last glow of twilight was completely shut off by the
great wall they were now leaving behind them.
No word was spoken. Each man was busy with his horse, and the animals
themselves were stumbling and floundering as they picked their
uncertain way. A quarter of an hour of this went by, then, suddenly,
ahead, still farther down the slope, two or three dim lights shone up
at them like will-o'-the-wisps. They seemed to dance about before
Scipio's eyes as they rode. Nor, as he pointed them out to his
companion, did he realize that this peculiarity was due to the motion
of his mare under him.
"Yep," replied Conroy dryly. "Them's James' lights."
"He's got a large place," said Scipio, with some awe in his tone.
"He sure has," agreed Conroy, smiling in the darkness. "He's got the
biggest an' best-stocked ranch in Montana."
"You say he's a--cattle thief?" Scipio was struggling to get things
into proper focus.
"He sure is." And Conroy's tone of satisfaction had the effect of
silencing further comment by his companion.
A few moments later the descent was completed, and the soft grass
under her feet set Gipsy dancing to get on, but Conroy pulled up.
"Here," he said authoritatively, "you set right here while I get on
an' get thro' with my business. I'll come along back for you."
Without demur Scipio waited, and his companion vanished in the
darkness. The little man had entered into an agreement, and had no
desire, in spite of his eagerness to be doing, of departing from the
letter of it. So he possessed himself in what patience he could until
Conroy's return.
The soft pad of the retiring horse's hoofs on the thick grass died
away. And presently one of the twinkling lights ahead was abruptly
shut out. The horseman had intervened on Scipio's line of vision. Then
the yellow gleam as suddenly reappeared, and the last sign of Conroy
passed. The waiting man watched with every faculty alert. His ears and
eyes straining for the least unusual sound or sight. But there was
none forthcoming.
Then he began to think. He began to consider the situation. He began
to picture to himself something of the scene that he hoped would
shortly take place between himself and the man James. It was the first
time he had thought of the matter deliberately, or attempted to
estimate its possibilities. Hitherto he had been too torn by his
emotions to consider anything in detail. And, even now, so imbued was
he with the right of his cause that he only saw his own point of view,
which somehow made James a mere plaything in his hands.
He found himself dictating his will upon the thief in firm tones. He
demanded his wife without heat, but with the knowledge of the power of
his gun lying behind his words. He felt the restraint he would use. He
would not bully. Who was he to bully after having had Jessie restored
to him? James should be dealt with as gently as his feelings would
permit him. Yes, thank God, he had no actual desire to hurt this man
who had so wronged him. The man was foolish, and he could afford to be
generous, having had Jessie restored to him. No, he would try hard to
forgive him. It would be a tremendous struggle, he knew, yet he felt,
with Jessie restored to him, he ought to make the effort. Somehow,
even now, he almost felt sorry for so misguided a--
But his reflections were suddenly cut short by the sound of horses'
hoofs returning, and, a moment later, Conroy loomed up in the
darkness. He came quite close up before he spoke, and then it was
almost in a whisper.
"I've located things," he said, with an air of deep satisfaction.
"Guess we'll make Mr. 'Lord' James hunt his hole 'fore we're thro'
with him. I figger a rawhide fixed neat about his neck'll 'bout meet
his case. An' say, I've news fer you. Ther's some o' his boys around.
He's jest right in ther' wher' you ken see that biggish light," he
went on, pointing at the illuminated square of a window. "I see him
through an open door round back. He's lyin' on a heap o' blankets
readin' a book. Ef you git along now you'll get him wher' you need
him, an'--an' I wouldn't take no chances. Get a drop on him from
outside the door, an'--wal, guess a feller like you'll know what to do
after that. I'm gettin' back to home."
Scipio glowed. He felt he could have hugged this good-natured
stranger. But he did not altogether agree with the man's suggestion of
getting the drop on James. He felt it would hardly be playing the
game. However, he intended to be guided by circumstances.
"Thanks, friend," he said, in his simple fashion. "You must let me
call you that," he went on eagerly. "You see, you've done something
for me to-night I can't never forget. Maybe you've got a wife of your
own, and if so you'll sure understand."
"Can't rightly say I've got a--wife," the man replied, "but I ken
understan' all right. James is low--doggone low," he added. And his
face was turned well away so that he could grin comfortably without
fear of the other seeing it.
"Well, so long," said Scipio hastily. "Seeing I shan't see you here
when I get back, I'd just like to thank you again."
"So long," replied the other. "An' you needn't to thank me too much."
Scipio urged his mare forward, and the man sat looking after him. And
somehow his face had lost something of its satisfied expression.
However, he sat there only a moment. Presently he lifted his reins
and set his horse at a canter in the direction of one of the more
distant lights.
"He's a pore fule," he muttered, "but it's a lousy trick anyways."
Thus he dismissed the matter from his mind with a callous shrug.
In the meantime Scipio neared the house from which shone the larger
light. As he drew towards it he saw its outline against the starlight.
It was a large, two-storied frame house of weather-boarding, with a
veranda fronting it. There were several windows on the hither side of
it, but light shone only in one of them. It was by this light the
horseman saw a tie-post some yards from the house. And without
hesitation he rode up to it, and, dismounting, secured his mare. Then,
following Conroy's directions, he proceeded on foot to the back of the
house where he was to find an open door. He turned the angle of the
building. Yes, the door was there all right, but whereas Conroy had
said that James was lying on his blankets reading, he now discovered
that the doorway was filled by that handsome thief's presence.
Before he realized what had happened, Scipio found himself in the full
glare of the light from the doorway, and James was smiling down upon
his yellow head with a curious blending of insolence and curiosity.
"I was wondering when you'd get around," he said, without shifting his
position. Then, as Scipio made no answer, he bestirred himself. "Come
right in," he added, and, lounging out of the doorway, he dropped back
into the room. "You'll find things a bit untidy," he went on calmly,
"you see I'm making changes in my domestic arrangements. This is
temporary, I guess. However, if you don't just mind that, why--come
right in."
The man's whole manner was one of good-humored indifference. There was
an unruffled assurance about him that was quite perfect, if studied.
Scipio's presence there seemed the last thing of concern to him. And
the effect of his manner on his visitor entirely upset all the
latter's preconceived intentions. Astonishment was his first feeling.
Then a sudden diffidence seized him, a diffidence that was nearly akin
to fear of his rival. But this passed in a moment, and was instantly
replaced by a hot rush of blood through his small body. All his
pictured interview died out of his recollections, and, in place of
that calmness with which he had intended to meet the man, he found his
pulses hammering and hot anger mounting to his head. The commonest of
human passions stirred in him, and he felt it would be good to hurt
this man who had so wronged him.
"Where's my wife?" he demanded, with a sudden fierceness.
"Oh--it's that. Say, come right in?"
James was still smiling pleasantly. This time Scipio accepted the
invitation without thought of trap or anything else. He almost
precipitated himself into the room.
Nor in his fury did he observe his surroundings. He had no eyes for
the furnishings, the cheap comfort with which he was surrounded. And
though, as James had said, the place was untidy, he saw nothing and
none of it. His eyes were on the man; angry, bloodshot eyes, such eyes
as those of a furiously goaded dog, driven into a corner by the cruel
lash of a bully's whip.
"Yes, that's it. Wher's my wife?" Scipio demanded threateningly.
"You've stole her, and taken her from me. I've come to take her
back."
The force of his demands was tinged with the simplicity of a naturally
gentle disposition. And maybe, in consequence, something of their
sting was lost. The forceful bluster of an outraged man, determined
upon enforcing his demands, would probably have stirred James to
active protest, but, as it was, he only continued to smile his
insolence upon one whom he regarded as little better than a harmless
worm.
"One moment," he said, with an exasperating patience, "you say I stole
her. To have stolen her suggests that she was not willing to come
along. She came with me. Well, I guess she came because she fancied
it. You say you're going to take her back. Well," with a shrug, "I
kind of think she'll have something to say about going back."
For a moment Scipio stood aghast. He glanced about him helplessly.
Then, in a flash, his pale-blue eyes came back to the other's face.
"She's mine, I tell you! Mine! Mine! Mine!" he cried, in a frenzy of
rage and despair. "She's mine by the laws of God an' man. She's mine
by the love that has brought our kiddies into the world. Do you hear?
She's mine by every tie that can hold man and wife together. An'
you've stole her. She's all I've got. She's all I want. She's just
part of me, and I can't live without her. Ther's the kiddies to home
waitin' for her, and she's theirs, same as they are hers--and mine. I
tell you, you ain't going to keep her. She's got to come back." He
drew a deep breath to choke down his fury. "Say," he went on, with a
sudden moderating of his tone and his manner, taking on a pitiful
pleading, "do you think you love her? You? Do you think you know what
love is? You don't. You can't. You can't love her same as I do. I love
her honest. I love her so I want to work for her till I drop. I love
her so there's nothin' on earth I wouldn't do for her. My life is
hers. All that's me is hers. I ain't got a thought without her. Man,
you don't know what it is to love my Jessie. You can't, 'cos your
love's not honest. You've taken her same as you'd take any woman for
your pleasure. If I was dead, would you marry her? No, never, never,
never. She's a pastime to you, and when you've done with her you'd
turn her right out on this prairie to herd with the cattle, if ther'
wasn't anywher' else for her to go." Then his voice suddenly rose and
his fury supervened again. "God!" he cried fiercely. "Give me back my
wife. You're a thief. Give her back to me, I say. She's mine, d'you
understand--mine!"
Not for an instant did the smile on James' face relax. Maybe it became
more set, and his lips, perhaps, tightened, but the smile was there,
hard, unyielding in its very setness. And when Scipio's appeal came to
an end he spoke with an underlying harshness that did not carry its
way to the little man's distracted brain.
"She wouldn't go back to you, even if I let her--which I won't," he
said coldly.
The man's words seemed to bite right into the heart of his hearer.
Nothing could have been better calculated to goad him to extremity. In
one short, harsh sentence he had dashed every hope that the other
possessed. And with a rush the stricken man leapt at denial, which was
heartrending in its impotence.
"You lie!" he shouted. The old revolver was dragged from his pocket
and pointed shakingly at his tormentor's head. "Give her back to me!
Give her back, or--"
James' desperate courage never deserted him for an instant. And Scipio
was never allowed to complete his sentence. The other's hand suddenly
reached out, and the pistol was twisted from his shaking grasp with as
little apparent effort as though he had been a small child.
Scipio stared helpless and confused while James eyed the pattern of
the gun. Then he heard the man's contemptuous laugh and saw him pull
the trigger. The hammer refused to move. It was so rusted that the
weapon was quite useless. For a moment the desperado's eyes sought the
pale face of his would-be slayer. A devilish smile lurked in their
depths. Then he held out the pistol for the other to take, while his
whole manner underwent a hideous change.
"Here, take it, you wretched worm," he cried, with sudden savagery.
"Take it, you miserable fool," he added, as Scipio remained unheeding.
"It wouldn't blow even your fool brains out. Take it!" he reiterated,
with a command the other could no longer resist. "And now get out of
here," he went on mercilessly, as Scipio's hand closed over the
wretched weapon, "or I'll hand you over to the boys. They'll show you
less mercy than I do. They're waiting out there," he cried, pointing
at the door, "for my orders. One word from me and they'll cut the
liver out of you with rawhides, and Abe Conroy'll see it's done right.
Get you right out of here, and if ever you come squealing around my
quarters again I'll have you strung up by your wretched neck till
you're dead--dead as a crushed worm--dead as is your wife, Jessie, to
you from now out. Get out of here, you straw-headed sucker, get right
out, quick!"
But the tide of the man's fury seemed to utterly pass the little man
by. He made no attempt to obey. The pistol hung in his tightly
gripping hand, and his underlip protruded obstinately.
"She's mine, you thief!" he cried. "Give her back to me."
It was the cry of a beaten man whose spirit is unquenchable.
But James had finished. All that was worst in him was uppermost now.
With eyes blazing he stepped to the door and whistled. He might have
been whistling up his dogs. Perhaps those who responded were his dogs.
Three men came in, and the foremost of them was Abe Conroy.
"Here," cried James, his cruel eyes snapping, "take him out and set
him on his horse, and send him racing to hell after m'squitoes. And
don't handle him too easy."
What happened to him after that Scipio never fully understood. He had
a vague memory of being seized and buffeted and kicked into a state of
semi-unconsciousness. Nor did he rouse out of his stupor, until, sick
and sore in every limb, his poor yellow head aching and confused, he
found himself swaying dangerously about in the saddle, with Gipsy,
racing like a mad thing, under his helpless legs.
CHAPTER VI
SUNNY OAK PROTESTS
Wild Bill was gazing out across the camp dumps. His expression
suggested the contemplation of a problem of life and death, and a
personal one at that. Sandy Joyce, too, bore traces suggestive of the
weightiest moments of his life. Toby Jenks stood chewing the dirty
flesh of a stubby forefinger, while the inevitable smile on Sunny
Oak's face made one think of a bright spring morning under cover of a
yellow fog.
"How am I to see to them pore kiddies?" the latter was complaining.
"I've had to do with cattle, an' mules, an' even hogs in my time, but
I sure don't guess you ken set them bits o' mites in a brandin'
corral, nor feed 'em oats an' hay, nor even ladle 'em swill for
supper, like hogs. Fer other things, I don't guess I could bile a bean
right without a lib'ry o' cook-books, so how I'm to make 'em elegant
pap for their suppers 'ud beat the Noo York p'lice force. An' as fer
fixin' their clothes, an' bathing 'em, why, it 'ud set me feelin' that
fulish you wouldn't know me from a patient in a bug-house. It makes me
real mad, folks is allus astin' me to get busy doin' things. I'm that
sick, the sight of a ha'f-washened kid 'ud turn my stummick to bile,
an' set me cacklin' like a hen with a brood o' ducklings she can't no
ways account fer. You'se fellers are a happy lot o' Jonahs to a man as
needs rest."
"You're sure doing the cacklin' now," observed Bill contemptuously.
"Maybe he's layin' eggs," murmured Toby vaguely.
The men were standing on the veranda, gathered round the bench on
which Sunny Oak was still resting his indolent body. And the subject
of their discourse was Scipio's two children. The father had ridden
off on his search for James, and the responsibility of his twins was
weighing heavily on those left behind.
"Kind o' handy ladlin' it out to folks," said Sunny, grinning lazily.
"But, with all your brightness, I don't guess any o' you could mother
them kiddies. No, it's jest 'send Sunny along to see to 'em.' That
bein' said, you'll git right back to your poker with a righteous
feelin' which makes it come good to rob each other all you know. Psha!
You ain't no better'n them lousy birds as lays eggs sizes too big, an'
blames 'em on to some moultin' sparrer that ain't got feathers 'nuff
to make it welcome at a scratchin' bee."
Sunny's flow was a little overwhelming, and perhaps there was just
enough truth in his remarks to make it unadvisable for the others to
measure wits with him. Anyway, he received no reply. Bill continued to
gaze out at Scipio's hut in a way that suggested great absorption,
while Toby had not yet lunched sufficiently off his tattered
forefinger. Sandy was the only one of the three apparently alive to
the true exigencies of the case, and Sunny addressed himself more
exclusively to him.
"Say," he went on, his good-humored eyes smiling cunningly up into the
widower's face, "I've heerd tell that you once did some pore
unsuspicious female the dirty trick of marryin' her. Mebbe you'll sure
hev' notions 'bout kiddies an' such things. Now, if Wild Bill had come
along an' pushed a shootin'-iron into your map, an' said you'll handle
Zip's kiddies--wal, I ask you, wot 'ud you ha' done?"
"Told him to git his head cooled some," retorted Sandy promptly.
"Ah, guess you bin saved a heap o' trouble," murmured Sunny. "But if
you hadn't said that--which you said you would ha' said--an' you'd
got busy as he suggested--wal, what then?"
Sandy cleared his throat, and, in his sudden interest, Toby deferred
the rest of his meal.
"Wal, I'd ha' gone right up to the shack an' looked into things."
Sandy's first effort seemed to please him, and, hitching his moleskin
trousers up deliberately, he proceeded with some unction--
"Y'see, ther' ain't nothin' like gettin' a look around. Then you kind
o' know wher' you are. You sure need to know wher' you are 'fore you
get busy proper. It's most like everything else. If you get on the
wrong trail at the start, it's li'ble to lead you wher' you don't want
to go. What I says is, hit the right trail at the start, then you got
a chance o' gettin' thro' right, which, I take it, is an elegant way
o' doin' most things. Wal, havin' located the right trail--"
"We're talkin' o' Zip's twins," murmured Sunny gently.
"Sure, that's where I'm gettin' to--"
"By trail?" inquired Toby seriously.
"Say, you make me tired," retorted Sandy angrily.
"Best quit the trail, then," said Sunny.
"Go to blazes!" cried Sandy, and promptly relapsed into moody
silence.
At that moment Bill turned from his contemplation of the house beyond
the dumps and fixed his fierce eyes on Sunny's grinning face.
"Here, you miser'ble hoboe," he cried, "get right up out of that, and
hump across to Zip's shack. You're doin' enough gassin' fer a female
tattin' bee. Your hot air makes me want to sweat. Now, them kiddies'll
need supper. You'll jest ast Minky fer all you need, an' I pay. An'
you'll see things is fixed right for 'em."
Sunny lurched reluctantly to his feet. He knew the gambler far too
well to debate the point further. He had made his protest, which had
been utterly ineffective, so there was nothing left him but to obey
the fiercely uttered mandate.
But Sandy Joyce felt that somehow his first effort on behalf of the
children had missed fire, and it was his duty not to allow himself to
be ousted from the council. So he stayed the loafer with a word.
"Say, you'll be knowin' how to feed 'em?" he inquired gravely.
Sunny's eyes twinkled.
"Wal, mebbe you ken give me pointers," he retorted, with apparent
sincerity.
"That's how I was figgerin'," said Sandy cordially. He felt better now
about his first effort. "Y'see, Minky's stock is limited some; ther'
ain't a heap o' variety, like. An' kiddies do need variety. Y'see,
they're kind o' delicate feeders, same as high-bred hosses, an' dogs
an' things. Now, dogs need diff'rent meat every day, if you're goin'
to bring 'em up right. A friend o' mine sure once told me that meat,
good meat, was the best feed fer prize dogs, an' he was a feller that
won a heap o' prizes. He had one, Boston bull, I--"
"'ll I need to git dog-biscuit for them kiddies?" inquired Sunny
sarcastically.
"Say, you make me sick," cried Sandy, flushing angrily.
"Guess that's how you'll make them kiddies," interposed Toby.
Sandy glanced viciously from one to the other. Then, assuming
a superiority that scarcely hid his chagrin, he ignored the
interruptions.
"You best ast Minky fer some dandy canned truck," he said decisively,
deliberately turning his back on Toby Jenks. "Mebbe a can o' lobster
an' one o' them elegant tongues stewed in jelly stuff, an' set in a
glass bowl. Y'see, they kids needs nourishin', an' that orter fix
them 'bout right. I don't know 'bout them new sides o' sow-belly
Minky's jest had in. Seems to me they'll likely need teeth eatin'
that. Seein' you ain't a heap at fixin' beans right, we best cut that
line right out--though I 'lows there's elegant nourishin' stuff in 'em
for bosses. Best get a can o' crackers an' some cheese. I don't guess
they'll need onions, nor pickles. But a bit o' butter to grease the
crackers with, an' some molasses an' fancy candy, an' a pound o' his
best tea seems to me 'bout right. After that--"
"Some hoss physic," broke in Toby, recommencing the chewing of his
forefinger.
But Wild Bill's fierce eyes were on Sandy, and the erstwhile married
man felt their contempt boring into his very soul. He was held silent,
in spite of his anger against the broad-shouldered Toby, and was
possessed of a feeling that somehow his second effort had been no more
successful than his first. And forthwith the impression received
confirmation in a sudden explosion from Wild Bill.
"Jumpin' mackinaw!" he cried, with a force calculated to crush
entirely the remnants of Sandy's conceit. "You'd sure shame a crazy
sheep fer intellect." Then he added, with withering sarcasm, "Say,
don't you never leave your mouth open more'n two seconds at a time, or
you'll get the flies in it, an'--they'll start nestin'."
Then without pause he turned on Sunny and delivered his ultimatum.
"Get busy," he ordered in a tone there was no denying.
And somehow Sunny found himself stirring far more rapidly than suited
his indolent disposition.
Having thoroughly disturbed the atmosphere to his liking, Bill left
the veranda without another look in his companions' direction, and his
way took him to the barn at the back of the store.
The gambler was a man of so many and diverse peculiarities that it
would be an impossibility to catalogue them with any degree of
satisfactoriness. But, with the exception of his wholesale piratical
methods at cards--indeed, at any kind of gambling--perhaps his most
striking feature was his almost idolatrous worship for his horses. He
simply lived for their well-being, and their evident affection for
himself was something that he treasured far beyond the gold he so
loved to take from his opponents in a gamble.
He possessed six of these horses, each in its way a jewel in the
equine crown. Wherever the vagaries of his gambler's life took him his
horses bore him thither, harnessed to a light spring cart of the
speediest type. Each animal had cost him a small fortune, as the price
of horses goes, and for breed and capacity, both in harness and under
saddle, it would have been difficult to find their match anywhere in
the State of Montana. He had broken and trained them himself in
everything, and, wherever he was, whatever other claims there might be
upon him, morning, noon and evening he was at the service of his
charges. He gloried in them. He reveled in their satin coats, their
well-nourished, muscular bodies, in their affection for himself.
Now he sat on an oat-bin contemplating Gipsy's empty stall, with a
regret that took in him the form of fierce anger. It was the first
time since she had come into his possession that she had been turned
over to another, the first time another leg than his own had been
thrown across her; and he mutely upbraided himself for his folly, and
hated Scipio for having accepted her services. Why, he asked himself
again and again, had he been such an unearthly fool? Then through his
mind flashed a string of blasphemous invective against James, and with
its coming his regret at having lent Gipsy lessened.
He sat for a long time steadily chewing his tobacco. And somehow
he lost all desire to continue his poker game in the store. His
whole mind had become absorbed by thoughts of this James, and though
he, personally, had never suffered through the stage-robber's
depredations, he found himself resenting the man's very existence.
There were no ethical considerations in his mind. His inspiration
was purely personal. And though he did not attempt to reduce his
hatred to reason, nor to analyze it in any way, the truth of its
existence lay in the fact of a deadly opposition to this sudden
rise to notoriety of a man of strength, and force of character
similar, in so many respects, to his own. Perhaps it was mere
jealousy; perhaps, all unknown to himself, there was some deeper
feeling underlying it. Whatever it was, he had a strong sympathy
with Scipio, and an unconquerable desire to have a hand in the
smoothing out of the little man's troubles.
He did not leave the barn, and scarcely even took his eyes off Gipsy's
empty stall, until nearly sundown. Then, as he heard the voices of
returning prospectors, he set to work on his evening task of grooming,
feeding, watering and bedding down his children for the night.
CHAPTER VII
SUNNY OAK TRIES HIS HAND
In the meantime Sunny Oak was executing his orders with a care for
detail quite remarkable in a man of his excessive indolence. It was a
curious fact, and one that told a great deal of his own character, as
well as that of the gambler. His implicit obedience to Wild Bill's
orders was born of a deeper knowledge of that individual than was
possessed by most of his comrades in Suffering Creek. Maybe Minky, who
was Bill's most intimate friend, would have understood. But then Sunny
Oak possessed no such privilege. He knew Bill through sheer
observation, which had taught him to listen when the gambler spoke as
he would listen to a man in high authority over him--or to a man who,
without scruple, held him helpless under an irresistible threat. Which
power it was inspired his obedience he did not pause to consider. He
simply accepted the fact that when Bill ordered he preferred to
obey--it was so much easier.
"Hoboe"--the local term for one suffering from his indolent malady--as
he was, Sunny Oak was a man of some character. Originally this cloak
of indolence in which he wrapped himself had been assumed for some
subtle reason of his own. It was not the actual man. But so long had
he worn it now that he had almost forgotten the real attributes
enshrouded in its folds. As a matter of fact, he was very much a man,
and a "live" man, too. He really possessed an extraordinary energy
when he chose to exercise it. But it was generally his habit to push
his interest aside for the easier course of indifference. However, his
capacity was none the less there.
His other possessions, too, were excellent in their way, although he
had encouraged the germ of rust in a deplorable degree. His
good-nature would not be denied, and was obvious to all. But an
extremely alert mind, an infinite resource of keen, well-trained
thought, a profound love of the beautiful, a more commonplace physical
courage supported by the rarer moral courage, he contrived to keep
well hidden from the vulgar gaze.
These were some of the features so long concealed under the folds of
his cloak of indolence that even he had almost forgotten their
existence. Thus it was, in all seriousness, he cried out bitterly in
protest when an attempt was made to lift the covering and lay bare the
man beneath it. And his lamentations were perfectly genuine.
After leaving the store with a sack of provisions over his shoulder he
grumbled his way across the dumps to Scipio's house. He cursed the
weight he was forced to carry, and anathematized the man who had
driven him to so bestir himself. He lamented over this waste of his
precious energies, he consigned Scipio and his children to eternity,
and metaphorically hurled Jessie headlong to the depths of the
uttermost abyss of the nether-world. But he went on. In spite of his
foulest language and vilest epithets, it was his full intention to do
his best for the children.
What he found on entering Scipio's hut set his small eyes twinkling
again. His unclean face creased up into a grin, and, softly tiptoeing
to a far corner of the room, he deposited his sack with the greatest
care. Then he stood up, and his eyes fixed themselves on a curious
heap under the table. It was a tumbled pile of pale blue, dirty white,
with a four-legged dash of yellow. And out of the heap he made the
forms of two small sleeping children, each hugging in their arms an
extremity of a yellow cur pup, also sound asleep, in the shaft of
sunlight which flooded in through the open doorway.
Sunny rubbed his eyes and thought hard, nor did he find the process
irksome. From the miserable camp pup he glanced at the grubby face of
Jamie. Then his eyes passed on to Vada's pretty but equally dirty
features. And swift action at once followed his thought. He glanced at
the dying fire in the cookstove, and saw the small clothes hanging on
the chair in front of it. He felt them; they were quite dry. Then he
tried the kettle on the stove; it still had water in it. Then he went
to the fuel-box; yes, there was fuel.
Now with his fingers he replenished the fire, and noiselessly
re-filled the kettle. Then he removed the clothes and put the chair
aside. The children still slept on. He further investigated the
resources of Scipio's _ménage_. He found a wash-bowl and soap and a
towel, three things he rarely sought for any purposes of his own.
Then, after looking into the cupboard, he shook his head. It was
deplorably bare of all but uncleanliness. And it was the former that
caused his headshake, not the latter. With some pride he re-stocked
the shelves with the liberal purchases he had made at Bill's expense.
He had provided everything that a man's mind could conceive as being
necessary for the interior of healthy childhood. True, he had made no
provision for a yellow pup.
By this time the kettle was boiling, and it served him as a signal. In
a harsh, untuneful voice he began to chant an old coon-ditty. The
effect of his music was instantaneous as regards the more sensitive
ears of the pup. Its eyes opened, and it lifted its head alertly.
Then, with a quick wriggle, he sat up on his hind quarters, and,
throwing his lean, half-grown muzzle in the air, set up such a howl of
dismay that Sunny's melody became entirely lost in a jangle of
discords. He caught up his empty sack and flung it at the wailing
pup's head. It missed its aim, and in a moment the twins had joined in
their yellow friend's lament.
Sunny never quite understood the real cause of that dismal
protest--whether it was the sight of him, his doleful singing, or the
flinging of the sack. All he knew was that it was very dreadful, and
must be stopped as quickly as possible. So, to that end, he began to
cajole the children, while he surreptitiously let fly a kick at the
pup.
"Say, you bonny kids, you ain't scairt o' poor Sunny Oak," he cried,
while a streak of yellow flashed in the sunlight and vanished through
the door, a departure which brought with it renewed efforts from the
weeping children. "It's jest Sunny Oak wot nobody'll let rest," he
went on coaxingly. "He's come along to feed you supper. Say," he
cried, laboring hard for inspiration, "it's such a bully supper.
Ther's molasses, an' candy, an'--an' lob-ster!"
Whether it was the smacking of his lips as he dwelt on the last word,
or whether it was merely the fact that their fright was passing,
matters little; anyhow, the cries of the twins died out as suddenly as
they began, and their eyes, big and round, gazed wonderingly up at
Sunny's unkempt face.
"Who's you, ugly man?" asked Vada at last, her brain working more
quickly than her brother's.
"'Ess--ug'y man," added Jamie unmeaningly.
Sunny's hand went up to his face, and he scratched amongst his sparse
beard as though to test the accuracy of the accusation. Then he
grinned sheepishly.
"Guess I'm jest an ugly fairy that wants to be kind to two lonesome
kiddies," he beamed.
"O--oh! You'se a fairy?" said Vada doubtfully.
"'Ess," nodded Jamie, thrilling with wonderment, and eyeing him
critically.
Elated with his success, Sunny went on warmly--
"Yep. Jest a fairy, an' I bro't a heap o' good grub fer you kiddies t'
eat."
But Vada's small brain was following out its own train of thought, and
passed the food question by.
"Awful ugly," she said, half to herself.
"'Ess," muttered Jamie abstractedly.
"Mebbe," said Sunny, with a laugh. "Wal, if you crawl right out o'
there an' git around, I got things fixed so we'll hev' a bully time."
But his proposition hadn't the effect he hoped. Instead of moving,
Jamie suddenly beat his head with his little clenched fists.
"Me wants yaller pup," he cried, and forthwith howled afresh.
Again Sunny realized his helplessness, and, glancing about for further
inspiration, caught sight of an inquiring yellow head peering
furtively in through the doorway.
"Why, ther' he is," he cried, vainly hoping to pacify the child. Then
he began at once a clumsy encouragement of the dog. "Here, you yeller
feller," he cried, flicking his fingers coaxingly. "Come along! Gee,
you're a pretty feller. Hi! come along here."
But the dog made no attempt to move, and Sunny began to lose patience.
"Come along, pups," he cried, with increasing force. "Come on, you
miser'ble rat. Don't stan' ther' waggin' your fool tail like a
whisk-broom. Say, you yaller cur, I'll--" He started to fetch the
creature, but in a twinkling it had fled, to the accompaniment of a
fresh outburst from Jamie.
"I tho't you was a fairy," protested Vada. "Fairies ken do most
anything. You're jest an ugly ole man."
Sunny stood up and drew the back of his hand across his perspiring
forehead. He was worried. The fairy business was played out, and he
felt that he must begin again. Children were by no means as easy to
handle as he had thought. He racked his brains, and suddenly bethought
him of another move.
In spite of Jamie's whimpering, he went to the cupboard and produced a
tin of molasses. This he carefully opened in full view of Vada's
questioning eyes. Jamie had also become silent, watching him intently.
He dug his finger into the sticky contents and drew it out. Then he
licked his finger with tremendous enjoyment.
"Bully," he muttered, apparently ignoring the children.
Instantly Vada was on her knees, crawling from under the table,
followed closely by her faithful shadow. She came cautiously up to
Sunny's side and stood up.
"M'lasses?" she inquired, and her eyes spoke volumes.
"O-oh!" muttered Jamie, scrambling to his feet beside her holding up
one fat hand.
Sunny, without replying, allowed them to dip their fingers into the
pot and taste the molasses. He felt that the moment was critical, and
he would not risk words which might easily set them scuttling back to
their stronghold.
His strategy was successful. Up came the hands again, and he knew he
had won their confidence. He allowed them another dip into the pot,
and then began the business in hand.
"We'll save the rest fer bimeby," he said decidedly. "Meanwhiles we'll
fix things right."
"Wot things?" inquired Vada.
"M'lasses," said Jamie, with tearful eyes.
Again Sunny felt the crisis, but he carried the situation with a firm
hand.
"Bimeby, laddie," he said cheerfully. "Meanwhiles we'll jest have a
wash all round."
And forthwith he set the wash-bowl ready and filled it with warm
water. Then, after some consideration and trouble, having discovered a
rag which had been used in the household "wash-up," and a piece of
soap, he prepared to start on little Vada. But she instantly
protested.
"You first, Mister Fairy," she said cheerfully. "My poppa allus washes
first. Then we has his water."
"'Ess," agreed Jamie.
And, to his disgust, Sunny was forced to an unwilling ablution, which,
by strategy, he had hoped to escape. However, the ordeal was manfully
borne, and his reward was quite worth his trouble. Vada promptly
exclaimed when she saw his face emerge from the dirty towel, shining
with grease off the house-flannel.
"You'se a fairy, sure," she cried, clapping her hands and dancing
about gleefully. "On'y fairies can change theirselves. You'se a
pretty, pretty man--now. Now, Jamie dear. You next," she added, with
feminine assurance. And with clumsy but willing enough hands Sunny Oak
contrived to cleanse his charges.
By the time his task was accomplished perfect good-will reigned all
round, and the climax was reached when the yellow pup returned of its
own accord, and was promptly hugged to Jamie's affectionate little
bosom.
The next thing was to prepare the children's supper. This was a far
more serious matter for the loafer. But he finally achieved it, having
learnt, by the process of cross-questioning the girl, what was usual
and therefore expected. However, it was not without some difficulty
that he succeeded in providing an adequate meal, which consisted of
bread and milk, with bread and molasses as a sort of dessert. For
himself, he was forced to fare off a tin of lobster and tea. Still,
his difficulties were not of much consequence so long as the children
were satisfied. And any bother to himself was his own fault, in having
relied for a moment on Sandy Joyce's ideas of a menu.
Supper over and the table cleared, he decided on further catechizing
little Vada on points that still were a mystery to him. So, with Jamie
busy on the floor endeavoring to solve the mystery of the pup's
wagging tail, he lit his pipe and took Vada on his knee. He
endeavored to recall incidents of his own childhood; to remember
something of his own early routine. But somehow nothing was very
clear.
He had washed the children and given them food. Those things seemed to
him to be perfectly sound. Well, what next? It was a little difficult.
He glanced at the sun. Surely bed would be quite in order. Bed--ah,
yes, that was a happy thought. He remembered now, when he was young he
always used to get himself into trouble purposely so they would send
him to bed. But with this thought came the regretful recollection that
his predilection for bed was quickly discovered, and his further
penalties took the form of the buckle end of his father's waist-belt.
However, he put the proposition with much tact.
"Say, kiddies," he began, "how soon does your momma put you to bed?"
Vada shook her wise little head.
"Momma don't. Poppa does."
"And when's that?" he inquired, driving at his point deliberately.
"When momma says."
Vada was fastening and unfastening the man's dirty waistcoat with
great interest.
"An' when does your momma say it?" Sunny persisted.
"When poppa's done the chores."
"Ah!"
He felt himself on the wrong tack, and cast about for a fresh line of
argument.
"Guess you kiddies like bed some," he hazarded doubtfully.
"Me like m'lasses," piped Jamie, who had managed to get the pup's tail
over his shoulder, and was hanging on to it with both hands. Vada
shrieked as the pup began to yelp.
"Oh, look at Jamie," she cried. "He's pulling Dougal's tail right out.
You're a naughty, naughty boy."
"Not naughty," protested Jamie, pulling harder.
Sunny reached down and released the mongrel, who promptly turned round
and licked the boy's face. Jamie fought him with his little clenched
fists, and finally began to cry.
Again Sunny went to the rescue, and with some difficulty peace was
restored. Then he went back to his subject.
"Guess we'll hev to go to bed right now," he suggested, with an air of
authority.
"Momma ain't back," said Vada, her eyes round and wondering.
"She'll be right along presently," lied Sunny.
"'Ess," declared Jamie, "an'--an'--we go find 'piders an'--an' bugs."
Vada nodded.
"Lots an' lots."
"That's to-morrow," said Sunny, taking his cue wonderingly.
"Poppa ain't back neither," protested Vada.
"He's gone visitin'," said Sunny. "Maybe he'll be late. Guess he's
havin' a hand at poker down at the store."
Sunny was getting uncomfortably hot. Lies came easily enough to him in
the ordinary way, but with these poor children it was somehow
different.
"Poppa don't play poker," defended Vada. "On'y wicked men does."
"'Ess," agreed Jamie.
"That's so." Sunny felt himself on dangerous ground.
He smoked on thoughtfully for some moments. He felt that a desperate
move was required, and considered how best to make it. Finally he
resolved that he must assert his authority. So, setting Vada on the
ground, he stood up.
"Bed," he said, with a great assumption of finality.
Vada's eyes rolled ominously, and a pucker came to her little sunburnt
brow. Jamie offered no preliminary, but howled at once. And when,
after the slightest hesitation, Vada joined in his lament, Sunny's
distress became pitiable. However, he managed to ease his feelings by
several well-directed mental curses at Wild Bill's head, and all those
others concerned in reducing him to his present position. And with
this silently furious outburst there came a brain-wave of great
magnitude.
"First in bed sure gets most m'lasses," he cried, darting to the
cupboard door and holding the well-smeared pot up above his head.
The children's cries ceased, and for a second they stood staring up at
him. Then, like a pair of rabbits, they turned and ran for the
bedroom, vanishing behind the curtain amidst shrieking excitement.
Sunny followed them with the molasses and a handful of crackers.
They were both on the bed when he passed into the room, huddling down
under a couple of cotton blankets. The man glanced round him. On the
other side of the room was the big bed where their father and mother
slept. Both beds were unmade, and the room was littered with feminine
garments in a manner that suggested the mother's hasty flight.
Hardened as he was, the sight and all it suggested depressed him. But
he was not allowed much time for reflection. Two childish voices
shrieked at him at once.
"Me first!" they cried in one breath.
And Sunny ladled them out molasses and crackers to their hearts'
content. When they had eaten all he thought good for them Vada
scrambled to her knees.
"Prayers," she said, and clasped her hands before her face.
Jamie wobbled up to her side and imitated her. And Sunny stood by
listening wonderingly to something that brought back a world of
recollection to him. It brought him more. It laid before him a mental
picture of his present manhood which somehow nauseated him. But he
stood his ground till the final "Amens," then he hustled the twins
almost roughly into the blankets, and, having extracted a promise from
them not to leave the bed again until he returned, hurried out of the
room.
He stood for a moment in the living-room. He was in a doubt that
almost confused him. Mechanically he looked at the stove. The fire was
quite safe. The window was secure. Then he moved to the door. There
was a lock to it and a key. He passed out, and, locking the door
behind him, removed the key.
"Gee!" he exclaimed, drinking in a breath of the evening air, "five
minutes more o' that an' I'd 'a' bin singin' funeral hymns over my
past life. Gee!"
* * * * *
Ten minutes later he was in Wild Bill's hut down at the camp, and had
finished his account of his adventures.
"Say," he finished up peevishly, "ther's things a feller can do, an'
things he sure can't. I tell you right here I ain't learned how to
cluck to my chicks, an' I ain't never scratched a worm in my life. I
'low I'm too old to git busy that ways now. If you're goin' to raise
them kids fer Zip while he's away, it'll need a committee o' us
fellers. It's more'n one feller's job--much more. It needs a wummin."
Bill listened patiently until his deputy had aired his final
grievance. His fierce eyes had in them a peculiar twinkle that was
quite lost on Sunny in his present mood. However, when the injured man
had finished his tale of woe the gambler stretched his long legs out,
and lolled back in his chair with a fresh chew of tobacco in his
mouth.
"You ain't done too bad," he said judicially. "That m'lasses racket
was a heap smart. Though--say, you'll get around ther' come sun-up
to-morrer, an' you'll fix 'em right all day. Maybe Zip'll be back
later. Anyways, you'll fix 'em."
"Not on your life--" began Sunny, in fierce rebellion. But Bill cut
him short.
"You'll do it, Sunny," he cried, "an' don't you make no mistake."
The man's manner was irresistibly threatening, and Sunny was beaten
back into moody silence. But if looks could have killed, Bill's
chances of life were small indeed.
"Guess you're off duty now," the gambler went on icily. "You're off
duty till--sun-up. You're free to get drunk, or--what in hell you
like."
Sunny rose from his seat. His rebellious eyes were fiercely alight as
he regarded his master.
"May your soul rot!" he cried venomously. And with this final impotent
explosion he slouched out of the hut.
"Dessay it will," Bill called after him amiably. "But it ain't started
yet."
But his jibe was quite lost on the angry Sunny, for he had left him
with the haste of a man driven to fear of whither his anger might
carry him.
Left alone, Wild Bill chuckled. He liked Sunny, but despised his mode
of life with all the arrogant superiority of a man of great force,
even if of indifferent morals. He had no patience with a weakened
manhood. With him it was only strength that counted. Morality was only
for those who had not the courage to face a mysterious future
unflinchingly. The future concerned him not at all. He had no fears of
anybody or anything, either human or superhuman. Death offered him no
more terrors than Life. And whichever was his portion he was ready to
accept it unquestioningly, unprotestingly.
He allowed the hoboe time to get well clear of his shack. Then he
stood up and began to pace the room thoughtfully. A desperate frown
depressed his brows until they met over the bridge of his large thin
nose. Something was working swiftly, even passionately, in his brain,
and it was evident that his thoughts were more than unpleasant to
himself. As the moments passed his strides became more aggressive, and
his movements were accompanied by gesticulations of a threatening
nature with his clenched fists.
At last he paused in his walk, and dropped again into his chair. Here
he sat for a long while. Then, of a sudden, he lifted his head and
glanced swiftly about his bare room. Finally he sprang to his feet and
crushed his slouch hat on his head, and, crossing over to the oil-lamp
on the table, blew it out. Then he passed out into the night, slamming
and locking the door behind him.
The night was dark, and the moon would not rise for at least another
hour. The air was still laden with the heat of the long summer's day,
and it hummed with the music of stirring insect life. He strode along
the trail past the store. He glanced at the lighted windows longingly,
for he had an appointment for a game in there that night. But he
passed on.
As he came to the camp dumps he paused for a moment to take his
bearings. Then he continued his way with long, decided strides, and in
a few minutes the dim outline of Scipio's house loomed up before him.
He came close up, and walked slowly round it. At one window he paused,
listening. There was not a sound to be heard outside. At the window of
the bedroom he listened a long time. No, he could not even hear the
children breathing.
At last he reached the door which Sunny had locked. He cautiously
tried the handle, and the sound brought a whimper from the yellow pup
within. He cursed the animal softly under his breath and waited,
hoping the wretched creature would settle down again. He heard it
snuff at the foot of the door, and then the soft patter of its feet
died away, and he knew that the poor thing had satisfied itself that
all was well.
He smiled, and sat down at the foot of the door. And, with his knees
drawn up into his arms, he prepared for his long vigil. It was the
posting of the night sentry over Scipio's twins.
CHAPTER VIII
WILD BILL THINKS HARD--AND HEARS NEWS
Wild Bill stretched himself drowsily. It was noon. He knew that by the
position of the patch of sunlight on the floor, which he gazed at with
blinking eyes. Presently he reached out his long arms and clasped his
hands behind his head. He lay there on his stretcher bed, still very
sleepy, but with wakefulness gaining ascendancy rapidly. He had
completed two successive nights of "sentry-go" over Scipio's twins,
never reaching his blankets until well after sun-up.
For some minutes he enjoyed the delicious idleness of a still brain.
Then, at last, it stirred to an activity which once again set flowing
all the busy thought of his long night's vigil. Further rest became
impossible to a man of his temperament, and he sprang from his
blankets and plunged his face into a bucket of fresh water which stood
on an adjacent bench. In five minutes he was ready for the business of
the day.
It was to be a day of activity. He felt that. Yet he had made no
definite plans. Only all his thoughts of the previous night warned him
that something must be done, and that it was "up to him to get busy."
A long wakeful night is apt to distort many things of paramount
interest. But the morning light generally reduces them to their proper
focus. Thus it is with people who are considered temperamental. But
Bill had no such claims. He was hard, unimaginative, and of keen
decision. And overnight he had arrived at one considerable decision.
How he had arrived at it he hardly knew. Perhaps it was one of those
decisions that cannot be helped. Certain it was that it had been
arrived at through no definite course of reasoning. It had simply
occurred to him and received his approval at once. An approval, which,
once given, was rarely, if ever, rescinded. This was the man.
He had first thought a great deal about Scipio. He felt that the time
had come when his fate must be closely inquired into. The blundering
efforts of Sunny Oak were so hopelessly inadequate in the care of the
children, that only the return of their father could save them from
some dire domestic catastrophe.
Sunny apparently meant well by them. But Bill hated well-meaning
people who disguised their incompetence under the excellence of their
intentions. Besides, in this case it was so useless. These two
children were a nuisance, he admitted, but they must not be allowed to
suffer through Sunny's incompetence. No, their father must be found.
Then there was his mare, Gipsy; and when he thought of her he went hot
with an alarm which no threat to himself could have inspired. This
turn of thought brought James into his focus. That personage was
rarely far from it, and he needed very little prompting to bring the
outlaw into the full glare of his mental limelight. He hated James. He
had seen him rarely, and spoken to him perhaps only a dozen times,
when he first appeared on Suffering Creek. But he hated him as though
he were his most bitter personal enemy.
He had no reason to offer for this hatred, beyond the outlaw's known
depredations and the constant threat of his presence in the district.
At least no reason he would have admitted publicly. But then Wild Bill
was not a man to bother with reasons much at any time. And it was the
venomous hatred of the man which now drove him to a decision of the
first importance. And such was his satisfaction in the interest of his
decision, that, for the time being, at least, poker was robbed of its
charm, faro had become a game of no consequence whatever, and gambling
generally, with all its subtleties as he understood them, was no
longer worth while. He had decided upon a game with a higher stake
than any United States currency could afford. It was a game of life
and death. James, "Lord" James, as he contemptuously declared, must
go. There was no room for him in the same district as Wild Bill of
Abilene.
It would be useless to seek the method by which this decision was
reached. In a man such as Bill the subtleties of his motives were far
too involved and deeply hidden. The only possible chance of estimating
the truth would be to question his associates as to their opinion. And
even then such opinions would be biased by personal understanding of
the man, and so would be of but small account.
Thus Minky would probably have declared that his decision was the
result of his desire for the welfare of the community in which he
claimed his best friends. Sandy Joyce would likely have shaken his
head, and declared it was the possibility of something having happened
to his mare Gipsy. Toby Jenks might have had a wild idea that Bill had
made his "pile" on the "crook" and was "gettin' religion." Sunny Oak,
whose shrewd mind spent most of its time in studying the peculiarities
of his fellows, might have whispered an opinion to himself, when no
one was about, to the effect that Bill couldn't stand for a rival
"boss" around Suffering Creek.
Any of these opinions might have been right, just as any of them might
have been very wide of the mark. Anyhow, certain it is that no citizen
of Suffering Creek would, even when thoroughly drunk, have accused
Bill of any leaning towards sentimentalism or chivalry. The idea that
he cared two cents for what became of Scipio, or his wife, or his
children, it would have been impossible to have driven into their
heads with a sledge-hammer. And maybe they would have been right. Who
could tell?
His decision was taken without any definite argument, without any
heroics. He frankly declared to himself that James must go. And having
decided, he, equally frankly, declared that "the proposition was up to
him." This was his silent ultimatum, and, having delivered it, there
was no turning back. He would carry it out with as little mercy to
himself as he would show to any other concerned.
The men of Suffering Creek thought they knew this man. But it is
doubtful if anybody, even the man himself, knew Wild Bill. Probably
the nearest approach to a fair estimate of him would have been to
describe him as a sort of driving force to a keen brain and hot,
passionate heart. Whether he possessed any of the gentler human
feelings only his acts could show, for so hard and unyielding was his
manner, so ruthless his purpose when his mind was made up, that it
left little room for the ordinary observer to pack in a belief of the
softer side to the man.
Ten minutes after performing his primitive ablutions Wild Bill was
eating breakfast in the dining-room at the store, with Minky sitting
opposite to him. The storekeeper was telling him of something that
happened the night before, with a troubled expression in his honest
eyes.
"I was wonderin' when you'd get around," he said, as soon as Birdie
Mason had withdrawn to the kitchen. "I'd have given a deal for you to
have been playin' last night. I would sure. There was three fellers,
strangers, lookin' for a hand at poker. They'd got a fine wad o'
money, too, and were ready for a tall game. They got one with Irish
O'Brien, an' Slade o' Kentucky, but they ain't fliers, an' the
strangers hit 'em good an' plenty. Guess they must ha' took five
hundred dollars out of 'em."
Bill's sharp eyes were suddenly lifted from his plate. He was eating
noisily.
"Did you locate 'em--the strangers?" he grated.
"That's sure the pinch," said Minky, wiping his broad forehead with a
colored handkerchief. The heat in the dining-room was oppressive.
"I've never see 'em before, an' they didn't seem like talkin' a heap.
They were all three hard-lookin' citizens, an'--might ha' been
anything from bum cowpunchers to--"
"Sharps," put in Bill, between noisy sips at his coffee.
"Yes."
Minky watched a number of flies settle on a greasy patch on the bare
table.
"Y'see," he went on, after a thoughtful pause, "I don't like strangers
who don't seem ready tongued--none of us do, since the stage-robbin'
set in."
"You mean--" Bill set his cup down.
Minky nodded.
"We ain't sent out a parcel of gold for months, an' I'm kind o' full
up with dust about now. Y'see, the boys has got to cash their stuff,
and I'm here to make trade, so--wal, I jest got to fill myself with
gold-dust, an' take my chances. I'm mighty full just now--an'
strangers worry me some."
"You're weakenin'," said Bill sharply, but his eyes were serious, and
suggested a deep train of swift thought. Presently he reached a piece
of bread and spread molasses on it.
"Guess you're figgerin' it 'ud be safer to empty out."
Minky nodded.
"And these strangers?" Bill went on.
"They've lit out," said Minky ruefully. "I ast a few questions of the
boys. They rode out at sun-up."
"Where did they sleep?"
"Don't know. Nobody seems to know."
Minky sighed audibly. And Bill went on eating.
"Ain't heerd nothing o' Zip?" the storekeeper inquired presently.
"No."
"'Bout that mare o' yours?"
Bill's face suddenly flushed, and his fierce brows drew together in an
ominous frown, but he made no answer. Minky saw the change and edged
off.
"It's time he was gettin' around."
Bill nodded.
"I was kind of wonderin'," Minky went on thoughtfully, "if he don't
turn up--wot's to happen with them kids?"
"I ain't figgered."
Bill's interest was apparently wandering.
"He'll need to be gettin' around or--somethin's got to be done," Minky
drifted on vaguely.
"Sure."
"Y'see, Sunny's jest a hoboe."
"Sure."
"Don't guess Zip's claim amounts to pea-shucks neither," the
storekeeper went on, his mind leaning towards the financial side of
the matter.
"No."
"Them kids'll cost money, too."
Bill nodded, but no one could have detected any interest in his
movement.
"How'd it be to get that claim worked for him--while he's away?"
Bill shrugged.
"Mebbe Zip'll be gettin' back," he said.
"An' if he don't."
"You mean?"
There was interest enough in Bill now. His interrogation was full of
suppressed force.
"Yes. James."
Bill sprang to his feet and kicked back his chair. The sudden rage in
his eyes was startling, even to Minky, who was used to the man.
However, he waited, and in a moment or two his friend was talking
again in his usually cold tone.
"I'll jest git around an' see how Sunny's doin'," he said.
Then he drew out a pipe and began to cut flakes of tobacco from a
black plug.
"See here, Minky," he went on, after a moment's pause. "You need to do
some thinkin'. How much dust have you got in the store?"
"'Bout twenty thousand dollars."
"Whew!" Bill whistled softly as he packed the tobacco in his pipe. "An
elegant parcel for strangers to handle."
The storekeeper's face became further troubled.
"It sure is--if they handle it."
"Jest so."
Bill's pipe was alight now, and he puffed at it vigorously, speaking
between the puffs.
"Y'see, this feller James plays a big game. Cattle duffin' and
ord'n'ry stage-robbin' ain't good enough, nor big enough, to run his
gang on. He needs gold stages, and we ain't sendin' gold stages out.
Wal, wot's the conclusion? I ast you?"
"He'll hev to light out, or--"
"Jest so. Or he'll get around here to--look into things. Those
strangers last night were mebbe 'lookin' into things.' You'll need to
stow that dust where the rats can't gnaw it. Later we'll think things
out. Meanwhile there's one thing sure, we don't need strangers on
Suffering Creek. There's enough o' the boys around to work the gold,
an' when they get it they mostly know what to do with it. Guess I'll
get on up to Zip's shack."
The two men walked out into the store. Minky in a pessimistic mood
passed in behind his counter. This question of gold had bothered him
for some weeks. Since the first stage-robbing, and James' name had
become a "terror" in the district, he had opened a sort of banking
business for the prospectors. Commercially it appealed to him
enormously. The profits under his primitive methods of dealing with
the matter were dazzlingly large, and, in consequence, the business
became a dominant portion of his trade. Nor was it until the quantity
of gold he bought began to grow, and mount into thousands of dollars'
worth, that the difficulties of his traffic began to force themselves
upon him. Then it was that he realized that if it was insecure to
dispatch a gold stage laden with the property of the prospectors, how
was he to be able to hold his stock at the store with any greater
degree of security.
The more he thought of the matter the greater the difficulties
appeared. Of course he saw possibilities, but none of them offered the
security he needed. Then worry set in. History might easily repeat
itself on Suffering Creek. James' gang was reported to be a large one.
Well, what if he chose to sweep down upon the camp, and clean the
place out. Herein lay the trouble. And in consequence his days and
nights were none too easy.
He had never spoken of the matter before. It was not a subject to be
discussed with anybody. But Bill was different from the rest, and, for
several days, Minky had sought an opportunity of unburdening himself
to his friend. Now, at last, he had done so, and, in return, had
received small enough comfort. Still he felt he had done the best
thing.
CHAPTER IX
THE FORERUNNER OF THE TRUST
Bill passed straight through the store and set out across the town
dumps. And it would have been impossible to guess how far he was
affected by Minky's plaint. His face might have been a stone wall for
all expression it had of what was passing behind it. His cold eyes
were fixed upon the hut ahead of him without apparent interest or
meaning. His thoughts were his own at all times.
As he drew near he heard Sunny's voice raised in song, and he listened
intently, wondering the while if the loafer had any idea of its
quality. It was harsh, nasal and possessed as much tune as a freshly
sharpened "buzz-saw." But his words were distinct. Far too distinct
Bill thought with some irritation.
"A farmer ast the other day if we wanted work.
Sez we, 'Ol' man, the labour?' Sez he, 'It's binding wheat.'
Sez we, 'Ol' man, the figger?' 'A dollar an' a ha'f the sum.'
Sez we, 'Ol' man, go an' tickle yerself, we'd a durned sight sooner
bum!'
'Anythin' at all, marm, we're nearly starvin',
Anything to hel-l-lp the bummers on their wa-ay,
We are three bums an' jolly good chums,
An' we live like Royal Turks,
An' with good luck we bum our chuck,
An' it's a fool of a man wot works.'"
Just as Sunny was about to begin the next verse Bill appeared in the
doorway, and the vocalist was reduced to a pained silence by his harsh
criticism.
"You'd orter be rootin' kebbeges on a hog ranch wi' that voice," he
said icily. "You're sure the worst singer in America."
Then he glanced round for the children. They were nowhere to be seen.
Sunny was at the cookstove boiling milk in a tin "billy." His face was
greasy with perspiration, and, even to Bill's accustomed eyes, he
looked dirtier than ever. He stood now with a spoon poised, just as he
had lifted it out of the pot at the moment of the other's entrance.
"Where's the kids?" the latter demanded sharply.
Sunny shifted his feet a little uneasily and glanced round the dirty
room. The place looked as though it hadn't been cleaned for a month.
There was a hideous accumulation of unwashed utensils scattered
everywhere. The floor was unswept, let alone unwashed. And the smell
of stale food and general mustiness helped to add to the keenness of
the visitor's nervous edge as he waited for the man's reply.
"Guess they're out on the dumps playin' at findin' gold," Sunny said,
with a slightly forced laugh. "Y'see, little Vada's staked out a claim
on a patch of elegant garbage, an' is digging fer worms. Them's the
gold. An' Jamie's playin' 'bad man' an' swoopin' down on her and
sneakin' her worms. It's a new game. Y'see, I thought it out and
taught 'em how to play it. They're a heap struck on it, too. I--"
But words somehow failed him under the baleful stare of the other's
eyes. And turning back to the milk he fell into a stupid silence.
"You'll get right out an' huyk them kiddies off'n those dumps," cried
Bill sharply. "You got no more sense in your idjot head than to slep
when your eyes shut. Diggin' worms on the dumps! Gee! Say, if it ain't
enough to give 'em bile and measles, an'--an' spots, then I don't know
a 'deuce-spot' from a hay-rake. Git right out, you loafin' bum, an'
fetch 'em in, an' then get the muck off'n your face, an' clean this
doggone shack up. I'd sure say you was a travelin' hospital o' disease
by the look of you. I'm payin' you a wage and a heap good one, so git
out--an' I'll see to that darn milk."
Argument was out of the question, so Sunny adopted the easier course
of obedience to his employer's orders. He dropped the spoon into the
milk with a suddenness that suggested resentment, and shuffled out,
muttering. But Bill followed him to the door.
"How?" he inquired threateningly.
"I didn't say nothin'," lied Sunny.
"I didn't jest guess you did," retorted Bill sarcastically. And he
watched his man hurry out into the sunlight with eyes that had somehow
become less severe.
He waited where he was for some moments. Then he turned back into the
room and stared disgustedly about him.
"If a feller can't fix two kiddies right an' cook 'em pap without
mussin' things till you feel like dying o' colic at the sight, he
ain't fit to rob hogs of rootin' space," he muttered. "I'd--Gee-whiz!
Ther's that doggone milk raising blue murder wi'--"
He rushed to the stove where the boiling milk was pouring over the
sides of the pot in a hissing, bubbling stream. He clutched at the
"billy," scalding his fingers badly, jerked it off the stove, upset
the contents on the floor and flung the pot itself across the room,
where it fell with a clatter upon a pile of dirty tin plates and
pannikins. He swore violently and sucked his injured fingers,
while, in angry dismay, he contemplated the additional mess his
carelessness had caused. And at that moment Sunny returned, leading
two grubby-faced infants by the hand.
"I got 'em back," he cried cheerfully. Then his shrewd eyes took in
the situation at a glance, and they sparkled with malicious glee.
"Gee," he cried, releasing the youngsters and pointing at the mess on
the stove and floor. "Now ain't that a real pity? Say, how d'you come
to do that? It sure ain't a heap of trouble heatin' a drop o' milk.
Most any fule ken do that. I tho't you savvied that, I sure did, or
I'd ha' put you wise. Y'see, you should jest let it ha' come to the
bile, an' then whip it off quick. My, but it's real foolish! Ten cents
o' milk wasted for want of a little sense."
"Our dinner milk," cried Vada in consternation. "All gone."
"All dorn," echoed Jamie, flinging himself on the floor and dipping
his fingers into the mess and licking them with grave appreciation.
In a moment he was joined by the inevitable yellow pup, which burnt
its tongue and set up a howl. Vada ran to the animal's assistance,
fell over Jamie's sprawling legs and rolled heavily in the mess.
For some seconds confusion reigned. Sunny darted to Vada's rescue,
sent the pup flying with a well-directed kick, picked the weeping girl
up, and tried to shake some of the milk from her dirty clothing. While
Bill grabbed Jamie out of the way of any further mischief. The boy
struggled furiously to free himself.
"Me want dinner milk," he shouted, and beat the gambler's chest with
both his little fists.
"You kicked Dougal!" wailed Vada, from under Sunny's arm.
And at that moment a mild voice reached them from the open doorway--
"Why, what's happenin'?"
Bill and Sunny turned at once. And the next instant the children were
shrieking in quite a different tone.
"Pop-pa," they shouted, with all the power of their childish lungs.
The men released them, and, with a rush, they hurled themselves upon
the small person of their father.
Scipio set a bundle he was carrying upon the floor and scrambled Jamie
into his arms and kissed him. Then he kissed Vada. After that he stood
up, and, in a peculiarly dazed fashion gazed about him, out of a pair
of blackened and bloodshot eyes, while the children continued to cling
to him.
The two onlookers never took their eyes off him. Sunny Oak gazed with
unfeigned astonishment and alarm, but Bill merely stared. The little
man was a pitiable object. His clothes were tattered. His face was
bruised and cut, and dry blood was smeared all round his mouth. Both
eyes were black, and in one of them the white was changed to a bright
scarlet.
James' men had done their work all too well. They had handled their
victim with the brutality of the savages they were.
Scipio let his eyes rest on Bill, and, after a moment's hesitation, as
though gathering together his still scattered wits, spoke his
gratitude.
"It was real kind of you lendin' me Gipsy. I set her back in the barn.
She's come to no harm. She ain't got saddle-sore, nor--nor nothin'.
Maybe she's a bit tuckered, but she's none the worse, sure."
Bill clicked his tongue, but made no other response. At that moment it
would have been impossible for him to have expressed the thoughts
passing through his fierce mind. Sunny, however, was more superficial.
Words were bursting from his lips. And when he spoke his first remark
was a hopeless inanity.
"You got back?" he questioned.
Scipio's poor face worked into the ghost of a smile.
"Yes," he said. And the awkwardness of the meeting drove him to
silently caressing his children.
Presently Sunny, who was not delicate-minded, pointed at his face.
"You--you had a fall?"
Scipio shook his head.
"You see, I found him and--his boys got rough," he explained simply.
"Gee!"
There was no mistaking Sunny's anger. He forgot his usual lazy
indifference. For once he was stirred to a rage that was as active and
volcanic as one of Wild Bill's sudden passions.
But the gambler at last found his tongue, and Sunny was given no
further opportunity.
"What you got there?" he asked, pointing at the parcel Scipio had
deposited on the floor.
The little man glanced down at it.
"That?" he said hazily. "Oh, that's bacon an' things. I got 'em from
Minky on my way up. He told me you'd sure got grub up here, an' I
didn't need to get things. But I guessed I couldn't let you do all
this now I'm back. Say," he added, becoming more alert. "I want to
thank you both, you bin real good helping me out."
Bill swallowed some tobacco juice, and coughed violently. Sunny was
eaten up with a rage he could scarcely restrain. But Scipio turned to
the children, who were now clinging silently to his moleskin
trousers.
"Guess we'll get busy an' fix things up," he said, laying caressing
hands upon them. "You'll need your dinners, sure. Poppa's got nice
bacon. How's that?"
"Bully," cried Vada promptly. Now that she had her father again
everything was "bully." But Jamie was silently staring up at the man's
distorted features. He didn't understand.
Wild Bill recovered from his coughing, suddenly bestirred himself.
"Guess we'd best git goin', Sunny," he said quietly. "Zip'll likely
need to fix things up some. Y'see, Zip," he went on, turning to the
father, "Sunny's done his best to kep things goin' right. He's fed the
kiddies, which was the most ne'ssary thing. As for keppin' the place
clean,"--he pointed at the small sea of milk which still stood in
pools on the floor--"I don't guess he's much when it comes to cleanin'
anything--not even hisself. I 'low he's wrecked things some. Ther's a
heap of milk wasted. Howsum--"
"Say!" cried the outraged Sunny. But Bill would allow no interruption.
"We'll git goin'," he said, with biting coldness. "Come right along.
So long, Zip," he added, with an unusual touch of gentleness. "I'll be
along to see you later. We need to talk some."
He moved over to Sunny's side, and his hand closed upon his arm. And
somehow his grip kept the loafer silent until they passed out of the
hut. Once outside the gambler threw his shoulders back and breathed
freely. But he offered no word. Only Sunny was inclined to talk.
"Say, he's had a desprit bad time," he said, with eyes ablaze.
But Bill still remained silent. Nor did another word pass between them
until they reached Minky's store.
* * * * *
The moment they had departed Scipio glanced forlornly round his home.
It was a terrible home-coming. Three days ago in spite of all
set-backs and shortcomings, hope had run high in his heart. Now--He
left the twins standing and walked to the bedroom door. He looked in.
But the curtains dropped from his nerveless fingers and he turned back
to the living room, sick in mind and heart. For one moment his eyes
stared unmeaningly at the children. Then he sat down on the chair
nearest the table and beckoned them over to him. They came, thrilled
with awe in their small wondering minds. Their father's distorted
features fascinated yet horrified them.
Jamie scrambled to one knee and Vada hugged one of the little man's
arms.
"We'll have to have dinner, kiddies," he said, with attempted
lightness.
"Ess," said Jamie absently. Then he reached up to the wound on his
father's right cheek, and touched it gently with one small finger. It
was so sore that the man flinched, and the child's hand was withdrawn
instantly.
"Oose's hurted," he exclaimed.
"Pore poppa's all hurt up," added Vada tearfully.
"Not hurt proper," said Scipio, with a wan smile. "Y'see, it was jest
a game, an'--an' the boys were rough. Now we'll git dinner."
But Vada's mind was running on with swift childish curiosity, and she
put a sudden question.
"When's momma comin' back?" she demanded.
The man's eyes shifted to the open doorway. The golden sunlight beyond
was shining with all the splendor of a summer noon. But for all his
blackened eyes saw there might have been a gray fog of winter
outside.
"Momma?" he echoed blankly.
"Ess, momma," cried Jamie. "When she comin'?"
Scipio shook his head and sighed.
"When she comin'?" insisted Vada.
The man lowered his eyes till they focused themselves upon the yellow
pup, now hungrily licking up the cold milk.
"She won't come back," he said at last, in a low voice. Then with a
despairing gesture, he added: "Never! never!" And his head dropped
upon Jamie's little shoulder while he hugged Vada more closely to his
side as though he feared to lose her too.
CHAPTER X
THE TRUST
It was a blazing afternoon of the "stewing" type. The flies in the
store kept up a sickening hum, and tortured suffering humanity--in the
form of the solitary Minky--with their persistent efforts to alight on
his perspiring face and bare arms. The storekeeper, with excellent
forethought, had showered sticky papers, spread with molasses and
mucilage, broadcast about the shelves, to ensnare the unwary pests.
But though hundreds were lured to their death by sirupy drowning, the
attacking host remained undiminished, and the death-traps only
succeeded in adding disgusting odors to the already laden atmosphere.
Fortunately, noses on Suffering Creek were not over-sensitive, and the
fly, with all his native unpleasantness, was a small matter in the
scheme of the frontiersman's life, and, like all other obstructions,
was brushed aside physically as well as mentally.
The afternoon quiet had set in. The noon rush had passed, nor would
the re-awakening of the camp occur until evening. Ordinarily the quiet
of the long afternoon would have been pleasant enough to the
hard-working storekeeper. For surely there is something approaching
delight in the leisure moments of a day's hard and prosperous work.
But just now Minky had little ease of mind. And these long hours, when
the camp was practically deserted, had become a sort of nightmare to
him. The gold-dust stored in the dim recesses of his cellars haunted
him. The outlaw, James, was a constant dread. For he felt that his
store held a bait which might well be irresistible to that individual.
Experienced as he was in the ways of frontier life, the advent of the
strangers of the night before had started a train of alarm which
threatened quickly to grow into panic.
He was pondering this matter when Sunny Oak, accompanied by the
careless Toby Jenks, lounged into the store. With a quick, almost
furtive eye the storekeeper glanced up to ascertain the identity of
the newcomers. And, when he recognized them, such was the hold his
alarm had upon him, that his first thought was as to their fitness to
help in case of his own emergency. But his fleeting hope received a
prompt negative. Sunny was useless, he decided. And Toby--well, Toby
was so far an unknown quantity in all things except his power of
spending on drink the money he had never earned.
"Ain't out on your claim?" he greeted the remittance man casually.
"Too blamed hot," Toby retorted, winking heavily.
Then he mopped his face and ordered two whiskies.
"That stuff won't cool you down any," observed Minky, passing behind
his counter.
"No," Toby admitted doubtfully. Then with a bright look of intelligence.
"But it'll buck a feller so it don't seem so bad--the heat, I mean."
His afterthought set Sunny grinning.
Minky set out two glasses and passed the bottle. The men helped
themselves, and with a simultaneous "How!" gulped their drinks down
thirstily.
Minky re-corked the bottle and wiped a few drops of water from the
counter.
"So Zip's around," he said, as the glasses were returned to the
counter. And instantly Sunny's face became unusually serious.
"Say," he cried, with a hard look in his good-natured eyes. "D'you
ever feel real mad about things? So mad, I mean, you want to get right
out an' hurt somebody or somethin'? So mad, folks is likely to git
busy an' string you up with a rawhide? I'm sure mostly dead easy as a
man, but I feel that away jest about now. I've sed to myself I'd do
best settin' my head in your wash-trough. I've said it more'n oncet in
the last half-hour. But I don't guess it's any sort o' use. So--so,
I'll cut out the wash-trough."
"You most generally do," said Toby pleasantly.
"You ain't comic--'cep' when you're feedin'," retorted Sunny, nettled.
Then he turned to Minky, just as the doorway of the store was darkened
by the advent of Sandy Joyce. But he glanced back in the newcomer's
direction and nodded. Then he went on immediately with his talk.
"Say, have you seen him?" he demanded of anybody. "I'm talkin' o'
Zip," he added, for Sandy's enlightenment. "He found James. Located
his ranch, an'--an' nigh got hammered to death for his pains. Gee!"
"We see him," said Minky, after an awed pause. "But he never said a
word. He jest set Bill's mare back in the barn, an' bo't bacon, and
hit off to hum."
"I didn't see him," Sandy admitted. "How was he?"
"Battered nigh to death, I said," cried Sunny, with startling
violence. "His eyes are blackened, an' his pore mean face is cut
about, an' bruised ter'ble. His clothes is torn nigh to rags, an'--"
"Was it the James outfit did it?" inquired Minky incredulously.
"They did that surely," cried Sunny vehemently. "You ain't seen Bill,
have you? He's that mad you can't git a word out o' him. I tell you
right here somethin's goin' to happen. Somethin's got to happen," he
added, with a fresh burst of rage. "That gang needs cleanin' out. They
need shootin' up like vermin, an'--"
"You're goin' to do it?" inquired Sandy sarcastically.
Sunny turned on him in a flash.
"I'll take my share in it," he cried, "an' it'll need to be a big
share to satisfy me," he added, with such evident sincerity and fiery
determination that his companions stared at him in wonder.
"Guess Sunny's had his rest broke," observed Toby, with a grin.
"I have that sure. An'--an' it makes me mad to git busy," the loafer
declared. "Have you seen that pore feller with his face all mussed?
Gee! Say, Zip wouldn't hurt a louse; he's that gentle-natured I'd say
if ther' was only a baulky mule between him an' starvation he'd hate
to live. He ain't no more savvee than a fool cat motherin' a china
dog, but he's got the grit o' ten men. He's hunted out James with no
more thought than he'd use firin' a cracker on the 4th o' July. He
goes after him to claim his right, as calm an' foolish as a sheep in a
butcherin' yard. An' I'd say right here ther' ain't one of us in this
store would have had the grit chasin' for his wife wher' Zip's bin
chasin'--"
"Not for a wife, sure," interjected Sandy.
Toby smothered a laugh, but became serious under Sunny's contemptuous
eye.
"That's like you, Sandy," he cried. "It's sure like you. But I tell
you Zip's a man, an' a great big man to the marrer of his small
backbone. His luck's rotten. Rotten every ways. He's stuck on his
wife, an' she's gone off with a tough like James. He works so he comes
nigh shamin' even me, who hates work, on a claim that couldn't show
the color o' gold on it, if ther' wa'an't nothin' to the earth but
gold. He's jest got two notions in his silly head. It's his kids an'
his wife. Mackinaw! It makes me sick. It does sure. Here's us fellers
without a care to our souls, while that pore sucker's jest strugglin'
an' strugglin' an' everythin's wrong with him--wrong as--oh, hell!"
For once Sandy forgot his malicious jibe at the loafer's expense. And
Toby, too, forgot his pleasantry. Sunny's outburst of feeling had
struck home, and each man stood staring thoughtfully at the mental
picture he had conjured for them. Each admitted to himself in his own
way the pity the other's words had stirred, but none of them had
anything to add at the moment.
Sunny glanced from one to the other. His look was half questioning and
wholly angry. He glanced across at the window and thrust his hands in
his ragged trousers pockets.
And presently as he began to tap the floor with his foot a fresh rush
of fiery anger was mounting to his head. He opened his lips as though
about to continue his tirade, but apparently changed his mind. And,
instead, he drew a dollar bill from his pocket, and flung it on the
counter.
"Three more drinks," he demanded roughly.
Minky in unfeigned surprise produced the glasses. Sandy leant over,
and, with face thrust forward, inspected the bill. Toby contented
himself with a low whistle of astonishment.
Sunny glared at them contemptuously.
"Yes," he said roughly, "I've earned it. I've worked for it, do you
understand? Wild Bill set me to look after Zip's kids, an' he's paid
me for it. But--but that money burns--burns like hell, an' I want to
be quit of it. Oh, I ain't bug on no sort o' charity racket, I'm jest
about as soft as my back teeth. But I'm mad--mad to git busy doin'
anythin' so we ken git Zip level with that low-down skunk, James. An'
if ther's fi' cents' worth o' grit in you, Mister Sandy Joyce, an' an
atom o' savvee in your fool brain, Toby, you'll take a hand in the
game."
Minky looked on in silent approval. Anything directed against James
was bound to meet with his approval just now. But Sandy cleared his
throat, and lounged with his back against the counter.
"An' wot, I'd ast, is goin' to hurt this tough?" he inquired, with a
dash of his usual sarcasm.
Sunny flew at his drink and gulped it down.
"How do I know?" he cried scornfully.
"Jest so."
Toby grinned.
"You're a bright one, Sunny. You're so bright, you dazzle my eyes," he
cried.
But Sunny was absorbed in a thought that was hazily hovering in the
back of his brain, and let the insult pass.
"How ken I tell jest wot we're goin' to do," he cried. "Wot we want to
do is to kind o' help that pore crittur Zip out first. Ther' he is wi'
two kids to see to, which is sure more than one man's work, an' at the
same time he's got to dig up that mudbank claim of his. He don't see
the thing's impossible, 'cos he's that big in mind he can't see small
things like that. But I ain't big that aways, an' I ken see. If he
goes on diggin' wot's his kids goin' to do, an' if he don't dig wot's
they goin' to do anyways. We'll hev to form a committee--"
"Sort o' trust," grinned Toby.
But Sunny passed over his levity and seized upon his suggestion.
"I 'lows your fool head's tho't somethin' wiser than it guessed," he
said. "That's just wot we need. Ther' should be a trust to see after
him. An' after it's got his kids fixed right--"
Sunny broke off as the tall figure of Wild Bill threw its shadow
across the window of the store. The next moment the man himself
entered the room.
He nodded silently, and was about to fling himself into one of the
chairs, when Toby, in jocular anticipation, threw Sunny's proposition
at him.
"Say, Sunny's woke up an' bin thinkin'," he cried. "I allow his brain
is shockin' wonderful. Guess he's got sick o' restin' an' reckons he
got a notion for makin' a trust lay-out."
"The Zip Trust," added Sandy, with a laugh, in which Toby joined
heartily.
"Yes. He guesses Zip needs lookin' after," declared the remittance man
in the midst of his mirth, glancing round for appreciation of the
joke.
But the encouragement he received fell short of his expectations, and
his laugh died out quite abruptly. There was no responsive smile on
Minky's face. Sunny was glowering sulkily; while Bill's fierce brows
were drawn together in an angry frown, and his gimlet eyes seemed to
bore their way into the speaker's face.
"Wal?" he demanded coldly.
"Wal, I think he's--"
But Bill cut him short in his coldest manner.
"Do you?" he observed icily. "Wal, I'd say you best think ag'in. An'
when you done thinkin' jest start right over ag'in. An' mebbe some day
you'll get wise--if you don't get took meanwhiles."
Bill flung himself into the chair and crossed his long legs.
"Sunny's on the right lay," he went on. "Ther' ain't many men on
Sufferin' Creek, but Zip's one of 'em. Say, Toby, would you ride out
to James' outfit to call him all you think of the feller whose stole
your wife?"
"Not by a sight," replied Toby seriously.
"Wal, Zip did. He's big," went on Bill in cold, harsh tones. Then he
paused in thought. But he went on almost immediately. "We got to help
him. I'm sure with Sunny." He turned on the loafer with a wintry
smile. "You best organize right away, an'--count me in."
Sunny's eyes glowed with triumph. He had feared the man's ridicule. He
had expected to see his lean shoulders go up in silent contempt. And
then, he knew, would have followed a storm of sarcasm and "jollying"
from Sandy and the others. With quick wit he seized his opportunity,
bent on using Bill's influence to its utmost. He turned on Minky with
a well calculated abruptness.
"You'll help this thing out--too?" he challenged him.
And he got his answer on the instant--
"I sure will--to any extent."
Sandy and Toby looked at the storekeeper in some doubt. Bill was
watching them with a curious intentness. And before Sunny could
challenge the two scoffers, his harsh voice filled the room again.
"I don't know we'll need any more," he said, abruptly turning his gaze
upon the open window, "otherwise we'd likely hev ast you two fellers.
Y'see, we'll need folks as ken do things--"
"Wot sort o' things?" demanded Sandy, with a sudden interest.
"Wal, that ain't easy to say right now, but--"
"I ain't much seein' to kids," cried Sandy, "but I ken do most
anythin' else."
A flicker of a smile crept into Bill's averted eyes, while Sunny
grinned broadly to see the way the man was now literally falling over
himself to follow the leadership of Wild Bill.
"Wal, it ain't no use in saying things yet, but if you're dead set on
joining this Zip Trust, I guess you can. But get this, what you're
called upon to do you'll need to do good an' hard, an'--without
argument."
Sandy nodded.
"I'm in," he cried, as though a great privilege had been bestowed upon
him.
And at once Toby became anxious.
"Guess you ain't no use for me, Bill?" he hazarded, almost diffidently.
Bill turned his steely eyes on him in cold contemplation. Minky had
joined in Sunny's grin at the other men's expense. Sandy, too, now
that he was accepted as an active member of the trust, was indulging
in a superior smile.
"I don't allow I have," Bill said slowly. "Y'see, you ain't much else
than a 'remittance' man, an' they ain't no sort o' trash anyway."
"But," protested Toby, "I can't help it if my folks hand me money?"
"Mebbe you can't." Bill was actually smiling. And this fact so far
influenced the other members of the trust that an audible titter went
round the room. Then the gambler suddenly sat forward, and the old
fierce gleam shone once more in his cold eyes. "Say," he cried
suddenly. "If a feller got the 'drop' on you with six bar'ls of a gun
well-loaded, an'--guessed you'd best squeal, wot 'ud you do?"
"Squeal," responded the puzzled Toby, with alacrity.
"You ken join the Trust. You sure got more savvee than I tho't."
Bill sat back grinning, while a roar of laughter concluded the
founding of the Zip Trust.
But like all ceremonials, the matter had to be prolonged and
surrounded with the frills of officialdom. Sunny called it organization,
and herein only copied people of greater degree and self-importance.
He plunged into his task with whole-hearted enthusiasm, and, with
every word he uttered, preened himself in the belief that he was
rapidly ascending in the opinion of Wild Bill, the only man on
Suffering Creek for whose opinion he cared a jot.
He explained to his comrades, with all the vanity of a man whose
inspiration has met with public approval, that in forming such a
combine as theirs, it would be necessary to allot certain work, which
he called "departments," to certain individuals. He assured his
fellow-members that such was always done in "way-up concerns." It
saved confusion, and ensured the work being adequately performed.
"Sort o' like a noo elected gover'ment," suggested Sandy sapiently.
"Wal, I won't say that," said Sunny. "Them fellers traipse around wi'
portyfolios hangin' to 'em. I don't guess we need them things. It's
too hot doin' stunts like that."
"Portfolios?" questioned Toby artlessly. "Wot's them for?"
"Oh, jest nuthin' o' consequence. Guess it's to make folks guess
they're doin' a heap o' work. No, what we need is to set each man his
work this aways. Now Bill here needs to be president sure. Y'see, we
must hev a 'pres.' Most everything needs a 'pres.' He's got to sit on
top, so if any one o' the members gits gay he ken hand 'em a daisy
wot'll send 'em squealin' an' huntin' their holes like gophers. Wal,
Bill needs to be our 'pres.' Then there's the 'general manager.' He's
the feller wot sets around an' blames most everybody fer everything
anyway, an' writes to the noospapers. He's got to have savvee, an' an
elegant way o' shiftin' the responsibility o' things on them as can't
git back at him. He's got to be a bright lad--"
"That's Sunny, sure," exclaimed Toby. "He's a dandy at gettin' out o'
things an' leaving others in. Say--"
"Here, half-a-tick," cried Joyce, with sudden inspiration. "Who's
goin' to be 'fightin' editor'?"
"Gee, what a brain!" cried Sunny derisively. "Say, we ain't runnin' a
mornin' noos sheet. This is a trust. Sandy, my boy, you need
educatin'. A trust's a corporation of folks wot is so crooked, they
got to git together, an' pool their cash, so's to git enough dollars
to kep 'em out o' penitentiary. That's how they start. Later on, if
they kep clear o' the penitentiary, they start in to fake the market
till the Gover'ment butts in. Then they git gay, buy up a vote in
Congress, an' fake the laws so they're fixed right fer themselves.
After that some of them git religion, some of 'em give trick feeds to
their friends, some of 'em start in to hang jewels on stage females.
Some of 'em have been known to shoot theirselves or git divorced. It
ain't no sort o' matter wot they do, pervided they're civil to the
noospaper folk. That's a trust, Sandy, an' I don't say but what the
feller as tho't o' that name must o' bin a tarnation amusin' feller."
"Say, you orter bin in a cirkis," sneered Sandy, as the loafer
finished his disquisition.
"Wal, I'd say that's better'n a museum," retorted Sunny.
But Toby was impatient to hear how Sunny intended to dispose of him.
"Wher' do I figger in this lay-out?" he demanded.
"You?" Sunny's eyes twinkled. "Don't guess we'll need to give you hard
work. You best be boss o' the workin' staff."
"But ther' ain't no workin' staff," protested Toby.
"Jest so. That's why you'll be boss of it." Then Sunny turned to
Sandy.
"We'll need your experience as a married man, tho'," he said slyly.
"So you best be head o' the advisory board. You'll need to kep us wise
to the general principles of vittlin' a family of three, when the
woman's missin'. Then we'll need a treasurer." Sunny turned to Minky,
and his twinkling eyes asked the question.
"Sure," said Minky promptly, "I'll be treasurer. Seems to me I'll be
safer that ways."
"Good," cried Sunny, "that's all fixed." He turned to Bill. "Say,
pres," he went on, "I'd like to pass a vote o' thanks fer the way you
conducted this yer meetin', an' put it to the vote, that we accept the
treasurer's invitation to take wine. All in favor will--"
"Mine's rye," cried Sandy promptly.
"An' mine," added Toby.
"Rye for me," nodded Sunny at Minky's grinning face. "Bill--?"
But Bill shook his head.
"Too early for me," he said, "you fellers can git all you need into
you though. But see here, folks," he went on, with a quietness of
purpose that promptly reduced every eye to seriousness. "This ain't no
play game as Sunny may ha' made you think. It's a proposition that
needs to go thro', an'--I'm goin' to see it thro'. Zip's kids is our
first trouble. They ain't easy handlin'. They got to be bro't up
reg'lar, an' their stummicks ain't to be pizened with no wrong sort o'
vittles. Ther's such a heap o' things to kids o' that age it makes me
nigh sweat at the tho't. Howsum, Zip's down an' out, an' we got to see
him right someways. As 'pres' of this lay-out, I tell you right here,
every mother's son of us had best git out an' learn all we ken about
fixin' kids right. How to feed 'em, how to set their pretties on
right, how to clean 'em, how to--well, jest how to raise 'em. If any
o' you got leddy friends I'd say git busy askin' 'em. So--"
At that moment the sound of footsteps on the veranda came in through
the window, and Bill looked round. The next instant he spoke more
rapidly, and with greater authority.
"Git goin'," he cried, "an' we'll meet after supper."
There was no doubt of this man's rule. Without a word the men
filed out of the store, each one with his thoughts bent upon the
possibilities of acquiring the knowledge necessary.
CHAPTER XI
STRANGERS IN SUFFERING CREEK
Bill watched the men depart. The stolid Minky, too, followed them with
his eyes. But as they disappeared through the doorway he turned to the
gambler, and, in surprise, discovered that he was reclining in a
chair, stretched out in an attitude of repose, with his shrewd eyes
tightly closed. He was about to speak when the swing-doors opened, and
two strangers strolled in.
Minky greeted them, "Howdy?" and received an amiable response. The
newcomers were ordinary enough to satisfy even the suspicious
storekeeper. In fact, they looked like men from some city, who had
possibly come to Suffering Creek with the purpose of ascertaining the
possibilities of the camp as a place in which to try their fortunes.
Both were clad in store clothes of fair quality, wearing hats of the
black prairie type, and only the extreme tanning of their somewhat
genial faces belied the city theory.
Minky noted all these things while he served them the drinks they
called for, and, in the most approvedly casual manner, put the usual
question to them.
"Wher' you from?" he inquired, as though the matter were not of the
least consequence.
He was told Spawn City without hesitation, and in response to his
remark that they had "come quite a piece," they equally amiably
assured him that they had.
Then one of the men addressed his companion.
"Say, Joe," he said, "mebbe this guy ken put us wise to things."
And Joe nodded and turned to the storekeeper.
"Say, boss," he began, "we've heerd tell this lay-out is a dead gut
bonanza. There's folks in Spawn City says ther's gold enough here to
drown the United States Treasury department. Guess we come along to
gather some." He grinned in an ingratiating manner.
Minky thought before answering.
"Ther' sure is a heap o' gold around. But it ain't easy. I don't guess
you'd gather much in a shovel. You'll get pay dirt that aways, but--"
"Ah! Needs cap'tal," suggested Joe.
"That's jest how we figgered," put in the other quietly.
Minky nodded. Many things were traveling swiftly through his mind.
"Drove in?" he inquired.
"Sure," replied Joe. "Unhooked down the trail a piece."
Bill's eyes opened and closed again. Then he shifted noisily in his
chair. The men turned round and eyed him with interest. Then the man
called Joe called back to the storekeeper.
"My name's Joe Manton," he said, by way of introduction. "An' my
friend's called Sim Longley. Say," he went on, with a backward jerk of
the head, "mebbe your friend'll take something?"
Minky glanced over at Wild Bill. The gambler drowsily opened his eyes
and bestirred himself.
"I sure will," he said, rearing his great length up, and moving across
to the counter. "I'll take Rye, mister, an' thank you. This is Mr.
Minky, gents. My name's Bill."
The introduction acknowledged, talk flowed freely. Wild Bill, in
carefully toned down manner, engaged the strangers in polite talk,
answering their questions about the gold prospects of the place, which
were often pointed, in the most genial and even loquacious manner. He
told them a great deal of the history of the place, warned them that
Suffering Creek was not the sinecure the outside world had been told,
endorsed Minky's story that what Suffering Creek really needed was
capital to reach the true wealth of the place. And, in the course of
the talk, drink flowed freely.
Bill was always supplied with his drink from a different bottle to
that out of which the strangers were served. As a matter of fact, he
was probably the most temperate man on Suffering Creek, and, by an
arrangement with Minky, so as not to spoil trade, drank from a bottle
of colored water when the necessity for refreshment arose. But just
now his manner suggested that he had drunk quite as much whisky as the
strangers. His spirits rose with theirs, and his jocularity and levity
matched theirs, step by step, as they went on talking.
The man Longley had spoken of the settlement as being "one-horsed,"
and Billy promptly agreed.
"It sure is," he cried. "We ain't got nothing but this yer canteen,
with ol' Minky doin' his best to pizen us. Still, we get along in a
ways. Mebbe we could do wi' a dancin'-hall--if we had females around.
Then I'd say a bank would be an elegant addition to things. Y'see, we
hev to ship our gold outside. Leastways, that's wot we used to do,
I've heard. Y'see, I ain't in the minin' business," he added, by way
of accounting for his lack of personal knowledge.
"Ah!" said Joe. "Maybe you're 'commercial'?"
Bill laughed so genially that the others joined in it.
"In a ways, mebbe I am. You see, I mostly sit around, an' when
anything promisin' comes along, why, I ain't above plankin' a few
dollars by way of--speculation."
Joe grinned broadly.
"A few shares in a poker hand, eh?" he suggested shrewdly.
"You're kind o' quick, mister," Bill laughed. "I'm stuck on 'draw'
some."
Then the talk drifted suddenly. It was Longley who presently harked
back to the commercial side of Suffering Creek.
"You was sayin' ther' wasn't no bank on Suffering Creek," he said
interestedly. "What do folks do with their dust now, then?"
A quick but almost imperceptible glance passed between Bill and the
storekeeper. And Bill's answer came at once.
"Wal, as I sed, we used to pass it out by stage. But--"
Longley caught him up just a shade too quickly.
"Yes--but?"
"Wal," drawled Bill thoughtfully, "y'see, we ain't shipped dust out
for some time on account of a gang that's settin' around waitin'. You
comin' from Spawn City'll likely have heard of this feller James an'
his gang. A most ter'ble tough is James. I'll allow he's got us mighty
nigh wher' he wants us--scairt to death. No, we ain't sent out no gold
stage lately, but we're goin' to right soon. We'll hev to. We've ast
for an escort o' Gover'ment troops, but I guess Sufferin' Creek ain't
on the map. The Gover'ment don't guess they've any call to worry."
"Then what you goin' to do?" inquired Longley, profoundly interested.
"Can't say. The stage'll hev to take its chances."
"An' when--" began Longley. But his comrade cut him short.
"Say, I'll allow the gold racket's mighty int'restin', but it makes me
tired this weather. You was speakin' 'draw'--"
"Sure," responded Bill amiably. "We're four here, if you fancy a hand.
Minky?"
The storekeeper nodded, and promptly produced cards and 'chips.' And
in five minutes the game was in progress. Used as he was to the
vagaries of his gambling friend, Minky was puzzled at the way he was
discussing Suffering Creek with these strangers. His talk about James
and the gold-stage was too rankly absurd for anything, and yet he knew
that some subtle purpose must be underlying his talk. However, it was
no time to question or contradict now, so he accepted the situation
and his share in the game.
And here again astonishment awaited him. Bill lost steadily, if not
heavily. He watched the men closely, but could discover none of the
known tricks common to the game when sharps are at work. They not only
seemed to be playing straight, but badly. They were not good poker
players. Yet they got the hands and won. For himself, he kept fairly
level. It was only Bill who lost.
And all through the game the gambler allowed himself to be drawn into
talking of Suffering Creek by the interested Longley, until it would
have been obvious to the veriest greenhorn that the stranger was
pumping him.
The newcomers seemed to be enjoying themselves enormously, and the
greatest good-will prevailed. Nor was it until nearly supper-time that
Bill suddenly stood up and declared he had had enough. He was a loser
to the extent of nearly a hundred dollars.
So the party broke up. And at Minky's suggestion the men departed to
put their horses in the barn, while they partook of supper under his
roof. It was the moment they had gone that the storekeeper turned on
his friend.
"Say, I ain't got you, Bill. Wot's your game?" he demanded, with some
asperity.
But the gambler was quite undisturbed by his annoyance. He only
chuckled.
"Say," he countered, "ever heerd tell of Swanny Long, the biggest
tough in Idaho?"
"Sure. But--"
"That's him--that feller Sim Longley."
The storekeeper stared.
"You sure?"
"Sure? Gee! I was after him fer nigh three--Say," he broke off--it was
not his way to indulge in reminiscence--"I guess he's workin' with
James." Then he laughed. "Gee! I allow he was rigged elegant--most
like some Bible-smashin' sky-pilot."
Minky was still laboring hard to understand.
"But all that yarn of the gold-stage?" he said sharply.
"That?" Bill at once became serious. "Wal, that's pretty near right.
You ain't yearnin' fer that gang to come snoopin' around Suffering
Creek. So I'm guessin' we'll hev to pass a gold-stage out o' her some
time."
"You're mad," cried Minky in consternation.
"That's as may be," retorted Bill, quite unruffled. "Anyways, I guess
I spent a hundred dollars in a mighty good deal this day--if it was
rotten bad poker."
And he turned away to talk to Slade of Kentucky, who entered the store
at that moment with his friend O'Brien.
CHAPTER XII
THE WOMAN
The woman turned from the window at the sound of footsteps somewhere
behind her. That was her way now. She started at each fresh sound that
suggested anyone approaching. Her nerves were on edge for some reason
she could never have put into words. She did not fear, yet a curious
nervousness was hers which made her listen acutely at every footstep,
and breathe her relief if the sound died away without further
intrusion upon her privacy.
Presently she turned back to the window with just such relief. The
footstep had passed. She drew her feet up into the ample seat of the
rocking-chair, and, with her elbow resting upon its arm, heavily
pressed her chin into the palm of her hand, and again stared at the
rampart of mountains beyond.
Nor had all the beauties spread out before her yearning gaze the least
appeal for her. How should they? Her thoughts were roaming in a world
of her own, and her eyes were occupied in gazing upon her woman's
pictures as she saw them in her mind. The wonders of that scene of
natural splendor laid out before her had no power to penetrate the
armor of her preoccupation. All her mind and heart were stirred and
torn by emotions such as only a woman can understand, only a woman can
feel. The ancient battle of titanic forces, which had brought into
existence that world of stupendous might upon which her unseeing eyes
gazed, was as nothing, it seemed, to the passionate struggle going on
in her torn heart. To her there was nothing beyond her own regretful
misery, her own dread of the future, her passionate revulsion at
thoughts of the past.
The truth was, she had not yet found the happiness she had promised
herself, that had been promised to her. She had left behind her all
that life which, when it had been hers, she had hated. Her passionate
nature had drawn her whither its stormy waves listed. And now that the
tempest was passed, and the driving forces had ceased to urge, leaving
her in a rock-bound pool of reflection, she saw the enormity of the
step she had taken, she realized the strength of Nature's tendrils
which still bound her no less surely.
The mild face of Scipio haunted her. She saw in her remorseful fancy
his wondering blue eyes filled with the stricken look of a man
powerless to resent, powerless to resist. She read into her thought
the feelings of his simple heart which she had so wantonly crushed.
For she knew his love as only a woman can. She had probed its depth
and found it fathomless--fathomless in its devotion to herself. And
now she had thrown him and his love, the great legitimate love of the
father of her children, headlong out of her life.
A dozen times she bolstered her actions with the assurance that she
did not want his love, that he was not the man she had ever cared
for seriously, could ever care for. She told herself that the
insignificance of his character, his personality, were beneath
contempt. She desired a man of strength for her partner, a man who
could make himself of some account in the world which was theirs.
No, she did not want Scipio. He was useless in the scheme of life, and
she did not wish to have to "mother" her husband. Far rather would she
be the slave of a man whose ruthless domination extended even to
herself. And yet Scipio's mild eyes haunted her, and stirred something
in her heart that maddened her, and robbed her of all satisfaction in
the step she had taken.
But this was only a small part of the cause of her present mood. She
had not at first had the vaguest understanding of the bonds which
really fettered her, holding her fast to the life that had been hers
for so long. Now she knew. And the knowledge brought with it its
bitter cost. Some forewarning had been hers when she appealed to her
lover for the possession of her children. But although her mother's
instinct had been stirred to alarm at parting, she had not, at that
time, experienced the real horror of what she was doing in abandoning
her children.
She was inconsolable now. With all her mind and heart she was crying
out for the warm, moist pressure of infant lips. Her whole body
yearned for those who were flesh of her flesh, for the gentle beating
hearts to which her body had given life. They were hers--hers, and of
her own action she had put them out of her life. They were hers, and
she was maddened at the thought that she had left them to another.
They were hers, and--yes, she must have them. Whatever happened, they
must be restored to her. Life would be intolerable without them.
She was in a wholly unreasoning state of mind. All the mother in her
was uppermost, craving, yearning, panting for her own. For the time,
at least, all else was lost in an overwhelming regret, and such a
power of love for her offspring, that she had no room for the man who
had brought about the separation.
She was a selfish woman, and had always craved for the best that life
could give her, but now that her mother-love was truly roused her
selfishness knew no bounds. She had no thought for anybody, no
consideration. She could have none until her desire was satisfied.
Her tortured heart grew angry against Scipio. She was driven to fury
against James. What mattered it that her lover had so far fulfilled
all his other promises to her, if he did not procure the children and
return them to her arms? What mattered it that she was surrounded
with luxury uncommon on the prairie, a luxury she had not known for so
many years?
She had her own rooms, where no one intruded without her consent. The
spacious house had been ransacked to make them all that she could
desire. All the outlaw's associates were herded into the background,
lest their presence should offend her. Even James himself had
refrained from forcing his attentions upon her, lest, in the first
rush of feeling at her breaking with the old life, they should be
unwelcome. His patience and restraint were wonderful in a man of his
peculiar savagery. And surely it pointed his love for her. Had it been
simply the momentary passion of an untamed nature, he would have
waited for nothing, when once she had become his possession.
It was a curious anachronism that she should be the mistress of the
situation with such a man as James. Yet so far she was mistress of the
situation. The question was, how long would she remain so? It is
possible that she had no understanding of this at first. It is
possible that she would have resented such a question, had it occurred
to her when she first consented to break away from her old life.
But now it was different. Now that she began to understand all she had
flung away for this man, when the mother in her was at last fully
aroused, and all her wits were driven headlong to discover a way by
which to satisfy her all-consuming desire for her children, now the
native cunning of the woman asserted itself. She saw in one revealing
flash her position, she saw where lay her power at the moment, and she
clung to it desperately, determined to play the man while she could to
gain her ends.
Thus it was she was nervous, apprehensive, every time she thought it
likely that her lover was about to visit her. She dreaded what might
transpire. She dreaded lest her power should be weakened before she
had accomplished her end. It was difficult; it was nerve-racking. She
must keep his love at fever-heat. It was her one chance.
Again she started. It was the sound of a fresh footstep beyond the
door. She glanced at the door with half-startled eyes and sat
listening. Then her lips closed decidedly and a look of purpose crept
into her eyes. A moment later she stood up. She was pale, but full of
purpose.
"Is that you, Jim?" she called.
"Sure," came the ready response.
The next instant the door was flung open and the man came in.
His bronzed face was smiling, and the savage in him was hidden deep
down out of sight. His handsome face was good to look upon, and as the
woman's eyes surveyed his carefully clad slim figure she felt a thrill
of triumph at the thought that he was hers at the raising of her
finger.
But she faced him without any responsive smile. She had summoned him
with a very definite purpose in her mind, and no display of anything
that could be interpreted into weakness must be made.
"I want to talk to you," she said, pointing at the rocking-chair she
had just vacated.
James glanced at the chair. Then his eyes turned back to her with a
question in them. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and flung himself
into the seat, and stretched out his long legs luxuriously.
Apparently Jessie had not noticed the shrug. It would have been better
had she done so. She might then have understood more fully the man she
was dealing with. However, she turned to the window and spoke with her
back to him.
"It's about--things," she said a little lamely.
The man's smile was something ironical, as his eyes greedily devoured
the beauty of her figure.
"I'm glad," he said in a non-committing way. Then, as no reply was
immediately forthcoming, he added, "Get going."
But Jessie made no answer. She was thinking hard, and somehow her
thoughts had an uneasy confusion in them. She was trying hard to find
the best way to begin that which she had to say, but every opening
seemed inadequate. She must not appeal, she must not dictate. She must
adopt some middle course. These things she felt instinctively.
The man shifted his position and glanced round the room.
"Kind of snug here," he said pleasantly, running his eyes appreciatively
over the simple decorations, the cheap bric-à-brac which lined the
walls and, in a world where all decoration was chiefly conspicuous
by its absence, gave to the place a suggestion of richness. The red
pine walls looked warm, and the carpeted floor was so unusual as to
give one a feeling of extraordinary refinement. Then, too, the chairs,
scattered about, spoke of a strain after civilized luxury. The whole
ranch-house had been turned inside out to make Jessie's quarters all
she could desire them.
"Yes," he muttered, "it's sure snug." Then his eyes came back to the
woman. "Maybe there's something I've forgotten. Guess you've just got
to fix a name to it."
Jessie turned instantly. Her beautiful eyes were shining with a sudden
hope, but her face was pale with a hardly controlled emotion.
"That's easy," she said. "I want my children. I want little Vada. I--I
must have her. You promised I should. If you hadn't, I should never
have left. I must have her." She spoke breathlessly, and broke off
with a sort of nervous jolt.
In the pause that followed James' expression underwent a subtle
change. It was not that there was any definite movement of a single
muscle. His smile remained, but, somehow, through it peeped a hard
look which had not been there before.
"So you want--the kids," he said at last, and a curious metallic
quality was in his voice. "Say," he added thoughtfully, "you women are
queer ones."
"Maybe we are," retorted Jessie. She tried to laugh as she spoke, but
it was a dismal failure. Then she hurried on. "Yes," she cried a
little shrilly, "it was part of our bargain, and--so far you have not
carried it out."
"Bargain?" The man's brows went up.
"Yes, bargain."
"I don't remember a--bargain." James' eyes had in them an ominous
glitter.
"Then you've got a bad memory."
"I sure haven't, Jess. I sure haven't that. I generally remember good.
And what I remember now is that I promised you those kids if you
needed them. I swore that you should have 'em. But I made no bargain.
Guess women don't see things dead right. This is the first time you've
spoken to me of this, and you say I haven't fulfilled my bargain. When
I refuse to give you them kiddies, it's time to take that tone. You
want them kids. Well--go on."
The change in her lover's manner warned Jessie that danger lay ahead.
In the brief time she had spent under his roof she had already learned
that, as yet, she had only seen the gentlest side of the man, and that
the other side was always perilously near the surface.
In the beginning this had been rather a delight to her to think that
she, of all people, was privileged to bask in the sunny side of a man
who habitually displayed the storm clouds of his fiercer side to the
world in general. But since that time a change, which she neither knew
nor understood, had come over her, and, instead of rejoicing that he
possessed that harsher nature, she rather feared it, feared that it
might be turned upon her.
It was this change that had helped to bring her woman's cunning into
play. It was this change which had brought her her haunting visions of
the old life. It was this change which had prompted her that she must
keep her lover at arm's length--as yet. It was this change, had she
paused to analyze it, which might have told her of the hideous mistake
she had made. That the passion which she had believed to be an
absorbing love for the man was merely a passion, a base human passion,
inspired in a weak, discontented woman. But as yet she understood
nothing of this. The glamour of the man's personality still had power
to sway her, and she acknowledged it in her next words.
"Don't be angry, Jim dear," she said, with a smile of seductive
sweetness which had immediate effect upon the man. "You don't
understand us women. We're sure unreasonable where our love is
concerned."
Then a flush spread itself slowly over her handsome face, and passion
lit her eyes.
"But I must have my children," she broke out suddenly. "One of them,
anyhow--little Vada. You--you can't understand all it means to be away
from them. They are mine. They are part of me. I--I feel I could kill
anyone who keeps them from me. You promised, Jim, you sure did. Get
her for me. My little girl--my little Vada."
The man had risen from his chair and moved to the window. He sat on
the rough sill facing her. His eyes were hot with passion, too, but it
was passion of a very different sort.
"And if I do?" he questioned subtly.
"If you do?" Jessie's eyes widened with a world of cunning simplicity.
"Yes, if I do?" The man's face was nearer.
"You'll have fulfilled your promise."
Jessie had turned again to the window, and her eyes were cold.
The man's brows drew together sharply, and his dark eyes watched the
perfect outline of her oval cheek. Then he drew a sharp breath, and
biting words leapt to his lips. But he held them back with a sudden
grip that was perilously near breaking. Jessie's power was still
enormous with him. But this very power was maddening to a man of his
nature, and the two must not come into too frequent conflict.
He suddenly laughed, and the woman turned in alarm at the note that
sounded in it.
"Yes," he said tensely. "I'll fulfill my promise. It'll amuse me,
sure, getting back at that Sufferin' Creek lay-out. I owe them
something for keepin' back the gold-stages. You shall have Vada,
sure."
He broke off for an instant and drew nearer. He leant forward, and
one arm reached out to encircle her waist. But with an almost
imperceptible movement the woman stood beyond his reach.
"And--and after?" he questioned, his arm still outstretched to embrace
her.
The woman made no answer.
"And after?"
There was a hot glow in his tone. He waited. Then he went on.
"Then I'll have done everything," he said--"all that a man can do to
make you happy. I'll have fulfilled all my promises. I'll--And you?"
he went on, coming close up to her.
This time she did not repulse him. Instinct told her that she must
not. Before all things she wanted Vada. So his arms closed about her,
and a shower of hot, passionate kisses fell upon her face, her hair,
her lips.
At last she pushed him gently away. For the moment all the old passion
had been stirred, but now, as she released herself, an odd shiver
passed through her body, and a great relief came to her as she stood
out of his reach. It was the first real, definite feeling of
repulsion she had had, and as she realized it a sudden fear gripped
her heart, and she longed to rush from his presence. But, even so, she
did not fully understand the change that was taking place in her. Her
predominating thought was for the possession of little Vada, and she
urged him with all the intensity of her longing.
"You'll get her for me?" she cried, with an excitement that
transfigured her. "You will. Oh, Jim, I can never thank you
sufficiently. You are good to me. And when will you get her--now? Oh,
Jim, don't wait. You must do it now. I want her so badly. I wonder how
you'll do it. Will you take her? Or will you ask Zip for her? I--I
believe he would give her up. He's such a queer fellow. I believe he'd
do anything I asked him. I sure do. How are you going to get her?"
The man was watching her with all the fire of his love in his eyes. It
was a greedy, devouring gaze of which Jessie must have been aware had
she only been thinking less of her child. Nor did he answer at once.
Then slowly the passionate light died out of his eyes, and they became
thoughtful.
"Tell me," the woman urged him.
Suddenly he looked into her face with a cruel grin.
"Sit down, Jess," he said sharply, "and write a letter to Zip asking
him, in your best lingo, to let you have your kid. An' when you done
that I'll see he gets it, an'--I'll see you get the kid. But make the
letter good an' hot. Pile up the agony biz. I'll fix the rest."
For a moment the woman looked into his face, now lit with such a cruel
grin. Something in her heart gave her pause. Somehow she felt that
what she was called upon to do was intended to hurt Zip in some subtle
way, and the thought was not pleasant. She didn't want to hurt Zip.
She tried in those few seconds to probe this man's purpose. But her
mind was not equal to the task. Surely a letter appealing to Zip
could not really hurt him. And she wanted little Vada so much. It was
this last thought that decided her. No, nothing should stand in her
way. She steeled her heart against her better feelings, but with some
misgivings, and sat down to write.
James watched her. She procured paper and pen, and he watched her
bending over the table. No detail of her face and figure escaped his
greedy eyes. She was very beautiful, so beautiful to him that he
stirred restlessly, chafing irritably under the restraint he was
putting upon himself. Again and again he asked himself why he was fool
enough to do as he was doing. She was his. There was no one to stop
him, no one but--her.
Ah! There was the trouble. Such was the man's temper that nothing
could satisfy him that gave him no difficulty of attaining. His was
the appetite of an epicure in all things. Everything in its way must
be of the best, and to be of the best to him it must be the most
difficult of achievement.
He waited with what patience he could until the letter was written.
Then he watched Jessie seal and address it. Then she rose and stood
staring down at the cruel missive. She knew it was cruel now, for,
trading on the knowledge of the man who was to receive it, she had
appealed through the channel of her woman's weakness to all that great
spirit which she knew to abide in her little husband's heart.
James understood something of what was passing in her mind. And it
pleased him to think of what he had forced her to do--pleased him as
cruelty ever pleases the truly vicious.
At last she held the missive out to him.
"There it is," she said. And as his hand closed upon it her own was
drawn sharply away, as though to avoid contact with his.
"Good," he said, with a peculiar grin.
For a moment the silence remained unbroken. Then the woman raised
appealing eyes to his face.
"You won't hurt Zip?" she said in a voice that would surely have
heartened the object of her solicitude had he heard it.
The man shook his head. His jaws were set, and his smile was
unpleasing.
"Guess any hurtin' Zip gets'll be done by you."
"Ah, no, no!"
The woman reached out wildly for the letter, but James had passed
swiftly out of the room.
CHAPTER XIII
BIRDIE AND THE BOYS
The derelicts of a mining camp must ever be interesting to the student
of human nature, so wide is the field for study. But it were better to
be a student, simply, when probing amongst the refuse heaps of life's
débris. A sentimentalist, a man of heart, would quickly have it broken
with the pity of it all. A city's tragedies often require search to
reveal them, but upon the frontier tragedy stalks unsepulchered in the
background of nearly every life, ready to leap out in all its naked
horror and settle itself leech-like upon the sympathetic heart,
stifling it with the burden of its misery.
No, it is not good to delve into the dark pages of such folks' lives
too closely, unless armored with impenetrable callousness. But one
cannot help wondering whence all those living tragedies come. Look at
the men. For the most part strong, able creatures, apparently capable
of fighting the lusty battle of life with undiminished ardor. Look at
the women. They are for the most part thinking women, healthy,
capable. And yet--well, nine-tenths of them are not so cut off from
their home cities, their friends and relatives, without some more than
ordinary reason.
It is a sad sight to see the women plunged headlong into the fight for
existence in such places, to witness the cruel iron thrust upon them
its searing brand, to watch all the natural softness of their sex
harden to the necessary degree for a successful issue to the battle,
to witness their frequent unsexing and ultimate degradation. Such
results are common enough when a woman enters the lists. It is so
often a mere question of time. And when the end is achieved, how
awful, how revolting, but how natural.
How Birdie Mason came to find herself the one woman on Suffering
Creek--leaving out the later advent of Scipio's wife--it is not for us
to ask. Whatever her little tragedy it is hers alone, and does not
concern us. All that we need think of is her future, and the pity that
so well-favored a woman has not found her lot cast in places where her
womanhood has its best chances. However, she is there, living the life
of all such hired "helps," drudging from morning till night in one
long round of sordid labor, in an atmosphere stinking with the fetid
breath of debased humanity.
But as yet the life has made no inroads upon her moral health. Her
sunny good nature sets her singing over the most grinding labors. Her
smiling face, and ready tongue, give her an air of happiness and joy
of life which seems well-nigh invincible. And her popularity contrives
her many thrilling moments and advantages which she is too much a
woman and a child to deny herself.
Her day's work ends with the after supper "wash up," a dreary routine
which might well crush the most ardent spirit. Yet she bends over her
tubs full of crockery dreaming her sunny dreams, building her little
castles to the clink of enameled tin cups, weaving her romances to the
clatter of cutlery, smiling upon the mentally conjured faces of her
boys amidst the steaming odors of greasy, lukewarm water. The one blot
upon her existence is perhaps the Chinese cook, with whom she has
perforce to associate. She dislikes him for no other reason than that
he is a "yaller-faced doper that ought to been set to herd with a
menagerie of measly skunks." But even this annoyance cannot seriously
damp her buoyancy, and, with wonderful feminine philosophy, she puts
him out of her mind as a "no account feller, anyway."
She was putting the finishing touches to the long dining-table, making
it ready for the next day's breakfast. It was not an elaborate
preparation. She "dumped" a box of knives and forks at each end of it,
and then proceeded to chase any odd bits of débris from the last meal
on to the floor with a duster. Then, with a hand-broom and pan, she
took these up and with them any other rubbish that might be lying
about. Finally, she set jugs of drinking water at intervals down the
center of the table, and her work was done.
She looked about her, patting her fair hair with that eminently
feminine touch which is to be seen in every woman from the millionaire's
wife down to the poorest emigrant. Then, with less delicacy, she
lifted her apron and wiped the moisture from her round young face.
"Guess that's 'most everything," she murmured, her eyes brightening at
the contemplation of her completed task. "I'll just cut out them--"
She went to a cupboard and drew out a parcel of white lawn and paper
patterns, which she carefully spread out on the table. And, in a few
moments, she was bending absorbedly over the stuff, lost in the
intricacies of hewing out an embryonic garment for her personal
adornment.
It was at this task that Toby Jenks found her. He was worried to death
at the thought that, as a member of the newly formed Zip Trust, it was
his duty to gather information concerning the management of children.
However, in the midst of his trouble he hit on the brilliant idea of
consulting the only woman of his acquaintance.
Toby wanted to do something startling in the interests of the Trust.
He felt that his membership had been conferred in a rather grudging
spirit. And, to his mildly resentful way of thinking, it seemed it
would be a good thing if he could surprise his friends with the
excellence of his services in the general interests of the concern.
Birdie heard the door open, and raised a pair of startled eyes at the
intruder. It was not that such visits were out of order, or even
uncommon, but they generally occurred after pre-arrangement, which
gave her the opportunity of "fixing herself right."
With a wild grab she scrambled her material, and the pattern, so that
its identification would be quite impossible to male eyes, and hugged
it in her arms. Turning swiftly she thrust it into the cupboard, and
slammed the door. But she had no resentment at the interruption. Toby
was quite a new visitor, and, well--the more the merrier.
She turned to him all smiles, and Toby returned her welcome something
sheepishly. He cut a quaint figure with his broad, ungainly shoulders
supporting his rather pumpkin face. Then his arms were a little too
long and terminated in two "leg-of-mutton" hands.
"Evenin', Birdie," he said bashfully. "Guess you were sewin'?"
"Guess again," cried the girl readily, her eyes dancing at the
contemplation of a few moments' badinage with a new candidate for her
favors.
"Well, you wa'an't playin' the pianner."
But Birdie was quite equal to the best efforts of her candidates.
"My, but ain't you slick?" she cried, allowing her smiling gaze to
remain looking straight into his face in a way she knew never failed
to confuse her admirers on Suffering Creek. She watched till the
sturdy man's eyes turned away, and knew that he was groping for an
adequate retort. This effect was the result of practice with her, a
practice she thoroughly enjoyed.
The "leg-of-mutton" hands fumbled their way into the tops of Toby's
trousers, and, with a sudden self-assertion, which fitted him badly,
he lurched over to the table, beyond which Birdie was standing. It was
his intention to seat himself thereon, but his tormentor had not yet
reached the point where she could allow such intimacy.
"Say, I ain't ast you to sit around," she said, with an alluring pout.
"Men-folk don't sit around in a lady's' parlor till they're ast.
'Sides, the table's fixed fer breakfast. And anyway it ain't for
settin' on."
Toby moved away quickly, his attempt at ease deserting him with
ludicrous suddenness. At sight of his blushing face Birdie relaxed her
austerity.
"Say, ain't you soft?" she declared, with a demure lowering of her
lids. "I've allus heerd say, you only got to tell a feller don't, an'
he sure does it quick. Men-folk is that contrary. Now--"
The encouragement brought its reward. Toby promptly sat himself on the
table and set it creaking.
"Well, I do declare!" cried Birdie, in pretended indignation. "And I
never ast you, neither. I don't know, I'm sure. Some folks has
nerve."
But this time Toby was not to be intimidated. Perhaps it was the
girl's bright smile. Perhaps, with marvelous inspiration, he saw
through her flirtatious methods. Anyway, he remained where he was,
grinning sheepishly up into her face.
"Guess you best push me off. I ain't heavy," he dared her clumsily.
"I sure wouldn't demean myself that way," she retorted. "Gee, me
settin' hands on a feller like you. It would need a prize-fighter."
The acknowledgment of his size and strength was a subtle tribute which
pleased the man, as it was intended to. He preened himself and drew
his knees up into his arms, in an attitude intended to be one of
perfect ease and to show his confidence.
"I sure ain't much of a feller for strength," he said modestly, eyeing
his enormous arms and hands affectionately. "You ought to see Wild
Bill. He--he could eat me, an' never worry his digestion."
Birdie laughed happily. She was always ready to laugh at a man's
attempt at humor. That was her way.
"You are a queer one," she said, seating herself on the opposite edge
of the table, so that she was sufficiently adjacent, and at the
requisite angle at which to carry on her flirtation satisfactorily.
"Say," she went on, with a down drooping of her eyelids, "why ain't
you in there playin' poker? Guess you're missin' heaps o' fun. I wish
I was a 'boy.' I wouldn't miss such fun by sitting around in here."
"Wouldn't you?" Toby grinned, while his brains struggled to find a
happy reply. "Well, you see," he hazarded at last, "poker an' whisky
ain't to be compared to talkin' to a dandy fine gal with yaller hair
an' elegant blue eyes."
He passed one of his great hands across his forehead as though his
attempt had made him perspire. But he had his reward. Birdie contrived
a blush of pleasure, and edged a little nearer to him.
"Gee, you can talk pretty," she declared, her lips parted in an
admiring smile. "It makes me kind o' wonder how you fellers learn it."
Then she added demurely, "But I ain't pretty, nor nothing like you
fellers try to make out. I'm jest an ord'nary sort of girl."
"No you ain't," broke in Toby, feeling that his initial success had
put him on the top of the situation, and that he had nothing now to
fear. Besides, he really felt that Birdie was an uncommonly nice girl,
and, in a vague way, wondered he had never noticed it before.
"That you ain't," he went on emphatically. Then he added as though to
clinch his statement, "not by a sight."
This brought him to a sudden and uncomfortable stop. He knew he ought
to go on piling up compliment on compliment to make good his point.
But he had emptied his brain cells by his threefold denial, and now
found himself groping in something which was little better than a
vacuum. And in his trouble he found himself wishing he was gifted with
Sunny's wit. Wild Bill's force would have carried him through, or even
Sandy Joyce's overweening confidence would have kept his head above
water. As it was he was stuck. Hopelessly, irretrievably at the end of
his resources.
He perspired in reality now, and let his knees drop out of his arms.
This movement was his salvation. With the relaxing of his physical
effort the restraining grip upon his thinking powers gave way.
Inspiration leaped, and he found himself talking again almost before
he was aware of it.
"You're a real pretty gal, Birdie," he heard himself saying. "Now,
maybe you got some kids?" he added, with an automatic grin of
ingratiation.
How the inquiry slipped out he never knew. How it had been formulated
in his brain remained a riddle that he was never able to solve. But
there it was, plain and decided. There was no shirking it. It was out
in all its naked crudeness.
There was a moment's pause which might have been hours, it seemed so
horribly long to the waiting man. He became dimly aware of a sudden
hardening in Birdie's eyes, a mounting flush to her cheeks and
forehead, a sudden, astounding physical movement, and then the
work-worn palm of her hand came into contact with his cheek with such
force as to prove the value to her physical development of the
strenuous labors which were hers.
He never thought a woman's hand could sting so much. He never thought
that he could be made to feel so mean as this girl's sudden vehemence
made him feel.
"How dare you, you bumming remittance feller?" she cried, with eyes
blazing and bosom heaving. "How dare you--you--you--" And then she
further punished him with that worst of all feminine punishments--she
burst into tears.
The next few moments were never quite clear to the distracted and
unthinking Toby. He never really knew what actually happened. He had a
confused memory of saying things by way of apology, of making several
pacific overtures, which met with physical rebuffs of no mean order,
and tearful upbraidings which were so mixed up with choking sniffs as
to be fortunately more or less unintelligible. Finally, when he came
to his ordinary senses, and the dead level of his understanding was
fully restored, he found himself grasping the girl firmly by the
waist, her golden head lying snugly on his massive shoulder, and with
a distinct recollection of warm ripe lips many times pressed upon his
own. All of which was eminently pleasing.
When once these comfortable relations were thoroughly established, he
had no difficulty in clearing the clouds from her horizon, and
relegating her tears into the background. Her nature was of a much too
smiling order to need a great deal of coaxing. But explanation was
needed, and explanation never came easily to this stalwart dullard.
"Y'see, what I meant was," he said, with a troubled frown of intense
concentration, "maybe you know about kids. I didn't mean offense, I
sure didn't. Everybody knows our Birdie to be jest a straight,
up-standin', proper gal, who wouldn't hurt nobody, nor nuthin', 'cep'
it was a buzzin' fly around the supper hash. No feller don't take no
account o' her bein' a pot-wallopin', hash-slingin' mutton rustler. It
sure ain't no worse than ladlin' swill to prize hogs. It's jest in the
way o' business. 'Sides, she don't need to care what no fellers
thinks. She ain't stuck on men-folk wuth a cent."
"That I sure ain't," asserted a smothered voice from the bosom of his
dirty shirt.
"That you ain't," he reassured her. "You're jest a dandy gal as 'ud
make any feller with a good patch o' pay dirt a real elegant sort o'
wife."
The golden head snuggled closer into his shirt.
"You ain't got no patch o' pay dirt, Toby?" she inquired.
Toby shook his head all unsuspiciously.
"No sech luck," he asserted. Then with a sudden burst of gallantry,
"If I had I don't guess there'd be no Birdie Mason chasin' around
these parts unbespoke."
The girl's eyes developed an almost childish simplicity as they looked
up into his foolish face.
"What d'you mean?"
"Mean? Why, jest nothin', only--"
Toby laughed uneasily. And a shadow crossed Birdie's face.
"I don't guess the patch o' pay dirt matters a heap," she said, with
subtle encouragement.
"That's so," agreed Toby.
"Y'see, a gal don't marry a feller fer his patch o' pay dirt," she
went on, doing her best.
"Sure she don't."
But Toby's enthusiasm was rapidly cooling. The girl breathed a sigh of
perfect content. And her heavy breathing was fast making a moist patch
amidst the gravel stains on his shirt front.
"She jest loves a feller--"
Toby's arm slipped from her waist, and a hunted look crept into his
foolish eyes.
"An' she don't care nothin'--"
The man was suddenly seized with a racking fit of coughing, which
somehow jolted the girl into an upright position.
"Course she don't," he agreed, when his paroxysm had passed. "Say, you
don't think I got newmony?" he inquired, feeling the need for an
abrupt change of subject. "I was allus weak-chested as a kid. An'
talkin' o' kids," he hurried on, in his terror recalling the object
of his visit, "guess you ken put me wise."
"Kids? I wasn't talkin' of kids," protested the girl a little
angrily.
She was hurt. Cruelly hurt. All her best efforts had gone for nothing.
A moment before Toby had seemed so nearly hers, and now--
"No. I didn't guess you were. But--that is--you see--"
The man floundered heavily and broke off. His look was one of comical
confusion and trouble. So much so that it was too much for the girl's
good nature.
"Whose kids?" she demanded, the familiar smile creeping back into her
eyes, and her lips pursing dryly. "Yours?"
"Oh, no," denied the man quickly. "Not mine. It's Zip's. Y'see, since
his wife's lit out he's kind o' left with 'em. An' he's that
fool-headed he don't know how to raise 'em proper. So I guessed I'd
help him. Now, if you put me wise--"
"You help raise Zip's kids? Gee!" The girl slid off the table and
stood eyeing him, her woman's humor tickled to the limit.
But Toby did not realize it. He was in deadly earnest now.
"Yes," he said simply. Then, with a gleam of intelligence, "How'd you
raise 'em?"
The girl was suddenly stirred to a feeling of good-humored malice.
"How'd I raise 'em? Why, it ain't jest easy."
"It sure ain't," agreed Toby heartily. "Now, how'd you feed 'em?"
Birdie became judicially wise.
"Well," she began, "you can't jest feed 'em same as ord'nary folks.
They need speshul food. You'll need to give 'em boiled milk plain or
with pap, you kin git fancy crackers an' soak 'em. Then ther's
beef-tea. Not jest ord'nary beef-tea. You want to take a boilin' o'
bones, an' boil for three hours, an' then skim well. After that you
might let it cool some, an' then you add flavorin'. Not too much, an'
not too little, jest so's to make it elegant tastin'. Then you cook
toasties to go with it, or give 'em crackers. Serve it to 'em hot, an'
jest set around blowin' it so it don't scald their little stummicks.
Got that? You can give 'em eggs, but not too much meat. Meat well done
an' cut up wi' vegetables an' gravy, an' make 'em eat it with a spoon.
Knives is apt to cut 'em. Eggs light boiled, an' don't let 'em rub the
yolk in their hair, nor slop gravy over their bow-ties. Candy, some,
but it ain't good for their teeth, which needs seein' to by a dentist,
anyway. Say, if they're cuttin' teeth you ken let 'em chew the beef
bones, it helps 'em thro'. Fancy canned truck ain't good 'less it's
baked beans, though I 'lows beans cooked reg'lar is best. You soak 'em
twenty-four hours, an' boil 'em soft, an' see the water don't boil
away. Fruit is good if they ain't subjec' to colic, which needs
poultices o' linseed, an' truck like that. Don't let 'em eat till
they're blown up like frogs, an'--you got all that?"
"Ye-es," replied the bewildered man a little helplessly.
"Well," continued the smiling girl, "then there's their manners an'
things."
Toby nodded vaguely.
"You'll need to give 'em bed at sundown," Birdie hurried on. "An' up
at sunrise. Clothes needs washin' at least once a month--with soap.
See they says their prayers, an' bath 'em once a week reg'lar--with
soap. But do it Sundays. An' after that give 'em a Bible talk for an
hour. Then I dessay they'll need physic once a week--best give it
Saturday nights. Don't fix 'em that way same as a horse, their
stummicks ain't made of leather. You got all that?"
Toby gave a bewildered nod.
"How 'bout when they're sick?" he asked.
"Sick? Why, see they don't muss their clothes," Birdie answered
cheerfully. "Guess that's put you wise to most everything."
"Sure." Toby slid from the table, feeling dazed. Nor had he the
courage to ask any more questions. He was trying hard to fix the
salient points of the information in his whirling brain, but all he
could remember was that all washing must be done with soap, and the
children must have bones to keep their teeth right. He clung to these
things desperately, and felt that he must get away quickly before
they, too, should slip through the sieve of his memory.
"Guess I'll git along an'--an' see to things," he murmured vaguely,
without glancing in Birdie's direction. "You said beef bones?" he
added, passing a hand perplexedly across his forehead.
"Sure," smiled the girl.
"Good. Thanks." Then he moved heavily off. "Beef bones and soap--bath
an' Bible talk; beef bones an' soap--"
The girl watched him vanish behind the closing door, muttering as he
went to "see to things."
She stood for some moments where he had left her. The smile was still
in her eyes, but its humor had died out. She was unfeignedly sorry he
had gone. He was such a good-natured simpleton, she thought. A real
good-hearted sort. Just the sort to make a husband worth having. Ah,
well, he had gone! Better luck next time.
She turned away with a deep, sentimental sigh, and crossed over to the
cupboard. She drew out her work once more and again spread out the
crumpled paper pattern upon the gossamer lawn.
Yes, Toby would have suited her well. She heaved another sigh. He had
remittances from home, too. And he wouldn't be difficult to manage.
His head was rather a funny shape, and his face didn't suggest
brightness, but then--
She began to snip at the material with her rusty scissors. But just as
her mind had fully concentrated upon her task a sudden sound startled
her. She looked up, listening, and the next moment the door was flung
wide, and Sandy Joyce stood framed in the opening.
CHAPTER XIV
BIRDIE GIVES MORE ADVICE
The ordinary woman would probably have resented this second
interruption, taking into consideration the nature of Birdie's
occupation, and the fact that Toby's visit had hardly proved a success
from her point of view. But Birdie was only partially ordinary. Her
love and admiration for the opposite sex was so much the chief part of
her composition that all other considerations gave way before it. Her
heart thrilled with a sickly sentiment at all times. To her men were
the gods of the universe, and, as such, must be propitiated, at least
in theory. In practice it might be necessary to flout them, to tease
them, even to snub them--on rare occasions. But this would only come
after intimacy had been established. After that her attitude would be
governed by circumstances, and even then her snubs, her floutings, her
teasing, would only be done as a further lure, a further propitiation.
She loved them all with a wonderful devotion. Her heart was large, so
large that the whole race of men could have been easily lost in its
mysterious and obscure recesses.
Again her work was bundled into the cupboard, the poor flimsy pattern
further suffering. But beyond a casual wonder if the garment would
eventually be wearable, cut from so mangled a pattern, she had no real
care.
Her smiling eyes turned readily upon the newcomer the moment her
secret labors had been hidden from prying male eyes. And there was no
mistaking her cordiality for this cold-eyed visitor.
"Sakes alive! but you do look fierce," she cried challengingly. "You
sure must be in a bad temper."
But Sandy's expression was simply the outcome of long and difficult
consideration. As a matter of fact, in his hard way, he was feeling
very delighted. His past married experience had brought him to the
conviction that here was the only person in Suffering Creek who could
help him.
And, furthermore, he was well satisfied to think that only his
experience as a married man could have suggested to him this means of
gaining the information required by their president, and so shown him
the way to surpass his comrades in his efforts on behalf of the
Trust.
But his knowledge of womankind warned him that he must not be too
hasty. He must not show his hand until he had established himself in a
favorable position in the susceptible Birdie's heart. With this object
in view he set himself to offer his blandishments in characteristic
fashion. He did not suffer from Toby's complaint of bashfulness.
Married life had cured him of that. In consequence, his method, if
crude, was direct.
"I can't say the same of you, Birdie," he declared unsmilingly.
"You're bloomin' as--as a kebbige."
"Kebbige?" sniffed the girl.
"Kebbige, sure," nodded the man of married experience. "Guess mebbe it
ain't a bokay fer smell. But fer taste--with corned beef? Gee!"
Birdie took no umbrage.
"You got to it--after awhiles," she remarked slyly. Then she added,
with a gush, "D'you know, I'm allus most scared to death of you men.
You're that big an' strong, it makes me feel you could well-nigh eat
me."
Sandy availed himself of the invitation.
"A tasty mouthful," he declared. And without more ado he passed round
the table, caught her quickly in his arms, and, without the smallest
expression of interest, kissed her. If interest were lacking, his
movements were so swift that, had the girl the least idea of avoiding
the embrace--which she hadn't--she would have found it difficult to do
so.
"You men are ones!" she declared, with a little gasp, as his arms fell
from about her.
"How's that?"
"I never did--the cheek of some of you!"
"A feller needs cheek," replied the self-satisfied widower.
"'Specially with pretty gals around," he added condescendingly.
Birdie eyed him archly.
"Gals?" she inquired.
"I should have said 'gal.'"
The laughing nod that rewarded him assured Sandy that he was well on
the right track, and at once he took the opportunity of introducing
the object of his visit.
"Say," he began, "guess you never tho't o' gettin' hitched up to a
feller?"
Birdie lowered her eyelids and struggled for a blush, which somehow
defied her best efforts. But her subtleties were quite lost upon
Sandy, and in his eagerness he waited for no reply.
"No, course you hain't. You got so many beaus to choose from. 'Sides,"
he added thoughtfully, "gettin' married sure needs special savvee.
What I mean," he explained, seeing the amused wonder in the girl's now
wide eyes, "you kind o' need eddicatin' to git married. Y'see, when
you get fixed that way you sort of, in a manner of speakin', got to
unlearn things you never learnt, an' learn them things what can't
never be taught. What I mean is, marriage is a sort of eddication of
itself, wot don't learn you nuthin' till you git--unmarried. Savee?"
The girl shook her head in bewilderment.
"That's sure too bright fer me."
"That's 'cos you ain't been married. Y'see, I have."
"Can't you put it easier--seein' I ain't been married?"
"Sure I can." Sandy took up a position, on the edge of the table with
such a judicial air that the girl started to giggle.
"See here," he began largely. "Now what d'you know 'bout kids--raisin'
'em, I mean?"
The girl's eyes twinkled on the verge of laughing outright.
"Zip's kids?" she inquired shrewdly.
Sandy started and frowned.
"What d'you mean--Zip's kids?"
"Oh, just nothing," said Birdie airily. "Seein' kids was in your mind,
I naturally tho't o' Zip's."
Sandy nodded. But he was only half convinced. How on earth, he
wondered, did she know he was thinking of Zip's kids? He felt that it
would be best to nip that idea in the bud. It was undignified that he
should appear to be interested in Zip's twins.
"I ain't interested in no special kids," he said, with some dignity.
"I was just theorizin'--like. Now, if you got married, wot you know of
raisin' kids? Guess you're that ignorant of the subject maybe you'd
feed 'em hay?"
Birdie laughed dutifully, but her retort was rather disconcerting.
"You bin married--how'd you feed 'em? I'm learning."
"How'd I feed 'em?" Sandy eyed his tormentor severely. "That ain't the
question. How'd you feed 'em?"
The girl thought for a moment, and then looked up brightly.
"If they was Zip's kids--"
"I said they ain't."
"Well, if they were, I'd say--"
"See here, cut Zip's kids out. They ain't in this shootin' match,"
cried Sandy testily.
But Birdie persisted slyly.
"Y'see, I must get some kids in my eye if I'm to answer you right,"
she said. "I can see things better that way. Now, if they were Zip's
kids--"
"Which they ain't," asseverated the man doggedly.
"Which they ain't," nodded Birdie, "I'd feed 'em cereals an' pap--"
Sandy's face suddenly cleared. His whole being seemed to expand.
"Say, you're a bright gal," he declared. "Cereals an' pap. That's dead
right. Say, you know more than--You'd give 'em milk to drink--now?" he
suggested.
"Oh no, nothing like that. Water."
The man looked disappointed.
"Water?" he said. "You sure of that? But I guess you'd give 'em
banannys?"
Again the girl shook her head.
"Fruit gives 'em colic."
"Ah, yes, that's so. They'd need physic then, wouldn't they?"
"You need to be easy with physic, too," declared the girl, with
sparkling eyes. "Don't give 'em physic ever unless they're real
sick."
The man's crestfallen appearance set Birdie giggling. She was enjoying
the situation. She meant to upset all Sandy's preconceived ideas.
"Now, pork?" he suggested, but with less assurance.
But Birdie was obdurate.
"Never," she declared emphatically. "Beans, yes. There's good
nourishment in beans. Then ther's fresh vegetables--heaps of 'em."
"Ah! Now, how 'bout fixin' them right--the kids, I mean? Guess they'll
need bathin'."
But Birdie fell upon him with a strong denial.
"Bath?" she cried. "Gee! you do run on. Guess you want to hand 'em
newmony. Kids sure don't never need bathin'. Jest a lick with soap an'
hot water once a week. An' say," she went on, suddenly remembering
something she had told Toby in a fit of mischief, "kep their food
soft, or you'll break their young teeth."
Sandy's eyes lit, and in an unguarded moment he admitted that the
thought had occurred to him. Birdie caught him up at once.
"I tho't you was just astin' me these questions to see if I was right
for gettin' married?" she protested innocently.
"That's so--course," he said hastily. Then he wriggled out of it. "But
how'd I be able to say you was right if I hadn't tho't on things some
myself?"
"Ah! I didn't just think of that."
"Course not. Gals never see the fine points of good argyment."
Sandy's superiority was overwhelming, but Birdie had borne with him
with amused patience until now. She had known him a long time as a
boarder, but never until now had she realized the blundering conceit
that was his. She felt that she had given him rope enough, and it was
time to bring him up with a jerk.
"Thank you kindly, sir," she mocked him, curtseying.
"You're welcome, ma'am," Sandy returned, with a clumsy bow, failing to
realize her change of attitude.
"If you guess I'm right for marryin', maybe you'll hand me my
diploma," she said, with a demure down-drooping of her eyelids.
She waited, and finally glanced up into his flushed face. Her sarcasm
had struck home at last, and without hesitation she went on
mercilessly--
"Say, if you ain't goin' to hand me a diploma, guess you can let me
get on with my sewin'. Havin' been a married man, maybe you'll
understand men-folk ain't a heap of use around when a woman's sewin'.
Guess they're handy ladlin' out most things, but I'd say a man ain't
no more use round the eye of a needle than a camel."
Sandy's dignity and temper were ruffled. It was inconceivable
that Birdie--or, as he mentally apostrophized her, "this blamed
hash-slinger"--should so flout him. How dared she? He was so
angry that words for once utterly failed him, and he moved towards
the door with gills as scarlet as any blustering turkey-cock. But
Birdie had no idea of sparing him, and hurled her final sarcasm
as she turned again to her cupboard.
"I'd hate to be one o' Zip's kids with you gettin' busy around me,"
she cried, chuckling in an infuriating manner.
It was too much for Sandy. He turned fiercely as he reached the door.
"You're 'bug,'" he declared roughly. "I tell you, Zip's kids ain't
nothin' to do with me--"
"Which, I'd say, was lucky for them," cried Birdie airily.
"An' I'd jest like to say that when a genelman gits around to do the
perlite by a no-account mutton-worrier, he figgers to be treat
right--"
Birdie turned on him with cold eyes.
"I'll sure be treatin' you right," she said, "when I tell you that
door don't need shuttin' after you. It's on the swing."
She did not wait to witness her guest's departure. She felt it would
not be graceful, under the circumstances. So, pushing her head into
the cupboard, she once more gathered up her work.
When the soft swish of the swing-door told her that Sandy's departure
had been taken, she emerged with her bundle and spread it out on the
table for the third time. She was all smiles. She was not a bit angry
with the foolish widower. This dogmatic attitude of mind, this
wonderful self-satisfaction, were peculiar to the creature; he
couldn't help it. But it had roused a mischievous spirit in her, and
the temptation was too great to resist. The only thing she regretted
was having let him kiss her, and she at once put up her hand to wipe
the spot where the operation had been performed. At any rate, she had
certainly taken him down a peg or two, and the thought set her in high
good-humor.
Nor could she help wondering at his stupidity in imagining she
couldn't see through his desire for information about children. It was
laughable, coming after Toby's. Oh, these men! They were dear, foolish
creatures. Poor kids, she thought, her mind reverting to Zip's twins.
What had they done to have this pack of foolish people worrying over
them? Were they all going to take a hand in bringing the youngsters
up? Well, anyhow, she pitied them.
She smiled at her thoughts as the busy scissors snipped their way
round the pattern. These men were too funny. First Toby, now
Sandy--who next?
She started and looked up, her scissors poised in the air. The
swing-door had swished open, and Wild Bill stood before her.
"Good sakes!" she cried. "How you scared me!" Then, realizing what lay
before her, she grabbed up her work, and was for returning it to the
cupboard.
But Wild Bill was in a hurry. Besides, he had nothing of the
ingratiating ways of the other men about him. He saw her object, and
stayed her in his own peculiar authoritative fashion.
"Say, you can quit huggin' them fixin's," he cried. "I ain't come
pryin' around a leddy's wardrobe. You ken jest set down with paper an'
ink an' things, an' write down how best Zip's kids can be raised. I'll
git right back for it in ha'f-an-hour."
Nor did he wait for any reply. It was taken for granted that his
demands would be promptly acceded to, and he vanished as abruptly as
he came. The swing-door closed, and Birdie gave a sigh.
"An' him, too," she murmured. "Well, I do declare. It just licks
creation."
But this was a different proposition to either Toby or Sandy. She
sprang to her task for the great Wild Bill in a way that spoke volumes
for her sentimental heart. Wild Bill? Well, she would never have owned
it, but there was just one man in the world that scared Birdie to
death, and at the same time made her think her path was a bed of
roses, and that was Wild Bill. In an astonishingly short time she was
sitting at the table poring over a writing-pad, and biting the already
well-chewed end of a pen.
* * * * *
Outside, in the smoke-laden atmosphere of the store, amidst the busy
click of poker chips and clink of glasses, Wild Bill was talking
earnestly to Minky, who was standing behind the counter.
They had been talking for some time. Minky's eyes frequently wandered
in the direction of a table where four strangers were playing. But no
one could have guessed, in his quiet scrutiny, the anxiety that lay
behind it.
"You _must_ git out to-night?" he inquired of his hawk-visaged
friend.
"Sure," responded Bill absently.
"High finance?"
Bill nodded, with the ghost of a smile.
"A gang of rich guys," he said. "They're gathering at Spawn City for a
financial descent on Suffering Creek. They're all minin' folk. Guess
they'll be yearning for a big game."
"When'll you git back?"
"Noon, day after to-morrow, maybe."
Bill had turned away, and was abstractedly contemplating the
strangers. Suddenly he turned again, and his steely eyes fixed
themselves on the troubled Minky.
"Say, things is gettin' on your nerves. It ain't yet. Those folks is
only lookin' fer pointers."
"An' findin' 'em?"
"Mebbe. But it takes time. Say, we ain't dead in Suffering Creek yet.
I'll be around before--"
"Trouble gits busy." Minky laughed hollowly.
"Sure. I'm most gener'ly around when trouble--gits busy. I'm made like
that."
"I'm glad."
Bill drank up the remains of his drink and began to move away.
"Wher' you going now?" inquired Minky.
"See my plugs fed an' watered, and then gittin' around my shack. I've
got to see some folks before I hit the trail. Say, I ain't got big
enough wad. Best hand me a couple o' thousand."
Minky dived under his counter, and, after fumbling for some time,
reappeared with the required sum in United States currency.
"Good luck," he said, as he passed it across the counter cautiously.
"Thanks. An', say--see the boys keep a close eye on Zip--an' the kids.
So long."
He moved away, but instead of passing out of the front door he
disappeared into the dining-room at the back.
CHAPTER XV
THE TRUST AT WORK
Wild Bill's hut presented an unusually animated appearance. The
customary oil-lamp was receiving the support of two vilely smelling
yellow candles. The additional light thus obtained was hardly in
proportion to the offensiveness of the added aroma. Still, the remoter
corners of the place were further lit up, and the rough faces of the
four occupants of the room were thrown into stronger relief.
But the animation of the scene was rather a matter of visual illusion
than actuality. For Wild Bill, in his right of proprietorship, was
lounging on his blanketed bunk, while Toby's inanimate form robbed him
of the extreme foot of it. Sunny Oak was hugging to himself what
comfort there was to be obtained from the broken chair, which usually
supported Bill's wash bucket, set well within elbow-reach of the table
on which the illuminations had been placed. Sandy Joyce with unusual
humility--possibly the result of his encounter with Birdie--was
crouching on an upturned cracker box.
There was a wonderful intentness, expectancy in every eye except
Bill's. In Toby's there was triumphal anticipation, in Sandy's a
conscious assurance. Bill had just come in from preparing his horses
for their night journey, and, with an hour and more to spare, and the
prospect of a long night before him, was anxious to take things as
easy as possible.
Reaching his arms above his head he pushed his hands behind it for
support, and opened the proceedings.
"You fellers been busy?" he inquired.
And promptly every mouth opened to give proud assurance. But the
gambler checked the impulse with grating sarcasm.
"I ain't got but one pair ears," he said, "so you'll each wait till
you're ast questions. Bein' president o' this yer Trust I'll do most
of the yappin'," he added grimly. "I'm goin' away to-night fer a
couple o' days. That's why this meetin's called. An' the object of it
is to fix things right for Zip, an' to 'range so he gits a chance to
put 'em through. Now, I seen enough of him--an' others," with a swift,
withering glance in Sunny's direction, "to know he's right up again a
proposition that ain't no one man affair. Combination is the only
bluff to fix them kids of his right. We've most of us got ideas, but
like as not they ain't all we guess 'em to be. In some cases ther'
ain't a doubt of it. Without sayin' nothin' of anybody, I sure
wouldn't trust Toby here to raise a crop of well-grown weeds--without
help. An' Sandy, fer all he's a married man, don't seem to have
prospered in his knowledge of kids. As for Sunny, well, the sight of
him around a kid ain't wholesome. An' as fer me, guess I may know a
deal about cookin' a jack-pot, but I'd hate to raise the bet about any
other kind o' pot. Seein' things is that way with us we'll git to work
systematic. Ther' ain't a gamble in life that ain't worked the better
fer a system. So, before we get busy, I'll ast you, Sunny, to grab the
grip under my bunk, an' you'll find in it, som'eres under the card
decks, paper an' ink. You'll jest fix them right, an' take things
down, so we don't make no sort o' mistake."
He waited until Sunny had procured the necessary writing materials and
set them out on the table. Then he went on in his strong, autocratic
fashion.
"Now," he said, fixing his eyes on Toby. "You'se fellers has had time
to make inquiries, an' knowing you fer bright boys I don't guess you
lost any time. The subject is the raisin' of kids. Mebbe Toby, you
bein' the youngest member of this doggone Trust, an' a real smart lad,
mebbe you'll open your face an' give us pointers."
By the time he finished speaking every eye was turned on the
triumphantly grinning Toby.
"I sure will," he said, with a confidence surprising in a man who had
been so bashful in his interview with Birdie. Just for a moment one of
his great hands went up to his cheek, and he gently smoothed it, as
though the recollection of the slap he had received in the process of
gathering information was being used to inspire his memory. "Y'see,"
he began, "I got friends around Suffering Creek what knows all about
kids. So--so I jest asted 'em, Mr. President."
He cleared his throat and stared up at the roof. He was evidently
struggling hard with memory.
Bill lolled over and drew a closely written document from his pocket
and began to peruse it. Sandy tapped the floor impatiently with one
foot. He was annoyed that his evidence was not demanded first. Sunny
sat with pen poised, waiting for the word to write.
Toby's eyes grew troubled.
"What they chiefly need," he murmured, his face becoming more and more
intent, "what they--chiefly--need--is--" He was laboring hard. Then
suddenly his face brightened into a foolish smile. "I got it," he
cried triumphantly, "I got it. What kids need is beef bones an'
soap!"
In the deathly silence that followed his statement Toby looked for
approving glances. But he looked in vain. Sunny had dropped his pen
and made a blot on his paper. Sandy's annoyance had changed into
malicious triumph. But the president of the Trust made no move. He
merely let his small eyes emit a steely glance over the top of his
paper, directed with stern disapproval on the hopeful "remittance"
man.
"An' what 'bug-house,'" he inquired, with biting sarcasm, "is your
bright friends spendin' their vacation at?"
Toby flushed to the roots of his unkempt hair. The sudden death of his
triumph was almost tragic. His face fell, and his heavy jaw dropped in
pathetic astonishment. But it was not Bill's sarcasm alone that so bit
into his bones, it was the jeering light he witnessed in Sandy's eyes,
combined with the undisguised ridicule of Sunny's open grin. His blood
began to rise; he felt it tingling in the great extremities of his
long arms. The obvious retort of the witless was surging through his
veins and driving him.
But the Trust president was talking, and the calm of coming storm was
held for a moment. But it is doubtful if the object of his harangue
grasped anything of his meaning, so great was his anger against his
grinning comrades.
"Beef bones an' soap!" cried Bill harshly, at the unheeding man. "If
they was asses bones we'd sure only need to open up your family
mausoleum to git enough bones to raise a farm o' babbies on. I'd like
to say right here, the feller wot don't know the natural use o' soap
is a danger to the health an' sanitary fixin's o' this yer camp. Beef
bones an' soap!" he went on, as though the very combination of the
words was an offense to his gastronomical senses. "You pumpkin-faced
idjut, you mush-headed tank o' wisdom, you masterpiece of under-done
mule brain, how in sizzlin' torment you're figgerin' to ladle soap
into the vitals of inoffendin' babbies, an' push beef bones through
their innercent stummicks, 'ud par'lize the brains of every science
society in this yer country to know, an' drive the whole world o'
physic dealers barkin' like a pack o' mangy coyotes wi' their bellies
flappin' in a nor'-east blizzard. Gosh-dang it, you misfortunate
offspring of Jonah parents, we're settin' out to raise kids. We ain't
startin' a patent manure fact'ry, nor runnin' a Chinese hand
laundry--"
But the president's picturesque flow was lost in a sudden commotion.
The calm was broken, and the storm burst. The weight of ridicule in
his comrades' faces was too much for Toby, and he leapt from the foot
of the bunk on which he was sitting. He projected himself with more
force than cunning in the direction of the grinning loafer, bent on
bodily hurt to his victim. But his leap fell short by reason of
Sunny's agility. The latter snatched up the oil-lamp and dodged behind
the table, with the result that Toby's great body sent the candles
flying, and itself fell amidst the legs of the upset table. He was on
his feet in an instant, however, ready to continue with all his might
his vengeful pursuit. But the heavy hand of Bill fell upon his coat
collar with irresistible force, and, with a jerk, he was hurled across
the room out of harm's way.
"Ther's more hell to the back o' that if you come ag'in, Toby," the
gambler cried, with cold threat. "An' as for you, Sunny," he went on,
turning on the Trust secretary, "I'll set the boys to wash you clean
in Minky's trough if you so much as smile ag'in till we're through.
Fix them candles, an' sit right down--the lot of you."
He stood for a moment eyeing the lurid face of Toby. Nor did he move
until the burly remittance man had pulled himself together. He watched
him settle himself again on the foot of the bunk, passive but inwardly
raging. Then, as the candles were once more replaced in the bottles
and lit, he calmly picked up his document and returned to his couch.
The whole episode passed in a few moments, and outward equanimity was
quickly restored. Such was the hot, impulsive nature of these men.
The president lost no time in proceeding with the business in hand. He
addressed his friends generally.
"I ain't goin' to say a word 'bout the elegant information gathered by
our bright junior member," he said slowly. "You've all heard it, an' I
guess that's sure all that's needed. Wher' he got it, is his
funeral--or should be. Leastways, if it ain't satisfact'ry it shows
laudable enterprise on his part--which is good for this yer Trust."
He paused and referred to his document. And in that moment, burning to
further crush Toby, and add to his own glorification by reason of the
superiority of his information, Sandy cleared his throat to speak.
This was to be the moment of his triumph. He meant to wipe out the
memory of past failures in one sweep.
"I consulted a lady friend of mine--" he began. But Bill waved him to
silence.
"You needn't worry nothin'," he said coldly. "I got it all wrote down
here."
"How you got it?" cried Sandy. "I ain't said it."
Bill's eyes met the other's angry glance with that cold irony that was
so much a part of his nature.
"Guess your leddy friend wrote it," he said. And, as he heard the
words, the last of Toby's ill-humor vanished. His stupid face
wreathed itself into a broad grin as he watched the blank look of
disappointment spread itself over Sandy's face.
"Listen here, all of you," the president went on, quite undisturbed by
the feelings he had stirred in the widower. "This is wot the leddy
says. She's writ it all so ther' can't be no mistake."
Then he began to read from his document with careful distinctness.
"'Don't take no notice of what I told Toby Jenks an' Sandy Joyce. I
jest fooled 'em proper. Toby's a nice boy, but he ain't got brains
enough to kep himself warm on a summer day, so I didn't waste nothin'
on him, 'cep' time. As fer Sandy, he's sech a con-se-quenshul--' Have
I got that word right, Sunny?" Bill inquired blandly of the
secretary.
"You sure have," grinned Sunny, enjoying himself.
"'Sech a consequenshul fool of an idjut man,'" Bill read on, with a
glance into Sandy's scarlet face, "'that I hadn't no time but to push
him out of this dinin'-room.'"
"The miser'ble hash-slinger," exploded the exasperated Sandy,
springing to his feet, his eyes blazing with impotent fury.
"Sit down," commanded the president. "This yere is a proper meetin' of
the Zip Trust, an' don't call fer no langwidge ag'in a defenseless
woman."
"Then she ain't no right to say things," cried the outraged man.
"She ain't. She's wrote 'em," retorted Bill, in a manner that left
nothing more to be said. "'Consequenshul,' was the word," he went on,
rolling it off his tongue as though he enjoyed its flavor, "an' I
allow it must have took her thinking some to be so elegant. You'll
set," he added, glancing up severely at the still standing man.
Sandy dropped back on his box, but he was anything but appeased. His
dignity was hurt sorely. He, who understood women so well, to be
treated like this. Then he tried to console himself with the opinion
that after all Birdie was not exactly a woman, only a "pot-rustler."
But Bill was pushing the business forward. He wanted to get the matter
in hand settled.
"Here," he went on, "this is how she says of them kids: 'You can't
jest lay down reg'lations fer feedin'. Jest feed 'em natural, an' if
they git a pain dose 'em with physic. Ther's some things you must kep
'em from gittin' into their stummicks. Kindlin' wood is ridiculous fer
them to chew, ther' ain't no goodness in it, an' it's li'ble to run
slivvers into their vitals. Sulphur matches ain't good fer 'em to
suck. I ain't got nothing to say 'bout the sulphur, but the phospherus
is sure injurious, an', anyway, it's easy settin' 'emselves afire.
Kids is ter'ble fond of sand, an' gravel, an' mud, inside an' out.
Outside ain't no harm, 'cep' it keps you washin' 'em, but inside's
likely to give 'em colic. Don't let 'em climb on tables an' things.
Ther' never was a kid who could climb on to a table but what could
fall off. Don't let 'em lick stove-black off a hot cookstove. This
don't need explainin' to folk of ord'nary intelligence. Coal is for
makin' a fire, an' ain't good eatin'. Boilin' water has its uses, but
it ain't good play fer kids. Guns an' knives ain't needed fer kids
playin' Injun. These things is jest general notions to kep in your
head fer ord'nary guidance. Kids' clothes needs washin' every
Monday--with soap. Mebbe you'll need to wash every day if kids is
frolicsome. Bow-ties is for Sunday wear. Girl's hair needs braidin'
every night, an' don't leave chewin' t'baccer around. Kids is sure to
eat it. Best give 'em physic every Saturday night, an' bath 'em Sunday
mornin'. Don't use no hand scrubber. If you can't git through the dirt
by ord'nary washin', best leave it. Kids is tender-skinned anyway.
After their bath set 'em out in the sun, an' give 'em an elegant Bible
talk. Ther' ain't nothin' like a Bible talk fer kids. It sets 'em wise
to religion early, an' gives 'em a good impression o' the folks
raisin' 'em. Ef they ast too many questions you need to answer 'em
with discretion--'"
"Wot's she mean by that?" asked Toby, all interest in the mass of
detail.
"Mean? Why--" Bill paused considering.
Sunny looked up from his writing.
"Why, don't say fool things fer the sake of gassin'!" he explained
readily. "Everything you tell 'em needs a moral."
"Moral?" murmured Toby vaguely.
"Yes, moral."
But Sandy saw a chance of restoring his fallen prestige, and promptly
seized upon it.
"Moral," he said, beaming with self-satisfaction, "is handin' a lesson
all wrop up in fancy words so's to set folks cussin' like mad they
can't understand it, an' hatin' themselves when they're told its
meanin'. Now, if I was goin' to show you what a blamed idjut you was
without jest sayin' so--"
"Shut up!" cried Bill. And without waiting for a reply he read on,
"'--with discretion. If you treat kids proper they mostly raise
themselves, which is jest Natur'. Don't worry yourself, 'less they
fall into a swill-barrel, or do some ridiculous stunt o' that
natur'--an' don't worry _them_. Ther' ain't no sense to anybody goin'
around with notions they ken flap their wings, an' cluck like a broody
hen; an' scratchin' worms is positive ridiculous. Help 'em when they
need help, otherwise let 'em fall around till they knock sense into
theirselves. Jest let 'em be kids as long as Natur' fancies, so's when
they git growed up, which they're goin' to do anyways, they'll likely
make elegant men an' women. Ef you set 'em under glass cases they'll
sure get fixed into things what glass cases is made to hold--that's
images. I don't guess I kin tell you nothin' more 'bout kids, seein' I
ain't a mother, but jest a pot-wolloper.'"
Bill folded the paper as he finished reading, and silently handed it
across to the secretary. Somehow he seemed impressed with the
information the paper contained. The whole meeting seemed impressed.
Even Sandy had no comment to offer, while Toby resorted to biting his
forefinger and gazing stupidly at the opposite wall. It was Sunny who
finally broke the silence.
"Guess I'll jest writ' out the chief points fer Zip's guidance?" he
asked.
Bill nodded.
"That's it, sure," he agreed. "Jest the chief points. Then you'll hand
it to Zip to-morrer mornin', an', ef he needs it, you can explain wot
he ain't wise to. I'd like to say right here that this hash-slinger
has got savvee. Great big savvee, an' a heap of it. I ain't a hell of
a lot on the kid racket, they mostly make me sick to death. In a
manner o' speakin', I don't care a cuss for Zip nor his kids. Ef they
drown theirselves in a swill-bar'l it's his funeral, an' their luck,
an' it don't cut no ice with me. But, cuss me, ef I ken stand to see a
low-down skunk like this yer James come it over a feller-citizen o'
Suffering Creek, an' it's our duty to see Zip gits thro'. I'm sore on
James. Sore as hell. I ain't no Bible-thumpin', mush-hearted,
push-me-amongst-the-angels feller anyways. An' you boys has got to git
right on to that, quick." He glared round at his friends defiantly, as
though daring them to do otherwise. But as nobody gave a sign of doubt
on the subject, he had no alternative but to continue. "I'm jest sore
on James an'--" He hesitated for the fraction of a second, but went on
almost immediately. "--ther' may come a time when the play gits busy.
Get me? Wal," as Sandy and Sunny nodded assent, and Toby sat all eyes
for the speaker, "this yere Trust is a goin' concern, an', I take it,
we mean business. So, though we ain't runnin' a noospaper, maybe we'll
need a fightin' editor after all. If we need a fightin' editor we'll
sure need a fightin' staff. That's jest logic. I'll ast you right
here, is you boys that fightin' staff? If so, guess I'm fightin'
editor. How?"
His eyes were on Sunny Oak. And that individual's unwashed face
broadened into a cheerful grin.
"Fightin' don't come under the headin' of work--proper," he said.
"Guess I'm in."
Bill turned on Sandy.
"You ain't got the modest beauty o' the vi'let," he said, with
saturnine levity. "How you feelin'?"
"Sure good," exclaimed the widower. "But I'd feel better lettin' air
into the carkis of James."
"Good," muttered Bill. "An' you, Toby?" he went on, turning on the
"remittance" man. "You're a heap fat, an' need somethin' to get it
down. How you fancy things?"
"I'd as lief scrap 'side these scalliwags as ag'in 'em," he replied,
indicating his companions with an amiable grin.
Bill nodded.
"This yere Trust is a proper an' well-found enterprise," he said
gravely. "As fer Minky, I guess we can count him in most anything that
ain't dishonest. So--wal, this is jest precautions. Ther's nuthin'
doin' yet. But you see," he added, with a shadowy grin, "life's mostly
chock-full of fancy things we don't figger on, an' anyway I can't set
around easy when folks gets gay. I'll be back to hum day after
to-morrer, or the next day, an', meanwhiles, you'll see things are
right with Zip. An' don't kep far away from Minky's store when
strangers is around. Minky's a good friend o' mine, an' a good friend
to most o' you, so--well, guns is good med'cine ef folks git gay, an'
are yearnin' to handle dust what ain't theirs."
"Them strangers?" suggested Sandy. "Is--?"
Bill shrugged.
"Strangers is strangers, an' gold-dust is gold-dust," he said
shrewdly. "An' when the two git together ther's gener'ly a disease
sets in that guns is the best med'cine for. That's 'bout all."
CHAPTER XVI
ZIP'S GRATITUDE
What a complicated machinery human nature is! It seems absurd that a
strongly defined character should be just as full of surprises as the
weakest; that the fantastic, the unexpected, even the illogical, are
as surely found in the one as in the other. It would be so nice, so
simple and easy, to sit down and foreshadow a certain course of action
for a certain individual under a given stress; and to be sure that, in
human psychology, two and two make precisely four, no more and no
less.
But such is not the case. In human psychology two and two can just as
easily make ten, or fifteen, or any other number; and prophecy in the
matter is about as great a waste of time as worrying over the
possibilities of the weather. The constitution of the nervous system
cannot be estimated until put to the test. And when the first test has
revealed to us the long-awaited secret, it is just as likely to be
flatly contradicted by the second. The whole thing is the very
mischief.
Those who knew him would have been quite certain that in Scipio's case
there could only be one result from the addition of the two and two of
his psychology. In a man of his peculiar mental caliber it might well
seem that there could be no variation to the sum. And the resulting
prophecy would necessarily be an evil, or at least a pessimistic one.
He was so helpless, so lacking in all the practicalities of human
life. He seemed to have one little focus that was quite incapable of
expansion, of adaptability. That focus was almost entirely filled by
his Jessie's image, with just a small place in it reserved for his
twins. Take the woman out of it, and, to all intents and purposes, he
looked out upon a dead white blank.
Every thought in his inadequate brain was centered round his wife. She
was the mainspring of his every emotion. His love for her was his
whole being. It was something so great and strong that it enveloped
all his senses. She was his, and he was incapable of imagining life
without her. She was his, and only death could alter so obvious a
fact. She was his vanguard in life's battle, a support that shored up
his confidence and courage to face, with a calm determination,
whatever that battle had to offer him.
But with Jessie's going all prophecy would have remained unfulfilled.
Scipio did not go under in the manner to have been expected of him.
After the first shock, outwardly at least, there appeared to be no
change in him. His apparently colorless personality drifted on in
precisely the same amiable, inconsequent manner. What his moments of
solitude were, only he knew. The agony of grief through which he
passed, the long sleepless nights, the heartbreaking sense of loss,
these things lay hidden under his meaningless exterior, which,
however, defied the revelation of his secret.
After the passing of the first madness which had sent him headlong in
pursuit of his wife, a sort of mental evolution set in. That
unadaptable focus of his promptly became adaptable. And where it had
been incapable of expansion, it slowly began to expand. It grew, and,
whereas before his Jessie had occupied full place, his twins now
became the central feature.
The original position was largely reversed, but it was chiefly the
growth of the images of his children, and not the diminishing of the
figure of his wife. And with this new aspect came calmness. Nothing
could change his great love for his erring Jessie, nothing could wipe
out his sense of loss; his grief was always with him. But whereas,
judged by the outward seeming of his character, he should have been
crushed under Fate's cruel blow, an inverse process seemed to have set
in. He was lifted, exalted to the almost sublime heights where his
beacon-fire of duty shone.
Yes, but the whole thing was so absurdly twisted. The care of his
children occupied his entire time now, so that his work, in seeking
that which was required to support them, had to be entirely neglected.
He had fifty dollars between him and starvation for his children. Nor
could he see his way to earning more. The struggles of his unpractical
mind were painful. It was a problem quite beyond him. He struggled
nobly with it, but he saw no light ahead, and, with that curious
singleness of purpose that was his, he eventually abandoned the
riddle, and devoted his whole thought to the children. Any other man
would probably have decided to hire himself out to work on the claims
of other men, and so hope to earn sufficient to hire help in the care
of the twins, but not so Scipio. He believed that their future
well-being lay in his claim. If that could not be worked, then there
was no other way.
He had just finished clearing up his hut, and the twins were busy with
their games outside in the sun, aided by their four-legged yellow
companion, whose voice was always to be heard above their excited
squabblings and laughter. So Sunny Oak found things when he slouched
up to the hut with the result of the Trust's overnight meeting in his
pocket.
The loafer came in with a grin of good-nature on his perspiring and
dirty face. He was feeling very self-righteous. It was pleasant to
think he was doing a good work. So much so that the effort of doing it
did not draw the usual protest from him.
He glanced about him with a tolerant eye, feeling that henceforth,
under the guidance of the Trust he represented, Scipio's condition
would certainly be improved. But somehow his mental patronage
received a quiet set-back. The hut looked so different. There was a
wholesome cleanliness about it that was quite staggering. Sunny
remembered it as it was when he had last seen it under his régime, and
the contrast was quite startling. Scipio might be incapable of
organization, but he certainly could scour and scrub.
Sunny raked at his beard with his unclean finger-nails. Yes, Zip must
have spent hours of unremitting labor on the place since he had seen
it last.
However, he lost no time in carrying out his mission.
"Kind o' busy, Zip?" he greeted the little man pleasantly.
Scipio raised a pair of shadowed eyes from the inside of the
well-scoured fry-pan he was wiping.
"I'm mostly through fixin' these chores--for awhiles," he replied
quietly. Then he nodded in the direction of the children's voices.
"Guess I'm goin' to take the kiddies down to the creek to clean 'em.
They need cleanin' a heap."
Sunny nodded gravely. He was thinking of those things he had so
carefully written out.
"They sure do," he agreed. "Bath oncet a week. But not use a
hand-scrubber, though," he added, under a wave of memory. "Kids is
tender skinned," he explained.
"Pore little bits," the father murmured tenderly. Then he went on more
directly to his visitor. "But they do need washin'. It's kind o'
natural fer kids to fancy dirt. After that," he went on, his eyes
drifting over to a pile of dirty clothes stacked on a chair, "I'll
sure have to do a bit of washing." He set the frying-pan down beside
the stove and moved over to the clothes, picking up the smallest pair
of child's knickers imaginable. They were black with dirt, and he held
them up before Sunny's wondering eyes and smiled pathetically.
"Ridic'lous small," he said, with an odd twist of his pale lips. "Pore
little gal." Then his scanty eyebrows drew together perplexedly, and
that curious expression of helplessness that was his crept into his
eyes. "Them frills an' bits git me some," he said in a puzzled way.
"Y'see, I ain't never used an iron much, to speak of. It's kind of
awkward using an iron."
Sunny nodded. Somehow he wished he knew something about using an iron.
Birdie had said nothing about it.
"Guess you hot it on the stove," he hazarded, after a moment's
thought.
"Yes, I'd say you hot it," agreed Scipio. "It's after that."
"Yes." Sunny found himself thinking hard. "You got an iron?" he
inquired presently.
"Sure--two." Scipio laid the knickers aside. "You hot one while you
use the other."
Sunny nodded again.
"You see," the other went on, considering, "these pretties needs
washin' first. Well, then I guess they need to dry. Now, 'bout starch?
'Most everything needs starch. At least, ther' always seems to be
starch around washing-time. Y'see, I ain't wise to starch."
"Blamed if I am either," agreed Sunny. Then his more practical mind
asserted itself. "Say, starch kind o' fixes things hard, don't it?" he
inquired.
"It sure does."
Scipio was trying to follow out his companion's train of thought.
Sunny suddenly sat down on the edge of the table and grinned
triumphantly.
"Don't use it," he cried, with finality. "You need to remember kiddies
is tender skinned, anyway. Starch'll sure make 'em sore."
Scipio brightened.
"Why, yes," he agreed, with relief. "I didn't jest think about that.
I'm a heap obliged, Sunny. You always seem to help me out."
The flush of pleasure which responded to the little man's tribute was
quite distinguishable through the dirt on the loafer's face.
"Don't mention it," he said embarrassedly. "It's easy, two thinkin'
together. 'Sides, I've tho't a heap 'bout things since--since I
started to fix your kiddies right. Y'see, it ain't easy."
"No, it just ain't. That is, y'see, I ain't grumbling," Scipio went on
hurriedly, lest his meaning should be mistaken. "If you're stuck on
kiddies, like me, it don't worry you nuthin'. Kind of makes it
pleasant thinkin' how you can fix things fer 'em, don't it? But it
sure ain't easy doing things just right. That's how I mean. An' don't
it make you feel good when you do fix things right fer 'em? But I
don't guess that comes often, though," he added, with a sigh. "Y'see,
I'm kind of awkward. I ain't smart, like you or Bill."
"Oh, Bill's real smart," Sunny began. Then he checked himself. He was
to keep Bill's name out of this matter, and he just remembered it in
time. So he veered round quickly. "But I ain't smart," he declared.
"Anything I know I got from a leddy friend. Y'see, women-folk knows a
heap 'bout kiddies, which, I 'lows, is kind o' natural."
He fumbled in his pocket and drew out several sheets of paper.
Arranging them carefully, he scanned the scrawling writing on them.
"Guess you're a scholar, so I won't need to read what I writ down
here. Mebbe you'll be able to read it yourself. I sure 'low the
spellin' ain't jest right, but you'll likely understand it. Y'see, the
writin's clear, which is the chief thing. I was allus smart with a
pen. Now, this yer is jest how our--my--leddy frien' reckons kids
needs fixin'. It ain't reasonable to guess everything's down ther'.
They're jest sort o' principles which you need to foller. Maybe
they'll help you some. Guess if you foller them reg'lations your
kids'll sure grow proper."
He handed the papers across, and Scipio took them only too willingly.
His thanks, his delight, was in the sudden lighting up of his whole
face. But he did not offer a verbal expression of his feelings until
he had read down the first page. Then he looked up with eyes that were
almost moist with gratitude.
"Say," he began, "I can't never tell you how 'bliged I am, Sunny.
These things have bothered me a whole heap. It's kind of you, Sunny,
it is, sure. I'm that obliged I--"
"Say," broke in the loafer, "that sort o' talk sort o' worrits my
brain. Cut it out." Then he grinned. "Y'see, I ain't used to thinkin'
hard. It's mostly in the natur' o' work, an'--well, work an' me ain't
been friends for years."
But Scipio was devouring the elaborated information Sunny had so
laboriously set out. The loafer's picturesque mind had drawn heavily
on its resources, and Birdie's principles had undergone a queer
metamorphosis. So much so, that she would now have had difficulty
in recognizing them. Sunny watched him reading with smiling interest.
He was looking for those lights and shades which he hoped his
illuminating phraseology would inspire. But Scipio was in deadly
earnest. Phraseology meant nothing to him. It was the guidance he
was looking for and devouring hungrily. At last he looked up, his
pale eyes glowing.
"That's fine," he exclaimed, with such a wonderful relief that it was
impossible to doubt his appreciation. Then he glanced round the room.
He found some pins and promptly pinned the sheets on the cupboard
door. Then he stood back and surveyed them. "You're a good friend,
Sunny," he said earnestly. "Now I can't never make a mistake. There it
is all wrote ther'. An' when I ain't sure 'bout nothing, why, I only
jest got to read what you wrote. I don't guess the kiddies can reach
them there. Y'see, kiddies is queer 'bout things. Likely they'd get
busy tearing those sheets right up, an' then wher'd I be? I'll start
right in now on those reg'lations, an' you'll see how proper the
kiddies'll grow." He turned and held out his hand to his benefactor.
"I'm 'bliged, Sunny; I sure can't never thank you enough."
Sunny disclaimed such a profusion of gratitude, but his dirty face
shone with good-natured satisfaction as he gripped the little man's
hand. And after discussing a few details and offering a few
suggestions, which, since the acceptance of his efforts, seemed to
trip off his tongue with an easy confidence which surprised even
himself, he took his departure. And he left the hut with the final
picture of Scipio, still studying his pages of regulations with the
earnestness of a divinity student studying his Bible, filling his
strongly imaginative brain. He felt good. He felt so good that he was
sorry there was nothing more to be done until Wild Bill's return.
CHAPTER XVII
JESSIE'S LETTER
Scipio's long day was almost over. The twins were in bed, and the
little man was lounging for a few idle moments in the doorway of his
hut. Just now an armistice in his conflict of thought was declared.
For the moment the exigencies of his immediate duties left him
floundering in the wilderness of his desolate heart at the mercy of
the pain of memory. All day the claims of his children had upborne
him. He had had little enough time to think of anything else, and
thus, with his peculiar sense of duty militating in his favor, he had
found strong support for the burden of his grief.
But now with thought and muscles relaxed, and the long night
stretching out its black wings before him, the gray shadow had risen
uppermost in his mind once more, and a weight of unutterable
loneliness and depression bore down his spirit.
His faded eyes were staring out at the dazzling reflections of the
setting sun upon the silvery crests of the distant mountain peaks. In
every direction upon the horizon stretched the wonderful fire of
sunset. Tongues of flame, steely, glowing, ruddy, shot up and athwart
the picture in ever-changing hues before his unseeing eyes. It was all
lost upon him. He stared mechanically, while his busy brain struggled
amongst a tangle of memories and thought pictures. The shadows of his
misfortune were hard besetting him.
Amidst his other troubles had come a fresh realization which filled
him with something like panic. He had been forced to purchase stores
for his household. To do so he had had to pay out the last of his
fourth ten-dollar bill. His exchequer was thus reduced to ten dollars.
Ten dollars stood between him and starvation for his children. Nor
could he see the smallest prospect of obtaining more. His imagination
was stirred. He saw in fancy the specter of starvation looming,
hungrily stretching out its gaunt arms, clutching at his two helpless
infants. He had no thought for himself. It did not occur to him that
he, too, must starve. He only pictured the wasting of the children's
round little bodies, he heard their weakly whimperings at the ravages
of hunger's pangs. He saw the tottering gait as they moved about,
unconscious of the trouble that was theirs, only knowing that they
were hungry. Their requests for food rang in his ears, maddening him
with the knowledge of his helplessness. He saw them growing weaker day
by day. He saw their wondering, wistful, uncomprehending eyes, so
bright and beautiful now, growing bigger and bigger as their soft
cheeks fell away. He--
He moved nervously. He shifted his position, vainly trying to rid
himself of the haunting vision. But panic was upon him. Starvation--that
was it. Starvation! God! how terrible was the thought. Starvation! And
yet, before--before Jessie had gone he had been no better off. He had
had only fifty dollars. But somehow it was all different then. She was
there, and he had had confidence. Now--now he had none. Then she was
there to manage, and he was free to work upon his claim.
Ah, his claim. That was it. The claim lay idle now with all its hidden
wealth. How he wanted that wealth which he so believed to be there.
No, he could not work his claim. The children could not be left alone
all day. That was out of the question. They must be cared for.
How--how?
His brain grew hot, and he broke out into a sweat. His head drooped
forward until his unshaven chin rested upon his sunken chest. His eyes
were lusterless, his two rough hands clenched nervously. Just for one
weak moment he longed for forgetfulness. He longed to shut out those
hideous visions with which he was pursued. He longed for peace, for
rest from the dull aching of his poor torn heart. His courage was at a
low ebb. Something of the nature of the hour had got hold of him. It
was sundown. There was the long black night between him and the
morrow. He felt so helpless, so utterly incapable.
But his moment passed. He raised his head. He stood erect from the
door casing. He planted his feet firmly, and his teeth gritted. The
spirit of the man rose again. He must not give way. He would not. The
children should not starve while there was food in the world. If he
had no money, he had two strong hands and--
He started. A sudden noise behind him turned him facing about with
bristling nerves. What was it? It sounded like the falling of a heavy
weight. And yet it did not sound like anything big. The room was quite
still, and looked, in the growing dusk, just the same as usual.
Suddenly the children leapt into his thought, and he started for the
inner room. But he drew up short as he passed behind the table. A
large stone was lying at his feet, and a folded paper was tied about
it. He glanced round at the window and--understood.
He stooped and picked the missile up. Then he moved to the window and
looked out. There was no one about. The evening shadows were rapidly
deepening, but he was sure there was no one about. He turned back to
the door where there was still sufficient light for his purposes. He
sat down upon the sill with the stone in his hand. He was staring at
the folded paper.
Yes, he understood. And instinctively he knew that the paper was to
bring him fresh disaster. He knew it was a letter. And he knew whence
it came.
At last he looked up. The mystery of the letter remained. It was there
in his hand, waiting the severing of the string that held it, but
somehow as yet he lacked the courage to read it. And so some moments
passed. But at last he sighed and looked at it again. Then he reached
round to his hip for his sheath-knife. The stone dropped to the
ground, and with it the outer covering of the letter. With trembling
fingers he unfolded the notepaper.
Yes, it was as he expected, as he knew, a letter from Jessie. And as
he read it his heart cried out, and the warm blood in his veins seemed
to turn to water. He longed for the woman whose hand had penned those
words as he had never longed for anything in his life. All the old
wound was ruthlessly torn open, and it was as though a hot, searing
iron had been thrust into its midst. He cared nothing for what she had
done or was. He wanted her.
It was a letter full of pathetic pleading for the possession of Vada.
It was not a demand. It was an appeal. An appeal to all that was his
better nature. His honesty, his manliness, his simple unselfishness.
It was a letter thrilling with the outpourings of a mother's heart
craving for possession of the small warm life that she had been at
such pains to bestow. It was the mother talking to him as he had never
heard the wife and woman talk. There was a passion, a mother love in
the hastily scrawled words that drove straight to the man's simple
heart. One little paragraph alone set his whole body quivering with
responsive emotion, and started the weak tears to his troubled eyes.
"Let me have her, Zip. Let me have her. Maybe I've lost my right,
but I'm her mother. I brought her into the world, Zip. And what
that means you can never understand. She's my flesh and blood.
She's part of me. I gave her the life she's got. I'm her mother,
Zip, and I'll go mad without her."
He read and re-read the letter. He would have read it a third time,
but the tears blinded his eyes and he crushed it into his pocket. His
heart yearned for her. It cried out to him in a great pity. It tore
him so that he was drawn to words spoken aloud to express his
feelings.
"Poor gal," he murmured. "Poor gal. Oh, my Jessie, what you done--what
you done?"
He dashed a hand across his eyes to wipe away the mist of tears that
obscured his vision and stood up. He was face to face with a situation
that might well have confounded him. But here, where only his heart
and not his head was appealed to, there was no confusion.
The woman had said he could not understand. She had referred to her
motherhood. But Scipio was a man who could understand just that. He
could understand with his heart, where his head might have failed him.
He read into the distracted woman's letter a meaning that perhaps no
other man could have read into it. He read a human soul's agony at the
severing of itself from all that belonged to its spiritual side. He
read more than the loss of the woman's offspring. He read the
despairing thought, perhaps unconscious, of a woman upon whom
repentance has begun its work. And his simple heart went out to her,
yearning, loving. He knew that her appeal was granted even before he
acknowledged it to himself.
And strangely enough the coming of that letter--he did not pause to
think how it had come--produced a miraculous change in him. His spirit
rose thrilling with hope, and filled with a courage which, but a few
moments before, seemed to have gone from him forever. He did not
understand, he did not pause to think. How could he? To him she was
still his Jessie, the love and hope of his life. It was her hand that
had penned that letter. It was her woman's heart appealing to his
mercy.
"God in heaven," he cried, appealing to the blue vault above him in
which the stars were beginning to appear. "I can't refuse her. I just
can't. She wants her so--my poor, poor Jessie."
* * * * *
It was late in the evening when Scipio returned from the camp driving
Minky's buckskin mule and ancient buckboard. His mind was made up. He
would start out directly after breakfast on the morrow. He had
resorted to a pitiful little subterfuge in borrowing Minky's
buckboard. He had told the storekeeper that he had heard of a prospect
some distance out, and he wanted to inspect it. He said he intended to
take Vada with him, but wished to leave Jamie behind. Minky, as a
member of the Trust, had promptly lent him the conveyance, and
volunteered to have Jamie looked after down at the store by Birdie
until he returned. So everything was made easy for him, and he came
back to his home beyond the dumps with the first feeling of
contentment he had experienced since his wife had deserted him.
Having made the old mule snug for the night on the leeward side of the
house, he prepared to go to bed. There was just one remaining duty to
perform, however, before he was free to do so. He must set things
ready for breakfast on the morrow. To this end he lit the lamp.
In five minutes his preparations were made, and, after one final look
round, he passed over to the door to secure it. He stood for a moment
drinking in the cool night air. Yes, he felt happier than he had done
for days. Nor could he have said why. It was surely something to do
with Jessie's letter, and yet the letter seemed to offer little enough
for hope.
He was going to part with Vada, a thought which filled him with
dismay, and yet there was hope in his heart. But then where the head
might easily enough fail his heart had accepted responsibility. There
was a note in the woman's appeal which struck a responsive chord in
his own credulous heart, and somehow he felt that his parting with
Vada was not to be for long. He felt that Jessie would eventually come
back to him. He felt, though he did not put the thought into words,
that no woman could feel as she did about her children, and be utterly
dead to all the old affection that had brought them into the world.
He turned away at last. The air was good to breathe to-night, the
world was good after all. Yes, it was better than he had thought it.
There was much to be done to-morrow, so he would "turn in."
It was at that moment that something white lying at his feet caught
his eye. Instantly he remembered it, and, stooping, picked it up. How
strange it was the difference of his feelings as he lifted the outer
wrapping of Jessie's letter now. There was something almost reverent
in the way he handled the paper.
He closed the door and secured it, and went across to the lamp, where
he stood looking down at the stained and dirty covering. He turned it
over, his thoughts abstracted and busy with the woman who had folded
it ready for its journey to him. Yes, she had folded it, she had sent
it, she--
Suddenly his abstraction passed, and he bent over the disfiguring
finger-marks. There was writing upon the paper, and the writing was
not in Jessie's hand. He raised it closer to his eyes and began to
read. And, with each word he made out, his faculties became more and
more angrily concentrated.
"You'll hand the kid over at once. I'll be on the Spawn City trail
ten miles out. If you ain't there with the kid noon to-morrow
there's going to be bad trouble.
James."
"James! James!" Scipio almost gasped the name. His pale eyes were hot
and furious, and the blood surged to his brain.
He had forgotten James until now. He had forgotten the traitor
responsible for his undoing. So much was Jessie in his life that James
had counted for little when he thought of her. But now the scoundrel
swept all other thoughts pell-mell out of his head. He was suddenly
ablaze with a rage such as he had never before experienced. All that
was human in him was in a state of fierce resentment. He hated James,
and desired with all his small might to do him a bodily hurt. Yes, he
could even delight in killing him. He would show him no mercy. He
would revel in witnessing his death agonies. This man had not only
wronged him. He had killed also the spiritual purity of the mother of
his children. Oh, how he hated him. And now--now he had dared to
threaten. He, stained to his very heart's core with villainy, had
dared to interfere in a matter which concerned a mother's pure love
for her children. The thought maddened him, and he crushed the paper
in his hand and ground it under his heel.
He would not do it. He could not. He had forgotten the association to
which he was sending the innocent Vada. No, no. Innocent little Vada.
Jessie must do without her.
He flung himself into a chair and gave himself up to passionate
thought. For two hours he sat there raging, half mad with his hideous
feelings against James. But as the long hours slipped away he slowly
calmed. His hatred remained for the man, but he kept it out of his
silent struggle with himself. In spite of his first heated decision he
was torn by a guiding instinct that left him faltering. He realized
that his hatred of the man, and nothing else, was really responsible
for his negative attitude. And this was surely wrong. What he must
really consider was the welfare of Vada, and--Jessie. The whole thing
was so difficult, so utterly beyond him. He was drawn this way and
that, struggling with a brain that he knew to be incompetent. But in
the end it was again his heart that was victorious. Again his heart
would take no denial.
Confused, weary, utterly at a loss to finally decide, he drew out
Jessie's letter again. He read it. And like a cloud his confusion
dispersed and his mind became clear. His hatred of James was thrust
once more into the background. Jessie's salvation depended on Vada's
going. Vada must go.
He sighed as he rose from his chair and blew out the lamp.
"Maybe I'm wrong," he murmured, passing into the bedroom. "Maybe.
Well, I guess God'll have to judge me, and--He knows."
CHAPTER XVIII
ON THE ROAD
Wild Bill had many things to think of on his way back to Suffering
Creek. He was a tremendously alert-minded man at all times, so
alert-minded that at no time was he given to vain imaginings, and to
be alone for long together chafed and irritated him to a degree. His
life was something more than practicality; it was vigor in an extreme
sense. He must be doing; he must be going ahead. And it mattered very
little to him whether he was using vigor of mind or body. Just now he
was using the former to a purpose. Possibilities and scheming flashed
through his head in such swift succession as to be enough to dazzle a
man of lesser mental caliber.
The expressed object of his visit to Spawn City was only one of
several purposes he had in hand. And though he turned up at the
principal hotel at the psychological moment when he could drop into
the big game of poker he had promised himself, and though at that game
he helped himself, with all the calm amiability in the world, to
several thousand dollars of the "rich guys'" money, the rest of his
visit to the silver city was spent in moving about amongst the lower
haunts where congregated the human jackals which hunt on the outskirts
of such places.
And in these places he met many friends and acquaintances with whom he
fraternized for the time being. And his sojourn cost him a good many
dollars, dollars which he shed unstintingly, even without counting.
Nor was he the man to part with his money in this casual manner
without obtaining adequate return, and yet all he had to show as a
result of his expedition was a word of information here and there, a
suggestion or two which would scarcely have revealed to the outsider
the interest which they held for him. Yet he seemed satisfied. He
seemed very well satisfied indeed, and his reckless spirit warmed as
he progressed in his peregrinations.
Then, too, he "dined" the sheriff of the county at the only restaurant
worth while. He spent more than two hours in this man's company, and
his wine bill was in due proportion to the hardy official's almost
unlimited capacity for liquid refreshment. Yet even to the most
interested his purpose would have needed much explanation. He asked so
few questions. He seemed to lead the conversation in no particular
direction. He simply allowed talk to drift whither it would. And
somehow it always seemed to drift whither he most desired it.
Yes, his movements were quite curious during his visit, and yet they
were commonplace enough to suggest nothing of the depth of subtlety
which really actuated them. There was even an absurd moment which
found him in a candy-store purchasing several pounds of the most
sickly candy he could buy in so rough a place as the new silver town.
However, the time came for him at last to get out on the road again
for home. And, having prepared his team for the journey, he hitched
them up to his spring-cart himself, paid his bill, and, with a
flourish of his whip, and a swagger which only a team of six such
magnificent horses as he possessed could give him, left the hotel at a
gallop, the steely muscles of his arms controlling his fiery children
as easily as the harsh voice of a northern half-breed controls a
racing dog-train.
And on the journey home his thoughts were never idle for a moment. So
busy were they that the delicious calm of the night, the wonders of
the following dawn, the glory of a magnificent sunrise over a green
world of mountain, valley and plain, were quite lost to his unpoetic
soul. The only things which seemed able to distract his concentrated
thoughts were the fiercely buzzing mosquitoes, and these he cursed
with whole-hearted enthusiasm which embraced a perfect vocabulary of
lurid blasphemy.
Twice on the journey he halted and unhitched his horses for feed and
drink and a roll. But the delays were short, and his vigorous methods
gave them but short respite. He cared for his equine friends with all
his might, and he drove them in a similar manner. This was the man. A
life on a bed of roses would not have been too good for his horses,
but if he so needed it they would have to repay him by driving over a
red-hot trail.
Now the home stretch lay before him, some twenty miles through a
wonderful broken country, all spruce and pine forests, crag and
valley, threaded by a white hard trail which wound its way amidst
Nature's chaos in a manner similar to that in which a mountain stream
cuts its course, percolating along the path of the least resistance.
Through this splendid country the untiring team traveled, hauling
their feather-weight burden as though there was nothing more joyous in
life. In spite of the length of the journey the gambler had to keep a
tight pressure on the reins, or the willing beasts would, at any
moment, have broken into a headlong gallop. Their barn lay ahead of
them, and their master sat behind them. What more could they want?
Up a sharp incline, and the race down the corresponding decline. The
wide stretch of valley bottom, and again a steep ascent. There was no
slackening of gait, scarcely a hard breath. Only the gush of eager
nostrils in the bright morning air of the mountains. Now along a
forest-bounded stretch of level trail, winding, and full of protruding
tree-stumps and roots. There was no stumbling. The surefooted
thoroughbreds cleared each obstruction with mechanical precision, and
only the spring-cart bore the burden of impact.
On, up out of the darkened valley to a higher level above, where the
high hills sloped away upwards, admitting the dazzling daylight so
that the whole scene was lit to a perfect radiance, and the nip of
mountain air filled the lungs with an invigorating tonic.
At last the traveler dropped down into the wide valley, in the midst
of which he first came into touch with the higher reaches of Suffering
Creek. Here it flowed a sluggish, turgid stream, so sullen, so heavy.
It was narrow, and at points curiously black in tone. There was none
of the freshness, the rushing, tumultuous flow of a mountain torrent
about it here. Its banks were marshy with a wide spread of oozy soil,
and miry reeds grew in abundance. The trail cut well away from the bed
of the creek, mounting the higher land where the soil, in curious
contrast, was sandy, and the surface deep in a silvery dust. To an
observer the curiosity of the contrast must have been striking, but
Wild Bill was not in an observant mood. He was busy with his
horses--and his thoughts.
He was traveling now in a cloud of dust. And it was this, no doubt,
which accounted for the fact that he did not see a buckboard drawn by
an aged mule until he heard a shout, and his horses swung off the
trail of their own accord. Quick as lightning he drew them up with a
violent curse.
"What in hell--!" he roared. But he broke off suddenly as the dust
began to clear, and he saw the yellow-headed figure of Scipio seated
in the buckboard, with Vada beside him, just abreast of him.
"Mackinaw!" he cried. "What you doin' out here?"
So startled was the gambler at the unexpected vision that he made no
attempt to even guess at Scipio's purpose. He put his question without
another thought behind it.
Scipio, whose mule had jumped at the opportunity of discontinuing its
laborious effort, and was already reaching out at the grass lining the
trail, passed a hand across his brow before answering. It was as
though he were trying to fix in his mind the reason of his own
presence there.
"Why," he said hesitatingly, "why, I'm out after a--a prospect I heard
of. Want to get a peek at it."
The latter was said with more assurance, and he smiled vaguely into
his friend's face.
But Bill had gathered his scattered wits, and had had time to think.
He nodded at little Vada, who was interestedly staring at the satin
coats of his horses.
"An' you takin' her out to help you locate it?" he inquired, with a
raising of his shaggy brows.
"Not just that," Scipio responded uncomfortably. He found it curiously
difficult to lie with Bill's steady eyes fixed on him. "Y'see--Say, am
I near ten miles out from the camp?"
"Not by three miles." Bill was watching him intently. He saw the pale
eyes turn away and glance half fearfully along the trail. Then they
suddenly came back, and Scipio gazed at the child beside him. He
sighed and lifted his reins.
"Guess I'll get on then," he said in the dogged tone of a man who has
made up his mind to an unpleasant task.
But Bill had no intention of letting him go yet. He sat back in his
seat, his hand holding his reins loosely in his lap.
"That wher' your prospect is?" he inquired casually.
Scipio nodded. He could not bring himself to frame any further
aggravation of the lie.
"Wher' did you hear of the prospect?" Bill demanded shrewdly.
"I--"
But little Vada broke in. Her interest had been diverted by the word
prospect.
"Wot's 'prospect'?" she demanded.
Bill laughed without any change of expression.
"Prospect is wher' you _expect_ to find gold," he explained
carefully.
The child's eyes widened, and she was about to speak. Then she
hesitated, but finally she proceeded.
"That ain't wot we're goin' for," she said simply. "Poppa's goin' to
take me wher' momma is. I'm goin' to momma, an' she's ever so far
away. Pop told me. Jamie's goin' to stay with him, an' I'm goin' to
stay with momma, an'--an'--I want Jamie to come too." Tears suddenly
crowded her eyes, and slowly rolled down her sunburned cheeks.
Just for a moment neither man spoke. Bill's fierce eyes were curiously
alight, and they were sternly fixed on the averted face of the father.
At last Scipio turned towards him; and with his first words he showed
his relief that further lying was out of the question.
"I forgot--somehow--she knew. Y'see--"
But Bill, who had just bitten off a fresh chew of tobacco, gave him no
chance to continue.
"Say," he interrupted him, "ther's lies I hate, an' ther's lies that
don't make no odds. You've lied in a way I hate. You've lied 'cos you
had to lie, knowin' you was doin' wrong. If you hadn't know'd you was
doin' wrong you wouldn't have needed to lie--sure. Say, you're not
only handin' over that kiddie to her mother, you're handin' her over
to that feller. Now, get to it an' tell me things. An'--you needn't to
lie any."
Scipio hung his head. These words coming from Wild Bill suddenly put
an entirely different aspect upon his action. He saw something of the
horror he was committing as Bill saw it. He was seeing through another
man's eyes now, where before he had only seen through his own simple
heart, torn by the emotions his Jessie's letter had inspired.
He fumbled in his pocket and drew out his wife's letter. He looked at
it, holding it a moment, his whole heart in his eyes. Then he reached
out and passed it to the gambler.
"She's got to have her," he said, with a touch of his native obstinacy
and conviction. "She's her mother. I haven't a right to keep her.
I--"
But Bill silenced him without ceremony.
"Don't yap," he cried. "How ken I read this yer muck with you throwin'
hot air?"
Scipio desisted, and sat staring vacantly at the long ears of Minky's
mule. He was gazing on a mental picture of Jessie as he considered she
must have looked when writing that letter. He saw her distress in her
beautiful eyes. There were probably tears in her eyes, too, and the
thought hurt him and made him shrink from it. He felt that her poor
heart must have been breaking when she had written. Perhaps James had
been cruel to her. Yes, he was sure to have been cruel to her. Such a
blackguard as he was sure to be cruel to women-folk. No doubt she was
longing to escape from him. She was sure to be. She would never have
willingly gone away--
"Tosh!" cried Bill. And Scipio found the letter thrust out for him to
take back.
"Eh?"
"I said 'tosh!'" replied the gambler. "How'd you get that letter?"
"It was flung in through the window. It was tied to a stone."
"Yes?"
"There was a wrappin' to it." Then Scipio's eyes began to sparkle at
the recollection. "It was wrote on by the feller James," he went on in
a low voice.
Then suddenly he turned, and his whole manner partook of an impotent
heat.
"He'd wrote I was to hand her, Vada, over to him ten miles out on this
trail--or there'd be trouble."
Wild Bill stirred and shifted his seat with a fierce dash of
irritation. His face was stern and his black eyes blazing. He spat out
his chew of tobacco.
"An' you was scared to death, like some silly skippin' sheep. You
hadn't bowel enough to tell him to go to hell. You felt like handin'
him any other old thing you'd got--'Here, go on, help yourself.'" He
flung out his arms to illustrate his meaning. "'You got my wife;
here's my kiddies. If you need anything else, you can sure get my
claim. Guess my shack'll make you an elegant summer palace.' Gee!"
The gambler's scorn was withering, and with each burst of it he
flourished his arms as though handing out possessions to an imaginary
James. And every word he spoke smote Scipio, goading him and lashing
up the hatred which burnt deep down in his heart for the man who had
ruined his life.
But the little man's thought of Jessie was not so easily set aside,
and he jumped to defend himself.
"You don't understand--" he began. But the other cut him short with a
storm of scathing anger.
"No, I sure don't understand," he cried, "I don't. I sure don't. Guess
I'm on'y jest a man. I ain't no sort o' bum angel, nor sanctimonious
sky-bustin' hymn-smiter. I'm on'y a man. An' I kind o' thank them as
is responsible that I ain't nuthin' else. Say"--his piercing eyes
seemed to bore their way right down to the little man's heart like
red-hot needles--"I ain't got a word to say to you but you orter be
herdin' wi' a crowd o' mangy gophers. Tchah! A crowd o' maggots 'ud
cut you off'n their visitin' list in a diseased carkis. Here's a
feller robs you in the meanest way a man ken be robbed, an' you're
yearnin' to hand him more--a low-down cur of a stage-robber, a
cattle-thief, the lowest down bum ever created--an' you'd hand over
this pore innercent little kiddie to him. Was there ever sech a
white-livered sucker? Say, you're responsible fer that pore little
gal's life, you're responsible fer her innercent soul, an' you'd hand
her over to James, like the worstest cur in creation. Say, I ain't got
words to tell you what you are. You're a white-livered bum that even
hell won't give room to. You're--"
"Here, hold on," cried Scipio, turning, with his pale eyes mildly
blazing. "You're wrong, all wrong. I ain't doing it because I'm scared
of James. I don't care nothing for his threats. I'm scared of no
man--not even you. See? My Jessie's callin' for her gal--my Jessie! Do
you know what that means to me? No, of course you don't. You don't
know my Jessie. You ain't never loved a wife like my Jessie. You ain't
never felt what a kiddie is to its mother. You can't see as I can see.
This little gal," he went on, tenderly laying an arm about Vada's
small shoulders, "will, maybe, save my pore Jessie. That pore gal has
hit the wrong trail, an'--an' I'd sacrifice everything in the world to
save her. I'd--I'd sell my own soul. I'd give it to--save her."
Scipio looked fearlessly into the gambler's eyes. His pale cheeks were
lit by a hectic flush of intense feeling. There was a light in his
eyes of such honesty and devotion that the other lowered his. He could
not look upon it unmoved.
Bill sat back, for once in his life disconcerted. All his righteous
indignation was gone out of him. He was confronted with a spectacle
such as, in his checkered career, he had never before been brought
into contact with. It was the meeting of two strangely dissimilar, yet
perfectly human, forces. Each was fighting for what he knew to be
right. Each was speaking from the bottom of a heart inspired by his
sense of human right and loyalty. While the gambler, without subtlety
of emotion, saw only with a sense of human justice, with a hatred of
the man who had so wronged this one, with a desire to thwart him at
every turn, the other possessed a breadth of feeling sufficient to put
out of his thoughts all recollection of his personal wrong, if only he
could help the woman he loved.
It was a meeting of forces widely different, yet each in its way
thrilling with a wonderful honesty of purpose. And, curiously enough,
the purpose of Scipio, who lacked so much of the other's intellect and
force, became, in a measure, the dominating factor. It took hold of
the gambler, and stirred him as he had never been stirred before.
Suddenly Wild Bill leaned forward. Once more those swift, relentless
eyes focused and compelled the others.
"Zip," he said in a tone that was strangely thrilling, "maybe I didn't
get all you felt--all you got in that tow-head of yours. That bein'
so, guess I owe you amends. But I'm goin' to ast you to sure fergit
that gal's letter--fer awhiles. I'm goin' to ast you to turn that
bussock-headed mule you're drivin' right around, and hit back for the
Creek. You do this, Zip, an' I'll tell you what I'm goin' to do. I
ain't no sentimental slob. I ain't got the makin's in me of even a
store-mussed angel. See? But if you do this I swar to you right here
I'm goin' to see your Jessie right. I swar to you I'll rid her of this
'Lord' James, an' it'll jest be up to you to do the rest. Git me?"
Scipio took a breath that was something like a gasp.
"You'll--you'll help me get her back?" he breathed, with a glow of
hope which almost shocked his companion.
"I'm not promisin' that," said Bill quickly. "That's sure up to you.
But I give it you right here, I'll--shift this doggone skunk out of
your way."
Scipio made no verbal reply. Just for a moment he looked into the
gimlet eyes of the other. He saw the iron purpose there. He saw the
stern, unyielding compression of the lean, muscular jaws. There was
something tremendous in the suggestion of power lying behind this
ruffian's exterior. He turned away and gathered up the old mule's
reins.
"You've allus been friendly to me, Bill, so--"
He pulled off the trail and turned the mule's head in the direction of
home. And the rest of the gambler's journey was done in the wake of
Minky's buckboard.
CHAPTER XIX
A FINANCIAL TRANSACTION
Scipio was washing clothes down at the creek. So much had happened to
him that day, so many and various had been the emotions through which
he had passed, that there was only one thing left him to do. He must
work. He dared not sit down and think. Hard physical labor was what he
required. And the rubbing out of the children's small clothes, and his
own somewhat tattered garments, became a sort of soothing drug which
quieted his troubled mind, and lulled his nerves into a temporary
quiescence. The children were with him, playing unconcernedly upon the
muddy banks of the creek, with all the usual childish zest for
anything so deliciously enticing and soft as liquid river mud.
Vada had forgotten her journey of that morning, it had quite
passed out of her little head in the usual way of such trifling
unpleasantnesses which go so frequently to make up the tally of
childhood's days. Jamie had no understanding of it. His Vada was with
him again, hectoring, guiding him as was her wont, and, in his babyish
way, he was satisfied.
As for Scipio he gave no sign of anything. He was concentrating all
his mental energies on the work in hand, thus endeavoring to shut out
memory which possessed nothing but pain for him. Every now and then a
quick, sidelong glance in the children's direction kept him informed
of their doings and safety, otherwise his eyes were rarely raised from
the iron bath, filled to the brim with its frothing suds.
Striding down the slope from the hut where he had come in search of
Scipio, this was the picture Wild Bill discovered. The little
yellow-headed man was standing in the midst of a small clearing in the
bushes, a clearing long since made for the purposes of his wife's
weekly wash. His back was turned, and his small figure was bowed over
the tub in front of him. Every bush around him was decorated with
clothes laid out on their leafy surfaces, where the sun could best
operate its hygienic drying process. He saw the bobbing heads of the
mudlarking children a few yards away where the low cut-bank hid their
small bodies from view. And somehow an unusual pity stirred his hard,
world-worn heart.
And yet no one could have called him a sentimental man. At least, no
one who knew his method of life. How would it be possible to gild a
man with humane leanings who would sit in to a game at poker, and, if
chance came his way, take from any opponent his last cent of money,
even if he knew that a wife and children could be reduced to
starvation thereby? How could a kindliness of purpose be read into the
acts of a man who would have no scruple in taking life, under
provocation, without the least mercy or qualm of conscience? He
displayed no tenderness, he hated what he considered such weakness. It
was his studied practice to avoid showing consideration for others,
and he would have bitterly resented those who considered him. He
preferred that his attitude towards the world should be one of
unyielding selfishness. Such was the game of life as he understood
it.
Yes, honestly enough, he hated sentiment, and for this very reason he
cursed himself bitterly that such a feeling as he now experienced
should so disturb him. He hurried down the slope a shade quicker than
there was any necessity for. And it was as though he were endeavoring
to outstrip the feelings which pursued him.
Scipio heard him coming, and glanced round quickly. When he beheld his
visitor he nodded a greeting and continued his work. In his heart was
a curious feeling towards the gambler. He could not have described it.
It was too complicated. He liked Wild Bill. He felt that for some
indefinite reason he was his friend. Yet he resented him, too. He did
not know he resented him. Only he felt that this man dominated him,
and he was forced to obey him against his will. At sight of him his
mind went back to the events of that morning. He thought of Bill's
promise, and a curious excitement stirred within him. He wondered now
what this visit portended.
For once the gambler did not display his usual readiness. He did not
speak for some moments, but took up a position whence he could see the
children at their play, and best watch the little washerman, on whom
he intended to thrust a proposition that had been revolving in his
mind some time. He chewed his tobacco steadily, while his expression
went through many changes. At last he drew his shaggy brows together
and eyed his victim with shrewd suspicion.
"Say, you're kind o' smart, ain't you?" he demanded harshly.
The other looked up with a start, and his mildly inquiring glance
should have convinced the most skeptical to the contrary. But
apparently it had no such effect on his visitor.
"I'd never ha' tho't it," Bill went on coldly. "To look at you one 'ud
sure think you was that simple a babby could fool you. Howsum," he
sighed, "I don't guess you ken never rightly tell."
A flush began to warm Scipio's cheeks. He couldn't understand. He
wondered hard, vainly endeavoring to grasp wherein he had offended.
"I--I don't get you," he said, in a bewildered fashion, dropping the
garment he was washing back into the soapsuds.
Bill's expression underwent another change as he caught at the words.
"You don't get me?" he said ironically. "You don't get me?" Then he
shrugged as though he was not angry, but merely deplored the other's
unsuspected cunning. "You can't strike it rich an' guess you're goin'
to blind folks. I'd say it needs every sort of a man to do that around
these parts."
Scipio gasped. He had no other feeling than blank astonishment.
"I ain't struck it rich," he protested.
And his denial was received with a forced peal of laughter.
"Say, you're a heap shrewd," cried Bill, when his laugh had subsided.
"I'd say you're jest about slick. Gee! Wal, I can't blame you any fer
holdin' your face shut. Ther's a mint o' dollars ken drop out of a
feller's mouth through an unnatteral openin'. Ef you'd got busy
gassin', it's a million dollar bet all the folks around this lay-out
'ud be chasin' you clear to death. Say, it's right, though? There's
chunks of it stickin' right out, fine, yaller, dandy gold. An' the
quartz bank cuttin' down wider an' wider?"
But Scipio shook his head. His bewilderment had gone, and in place of
it was sad conviction.
"Not yet," he said. "Not yet. I ain't seen it, anyway. I sure think
there's gold in plenty on that claim. I know there is," he added, with
unusual force, his pulses beginning to quicken, and a sudden hope
stirring. Bill's accusation was aiding the effect. "But it ain't on
the surface. It sure ain't."
He stood wondering, all his washing forgotten in this newly raised
hope so subtly stirred by the gambler. Had someone else discovered
what he had missed for so long? He hadn't been near his claim for some
days. Had someone--?
"Who says about the gold?" he demanded, with sudden inspiration.
"The folks."
The gambler passed the point without committing himself.
Scipio shook his head, puzzling. Something must surely have
transpired, and yet--
"You got me beat, Bill. You have, sure." The smile that accompanied
his words was good to see. But somehow the gambler found the far
horizon of more interest just then.
"You're a wide one all right," he said thoughtfully. "There's no
gettin' upsides with you. Give me them quiet, simple sort o' fellers
every time. They got the gas machine beat so far you couldn't locate
him with a forty-foot microscope. Gee!" He chuckled, and turned again
to contemplate his companion, much as he would a newly discovered
wonder of the world.
But poor Scipio was really becoming distressed. He hoped, merely
because the other forced him to hope, by his own evident sincerity.
But the charge of shrewdness, of conspiring to keep a secret he had
never possessed, worried him.
"I take my oath I don't know a thing, Bill," he declared earnestly. "I
sure don't. You've got to believe me, because I can't say more. I seen
my claim days back, an' I hadn't a color. I ain't seen it since.
That's fact."
It was strange to see how readily the disbelief died out of the
other's face. It was almost magical. It was as though his previous
expression had been nothing but acting and his fresh attitude the
result of studied preparation.
"Well, Zip," he said seriously, almost dejectedly, "if you put it that
way, I sure got to b'lieve you. But it's queer. It sure is. There's
folks ready to swear ther's rich gold on your claim, an' I'll tell you
right here I come along to git in on it. Y'see, I'm a bizness man, an'
I don't figger to git a crop o' weeds growin' around my feet. I sez to
myself, I sez, directly I heerd tell, 'Here's Zip with an elegant
patch o' pay dirt, an' here am I with a wad of bills handy, which I'd
sure like to turn over some.' Then I sez--I want you to understand
jest how I thought--I sez,'Mebbe I've kind o' bin useful to Zip.
Helped him out some, when he was fixed awkward.' You see, it ain't my
way to do things for nothing. An' I do allow I bin useful to you.
Well, I thought o' these things, so I come along right smart to get in
on the plum. Sez I, 'Zip, bein' under obligation to me some, mebbe
he'll let me buy ha'f share in his claim,' me handin' him a thousand
dollars. It 'ud be a spot cash deal, an' me puttin' in a feller to
work--an' see things right fer me--why, I guess there'd be no chance
o' you gettin' gay--an' fakin' the output. See? I don't guess you're
on the crook, but in bizness a feller don't take chances. Y'see I'm
pretty bright when it gits to bizness, an', anyway, I don't stand fer
no play o' that kind. Get me?"
The gambler's manner was wholly severe as he explained his proposition,
and impressed his views of business. Scipio listened without the
slightest umbrage. He saw nothing wrong, nothing unfriendly in the
precautions the other had intended to take. As a matter of fact, the
one thing that concerned him was the disappointment he must cause him.
"There's nothing like straight talk, Bill," he said, cordially. "I
allus like straight talk. You kind of know just where you are then.
There's not a doubt you've been real good to me," he went on, with
evident feeling, "and I'll never be able to forget it--never. I tell
you right here, if there was anything in the world I could do in
return, I'd do it."
He smiled quaintly and pushed his stubby fingers through his sparse
hair in his most helpless manner.
"If there was gold on my claim, I'd let you in all you need, and I
wouldn't want your dollars. Dollars? No, Bill, I don't want dollars
for doing anything for you. I sure don't. I mean that. Maybe you'll
understand, y'see I'm not a business man--never was."
The gambler averted his eyes. He could not look into the other's face
so shining with honesty and gratitude.
"But there ain't no gold found on that claim yet," Scipio went on.
"Leastways, not that I know of, so what's the use deceivin' you? An'
dollars, why, there's no question of 'em between us. You can stand in
ha'f my claim, Bill, an' welcome, but you ain't going to pay me
dollars for gold that ain't been found. Yes, you're sure welcome to
ha'f my claim, an' you ken set a man working for you. I'll not say but
I'll be glad of the help. But don't make no mistake, gold ain't been
found, as far as I know, an' there may be none there, so I'd be glad
if you don't risk a lot of dollars in the work."
The gambler felt mean as he listened to the quiet words ringing with
such simple honesty. Time and again his beady eyes lifted to the
steady blue ones, only to drop quickly before their fearless
sincerity. He stirred irritably, and a hot impatience with himself
drove him so that the moment Scipio finished speaking he broke out at
once.
"Here," he cried, without the least gentleness, "you're talkin' a heap
o' foolishness. I'm a bizness man offerin' a bizness proposition. I
don't want nuthin' given. I'm out to make a deal. You say there's no
gold there. Wal, I say there sure is. That bein' so I'd be a low down
skunk takin' ha'f your claim fer nix, jest because you guess you owe
me things--which I 'low you sure do, speakin' plain. I got a thousand
dollars right here,"--he pulled out a packet of bills from his hip
pocket, and held them up for the other's inspection--"an' them dollars
says ther's gold on your claim. An' I'm yearnin' to touch ha'f that
gold. But I'm takin' no chances. I want it all wrote down reg'lar so
folks can't say I sneaked around you, an' got it for nix. Gee, I'd
look mighty small if you turned around on me afterwards. No, sir, you
don't get me that way. I'm only soft around my teeth. If you're the
man I take you for, if you're honest as you're guessin', if you feel
you want to pay me fer anything I done for you, why, cut the gas an'
take my dollars' an' I'll get the papers made out by a Spawn City
lawyer. They're all that crooked they couldn't walk a chalk-line, but
I guess they know how to bind a feller good an' tight, an' I'll see
they bind you up so ther' won't be no room for fool tricks. That's
bizness."
Scipio shook his head. And Bill flushed angrily.
"It ain't square," the little man protested. "Maybe you'll lose your
money."
"That's up to me," the gambler began fiercely. Then he checked
himself, and suddenly became quite grieved. "Wal, Zip, I wouldn't ha'
b'lieved it. I sure wouldn't. But ther'--life's jest self. It's all
self. You're like all the rest. I've been chasin' a patch o' good pay
dirt ever since I bin around Sufferin' Creek, an' it's only now I've
found one to suit me. I sure thought you'd let me in on it. I sure
did. Howsum, you won't. You want it all yourself. Wall, go ahead. An'
you needn't worry about what I told you this morning. My word goes
every time. This ain't going to make no difference. I'm not goin' to
squeal on that jest because you won't 'blige me."
He made as though to return his dollars to his pocket. He had turned
away, but his shrewd eyes held his companion in their focus. He saw
the flush of shame on Scipio's face. He saw him open his mouth to
speak. Then he saw it shut as he left his tub and came towards him.
Bill waited, his cunning telling him to keep up his pretense. Scipio
did not pause till he laid a hand on his arm, and his mild eyes were
looking up into his keen, hard face.
"Bill," he said, "you can have ha'f my claim and--and I'll take your
dollars. I jest didn't guess I was bein' selfish about it--I didn't,
truth. I was thinkin' o' you. I was thinkin' you might lose your
bills. Y'see, I haven't had the best of luck--I--"
But the gambler's face was a study as he pushed his hand off and
turned on him. There was a fine struggle going on in his manner
between the harshness he wished to display and the glad triumph he
really felt.
"Don't slob," he cried. "Here's the bills. Stuff 'em right down in
your dip. Ha'f that claim is mine, an' I'll have the papers wrote
reg'lar. I didn't think you was mean, an' I'm glad you ain't."
Scipio took the money reluctantly enough, and pushed it into his
pocket with a sigh. But Bill had had enough of the matter. He turned
to go, moving hastily. Then, of a sudden, he remembered. Thrusting his
hand into a side pocket of his jacket he produced a paper parcel.
"Say, Zip, I come nigh forgettin'," he cried cheerfully. "The
hash-slinger down at Minky's ast me to hand you this. It's for the
kiddies. It's candy. I'd say she's sweet on your kiddies. She said I
wasn't to let you know she'd sent 'em. So you ken jest kep your face
closed. So long."
He hurried away like a man ashamed. Scipio had such a way of looking
into his eyes. But once out of sight he slackened his pace. And
presently a smile crept into his small eyes, that set them twinkling.
"Guess I'm every kind of a fule," he muttered. "A thousand dollars!
Gee! An' ther' ain't gold within a mile of the doggone claim--'cep'
when Zip's ther'," he added thoughtfully.
CHAPTER XX
HOW THE TRUST BOUGHT MEDICINE
Wild Bill ate his supper that evening because it was his custom to do
so. He had no inclination for it, and it gave him no enjoyment. He
treated the matter much as he would have treated the stoking of a
stove on a winter's night. So long as he was filled up he cared little
for the class of the fuel.
Birdie waited on him with an attention and care such as she never
bestowed upon any other boarder at the store, and the look in her
bright eyes as she forestalled his wishes, compared with the air with
which she executed the harshly delivered orders of the rest of the
men, was quite sufficient to enlighten the casual onlooker as to the
state of her romantic heart. But her blandishments were quite lost
upon our hero. He treated her with much the same sort of indifference
he might have displayed towards one of the camp dogs.
To-night, particularly, nothing she could do or say seemed to give him
the least satisfaction. He ignored her as he ignored all the rest of
the boarders, and devoured his meal in absolute silence--in so far as
any speech went--wrapt in an impenetrable moroseness which had a
damping effect upon the entire company.
Truth to tell, he was obsessed with his thoughts and feelings against
the man James. With every passing day his resentment against him piled
up, till now he could think of nothing much else but a possible way to
dislodge him from the pinnacle of his local notoriety, and so rid the
district of the threat of his presence.
How much of this feeling was purely personal, inspired by the natural
antagonism of a strong, even violent, nature against a man whose very
existence was an everlasting challenge to him, and how far it was the
result of an unadmitted sympathy for Scipio, it would have been
impossible to tell in a man like Wild Bill. Reason was not in such
things with him. He never sought reasons where his feelings were
concerned. James must go. And so his whole mind and force was given up
to a search for adequate means to accomplish his purpose.
The problem was not easy. And when things were not easy to him, Bill's
temper invariably suffered. Besides, scheming was never pleasant to
him. He was so essentially a man of action. An open battle appealed to
him as nothing else in the world appealed to him. Force of arms--that
was his conception of the settlement of human differences.
He admitted to himself that the events of the day had stirred his
"bile." He felt that he must hit out to ease himself, and the one
direction to hit out in which would have given him any satisfaction
was not yet available. So he brooded on, a smoldering volcano which
his acquaintances avoided with a care inspired by past experience.
But his mood was bound to find an outlet somehow. It is always so. If
the opportunity does not come naturally, ill-temper will make one. It
was this way with the gambler. A devilish impulse caught him just as
supper was nearing its finish.
The thought occurred with the entrance of Sandy Joyce, who took the
empty place at the table on Bill's right. Birdie was hovering near,
and, as Sandy took his seat, she suddenly dumped a fresh cup of coffee
before the gambler. She giggled coyly as the cup clattered on the bare
table.
"I ain't set sugar in it, Bill," she said sweetly, and reached towards
the sugar-bowl.
But the man pushed her arm roughly aside.
"Oh, skip!" he cried. "You make me sick."
His bearishness in no way disconcerted the girl. She persisted, and
dropped two spoonfuls of granulated sugar into his cup.
"Some folks need sugar," she remarked, with another giggle, as she
moved away. And somehow it was Bill who had suffered loss of dignity.
This only helped to aggravate his mood, and he turned his small eyes
sharply on Sandy.
"I'm needin' someone to work a claim fer me," he said in a voice
intended to reach every ear, and as he spoke a curious look came into
his eyes. It was half a grin, half a challenge, and wholly meant
mischief.
The effect was exactly as he had calculated. The entire attention of
the room was on him at once, and he warmed as he waited for Sandy's
reply.
"You--you got a claim?" the widower inquired blankly.
Bill licked his lips after devouring a mouthful of pie.
"An' why in hell not?" he retorted.
Before Sandy could gather an adequate reply, the matter was taken up
by a young miner further down the table.
"Wher' you got it, Bill?" he inquired, with genuine interest.
The gambler swallowed another mouthful of pie, and rammed the rim of
crust into his cheek with his thumb, and leisurely devoured it before
replying.
"I don't see that my claim has anything to do wi' the company
present," he said at last, with a dangerous look in his half-grinning
eyes. "But, seein' Mr. Joe Brand is kind o' curious, guess he may as
well know first as last."
"I didn't mean no offense, Bill," apologized the miner, flushing and
speaking hurriedly.
Bill promptly became sarcastic.
"Course you didn't. Folks buttin' in never don't mean no offense.
Howsum, guess my claim's on the banks o' Sufferin' Creek. Maybe you
feel better now?" He glared down the table, but finally turned again
to Sandy. "You ain't pertickler busy 'bout now, so--ther's thirty
dollars a week says you ken hev the job. An' I'll give you a
percentage o' the gold you wash up," he added dryly. "You on?"
Sandy nodded. He didn't quite understand his friend's game. This was
the first he had heard of Bill having acquired a claim--and on the
river, too. There was only one other man on the river, and--well,
Zip's claim was the joke of the camp.
He had just formulated a question in his mind, when the words were
taken out of his mouth by a heavy-faced prospector further down the
table.
"Wher' 'bouts on the Creek, Bill?" he inquired.
The gambler eyed him intently.
"Quite a piece up," he said shortly.
A half-smile spread over the prospector's face.
"Not nigh--Zip's?" he suggested.
The half-grin in Bill's eyes was becoming more savage.
"Yep--an' I bought it."
His information increased the interest with a bound. Every man there
knew, or believed, that Zip's claim was the only one on the Creek.
"I didn't know there was any other but Zip's," said Joe Brand, his
interest outrunning his discretion.
"Ah, you buttin' in again," sneered Bill. "Guess you know right, too.
Ther' ain't."
It was curious to glance down at the double row of faces lining the
table and note the perplexity which suddenly gathered on them. Bill
saw it and enjoyed it. It suited his mood. Finally the heavy-faced
prospector blurted out the question that was in everybody's mind, yet
which the others dared not ask.
"You--you bought Zip's claim?" he asked incredulously.
"Ha'f of it. Me an' Zip's partners. You got anything to say?"
Bill's words rapped out with biting force, and Sandy, knowing the man,
waited, solemn-eyed. Just for one moment astonishment held his
audience breathless. Then some one sniggered, and it became the cue
for an instantaneous and general guffaw of derision. Every face was
wreathed in a broad grin. The humor of this thing was too much. Zip's
claim! Bill, the keen, unscrupulous gambler, had fallen for Zip's
mud-hole on the banks of Suffering Creek!
Bill waited. The laugh was what he needed, so he waited till it died
out. As it did so he kicked back his chair and stood up, his tall
figure and hard face a picture of cold challenge.
"You're that merry, folks," he said, his teeth clipping each word,
"that maybe some o' you got something to say. I'd like to hear it.
No?" as he waited. But no one seemed anxious to comment. "Joe Brand
kind o' seems fond o' buttin' in--mebbe he'll oblige."
But the young miner was not to be drawn. Bill shrugged his lean
shoulders, his fierce eyes alight with a dangerous fire.
"Wal," he went on, "I don't guess I ken make folks talk if they don't
notion it. But I want to say right here I bought ha'f o' Zip's claim
fer good dollars, an' I'm goin' to pay Sandy Joyce a tiptop wage fer
workin' my share. An'"--he paused and glanced swiftly and defiantly at
the faces which were no longer smiling--"an' I want to say I bought
the richest lay-out in this bum camp. Any feller who ain't o' the same
opinion ken git right up on to his hind legs an' call me a 'liar'--an'
I'm jest yearnin' fer some feller to git around an' call me that. Jest
turn it over in your fool heads. You don't need to hurry any. Ther's
days an' days to come, an' at any time I'll be glad fer all o' you to
come along an' tell me I'm--a liar."
He paused, his fierce eyes gleaming. He felt good. His outburst had
relieved his pent feelings. It was a safety-valve which had worked
satisfactorily at the right moment. But as he received no answer to
his challenge he turned to Sandy.
"Ther' don't seem to be nuthin' doin'," he said, with a grim smile.
"So ef you'll come right along we'll fix things out in the store.
Guess you ken finish your hash after."
Sandy rose. For a moment Bill did not attempt to move. It was as
though he were giving the rest of the boarders one last chance of
accepting his challenge. But as no one offered any comment or made any
attempt to stay him, he turned away at last with a sigh which was
probably of disappointment, and led the way out into the store.
But if the men had made no comment in his presence, it was a different
matter after his departure. Loud indignation broke out, and fierce, if
impotent, protest passed from lip to lip. It was only for a few
moments, however, and presently anger gave place to a realization of
the absurdity of the whole thing.
The humor of these men was tickled. The whole thing was too ludicrous
for words. To think that Wild Bill, the renowned sharp, the shrewdest,
the wisest man on Suffering Creek, had fallen for such a proposition!
It was certainly the funniest, the best joke that had ever come their
way. How had it happened? they asked each other. Had Zip been clever
enough to "salt" his claim? It was hardly likely. Only they knew he
was hard up, and it was just possible, with his responsibilities
weighing heavily on him, he had resorted to an illicit practice to
realize on his property. They thought of and discussed every possible
means they could think of by which Bill could have been lured to the
hook--and caught--and landed. That was the joke. It was astounding. It
was too good. To-morrow the whole camp would be ringing with laughter
at the news, but--but the laughter was not likely to reach the
gambler's ears.
In the meantime it was quite a different man who was lounging over
Minky's counter talking to Sandy and the storekeeper. Bill had
relieved the pressure of his mood for the moment, and now, like a
momentarily exhausted volcano, he was enjoying the calm of reaction.
"I'll need you to start work right away," he was saying, "an' you ken
draw on me fer all the supplies you need. It's a dandy claim," he went
on grimly, "but I don't know fer sure what you'll likely find on it.
Maybe you'll find suthin'--if you work long enough. Anyways, you'll
start by sinkin' a shaft; an' you'll kep on sinkin' it till--till I
tell you to quit."
"But that ain't the regular way gold--"
"Say, whose claim is it? Am I payin' you or not?" demanded the gambler
sharply.
"Sure you are, but you said it was the richest--"
"That was back ther' at supper," said Bill coldly. "Guess supper's
over."
Sandy had no quickness of understanding. He did not appreciate the
fineness of the distinction. He shook his head solemnly.
"Maybe I ain't jest bright enuff to foller--"
"You ain't," agreed Bill shortly.
He winked at Minky, who was listening interestedly. Then he turned
abruptly and pointed at the array of patent medicines adorning one of
the shelves.
"Say," he cried, "'bout them physics."
Minky turned and gazed affectionately at the shelf. It was the pride
of his store. He always kept it well dusted and dressed. The delicate
wrappings and fancy labels always had a strong fascination for him.
Then there were the curative possibilities of the contents of the
inviting packages as set forth by the insistent "drummer" who sold
them to him.
"An elegant stock," he murmured. "Sort of concentrated health." Then
he glanced round anxiously. "Your hosses ain't ailin'?" he inquired.
"I got most everything fer hosses. Ther's embrocation, hoss iles,
every sort of lin'ments. Hoss balls? Linseed?"
The gambler shook his head.
"You ain't got physic fer men-folk?" he inquired.
"I sure have. But--but you ain't sick?" Minky eyed his friend
narrowly.
Bill's mouth twisted wryly.
"I ain't jest sick," he replied. "But," he added hopefully, "you can't
never be sure."
Minky nodded.
"That's so. I'd say you don't look a heap sick, though."
"You sure don't," agreed Sandy. "But, as you sez, you can't never
tell. Now, you buyin' ha'f Zip's claim makes--" His words died down to
a thoughtful murmur. Bill's look was somehow discouraging as he
pointed at the medicine.
"What you got?" he demanded abruptly.
"Why, most everything," said Minky. "Ther', you see that longish
bottle? That's a dandy cough cure. Guess you ain't needin' that? No?
Ah!" as Bill shook his head, "I didn't guess you'd a cough. Corns?
Now, this yer packet is an elegant fixin' fer corns, soft an' hard. It
jest kills 'em stone dead, sure. It's bully stuff, but 'tain't good
fer eatin'. You ain't got corns?" he inquired, as Bill again shook his
head. "Ah, seems a pity." He turned again to the shelf, determined, if
possible, to suit his customer, and lifted down a number of packets
and sealed bottles. "Now, here," he cried, holding up a dainty box
tied up with a delicate-colored ribbon. For a moment his audience
believed it to be candy, but he quickly undeceived them. "Now this
yer is dandy truck, though I don't guess ther's a heap o' use fer it
on Suffering Creek. It's fer softening alkali water. When the drummer
told me that, I guessed to him ther wa'an't a heap o' water drunk in
this camp. But he said it wa'an't fer drinkin' water; it was fer
baths. I kind o' told him that wouldn't help the sale any, so he said
it could be used fer washin'. Seein' he couldn't sell me any that way
neither, he got riled an' give me a present of it, an' said he guessed
Sufferin' Creek _did_ use water fer washing gold. Y'see, its price is
a dollar an' a ha'f, but, seein' it's kind o' dead stock, you ken have
it a present."
Bill took it.
"It's mine," he said. And Sandy watched him with some concern.
"You--you ain't takin' a bath?" he inquired nervously.
"Don't talk foolish," cried Bill, and turned again to his scrutiny of
the shelf. "What else you got? Any stummick physic?"
"Sure." Minky held up a small bottle of tabloids. "Camel-hell," he
said, with the assurance of a man who knows the worth of the article
he is offering for sale. "Now this yer is Camel-hell--C-a-l-o-m-e-l.
And I'd sure say the name is appropriate. That doggone 'drummer'
feller said ther' was enough in one o' them bottles to kep the
stummicks of a whole blamed menagerie right fer six months. It's real
dandy--"
He broke off suddenly, and his look of enthusiasm was abruptly
replaced by one of anxious interest that bordered closely on
apprehension. His audience realized the change, and both men glanced
swiftly in the direction whence the storekeeper's gaze had become so
suddenly concentrated. Instantly they became aware that two strangers
had quietly entered the store, and had taken their places at one of
the tables under the open window.
Bill thought he recognized one of the men, but was not sure where he
had seen him. Sandy saw nothing remarkable in their presence, and at
once turned back to the counter.
"More of 'em," said Minky in a low tone, when finally Bill turned back
to him.
"Yes. Many while I bin away?"
"Four or five. All--come along fer a game--it seems." Minky's eyes
were brooding.
Suddenly a light of intelligence sprang into Bill's thoughtful face.
"Ah, I remember one o' them. I see him in Spawn City--in a bum
gamblin' dive."
Sandy suddenly roused to a keen interest.
"Them strangers," he said--"that 'minds me I was talkin' to one last
night. He was askin' me when a stage was running from here."
"What d'you tell him?" demanded Bill quickly, and Minky's eyes asked
the question too.
Sandy laughed conceitedly.
"I sure said ther' wa'an't no stages runnin', with James' gang
around. I wa'an't goin' to give nuthin' away to strangers. Y'see,
if I'd pretended we was sendin' out stages, we'd have that gang
hangin' around waitin'. 'Tain't no use in gatherin' wasps around a
m'lasses-pot."
"No. You didn't tell him nuthin' else?" Bill inquired, eyeing him
shrewdly.
"I did that," said Sandy triumphantly. "I filled him up good. I jest
told him we was wise to James an' his gang, an' was takin' no chances,
seein' Sufferin' Creek was such a rich lay-out. I told him we was
bankin' up the gold right here, an' holdin' it till the pile was so
big we could claim a Gover'ment escort that could snap their fingers
at James an' his lay-out."
A swift exchange of glances passed between the gambler and the
storekeeper. And then, in a quiet voice, Bill demanded--
"Anything else?"
"Nothing o' consequence," replied Sandy, feeling he had acquitted
himself well. "He jest asted if Minky here banked the stuff, an' I
'lowed he did."
"Ah!" There was an ominous sparkle in Bill's eyes as he breathed his
ejaculation. Then, with a quiet sarcasm quite lost on the obtuse
widower, "You'd make an elegant sheriff's officer. You'd raise hell
with the crooks."
Sandy appeared pleased with what he took for praise.
"I'd show 'em some--"
But Bill had turned to the storekeeper.
"We've got to git doin'. I've heerd a heap in Spawn City. Anyway, it
was bound to git around. What he's said don't matter a heap. What I've
heerd tells me we've got to git busy quick. We've got to clean you out
of--stuff, or ther's goin' to be a most outrageous unhealthy time on
Sufferin' Creek. We'll fix things to-morrer. Bein' Sunday," he added
grimly, "it'll be an elegant day fer settin' things right. Meanwhiles,
I'll ast you to fix me a parcel o' them physics, jest some of each,
an' you ken git Sunny Oak to pass 'em right on to Zip fer his kids.
Guess they'll worry out how best to dose 'em right."
Minky nodded, but his eyes were gloomily watching the two strangers
sitting under the window. Sandy, however, suddenly brightened into a
wide smile.
"Sure," he cried delightedly, slapping his thigh in his exuberance.
"That's it. Course. It's all writ in the reg'lations fer raisin' them
kids. Gee! you had me beat clear to death. Physic ev'ry Saturday
night. Blamed if this ain't Saturday--an' t'-morrer's Sunday. An' I
tho't you was sufferin' and needed physic. Say--"
But Bill, too, was watching the strangers with interested eyes. He was
paying no sort of attention to this wonderful discovery of his bright
friend.
CHAPTER XXI
SCIPIO MAKES PREPARATIONS
Scipio's impulses were, from his own point of view, entirely
practical. Whatever he did, he did with his whole heart. And if his
results somehow missed coming out as he intended them, it was scarcely
his fault. Rather was it the misfortune of being burdened with a
superfluous energy, supported by inadequate thought.
And he felt something of this as he sat in his living-room and glanced
round him at the unaccountable disorder that maintained. It was Sunday
morning, and all his spare time in his home on Saturday had been spent
in cleaning and scrubbing and putting straight, and yet--and yet--He
passed a stubby hand across his forehead, as though to brush aside the
vision of the confusion he beheld.
He knew everything was wrong, and a subconscious feeling told him that
he had no power to put things right. It was curious, too. Every
utensil, every stick of furniture, the floor, the stove, everything
had been scrubbed and garnished at a great expense of labor.
Everything had been carefully bestowed in the place which, to his
mind, seemed most suited for its disposal. Yet now, as he gazed about
him at the result, he knew that only a cleanly untidiness prevailed,
and he felt disheartened.
Look at the children's clean clothes, carefully folded with almost
painful exactness; yet they were like a pile of rags just thrown
together. And their unironed condition added to the illusion. Every
cooking-pot and pan had been cleaned and polished, yet, to his eyes,
the litter of them suggested one of the heaps of iron scraps out on
the dumps. How was it every piece of china looked forlornly suggestive
of a wanderer without a home? No, he did not know. He had done his
very best, and yet everything seemed to need just that magic touch to
give his home the requisite well-cared-for air.
He was disappointed, and his feelings were plainly to be perceived in
the regretful glance of his pale eyes. For some moments his optimistic
energy rose and prompted him to begin all over again, but he denied
himself this satisfaction as he glanced through the window at the
morning sun. It was too high up in the sky. There was other work yet
before him, with none too much time for its performance before the
midday meal.
Instead, he turned to the "regulations" which Sunny Oak had furnished
him with, and, with an index finger following out the words, he read
down the details of the work for Sunday--in so far as his twins were
concerned.
"Ah," he murmured, "I got the wash done yesterday. It says here
Monday. That's kind of a pity." Then he brightened into hopefulness.
"Guess I kin do those things again Monday. I sort o' fancy they could
do with another wash 'fore the kiddies wear them. I never could wash
clothes right, first time. Now, Sunday." His finger passed slowly from
one detail to another. "Breakfast--yes. Bath. Ah, guess that comes
next. Now, 'bout that bath." He glanced anxiously round him. Then he
turned back to the regulations. "It don't say whether hot or cold," he
muttered disappointedly.
For a moment he stood perplexed. Then he began to reason the matter
out with himself. It was summer. For grown-ups it would naturally be a
cold bath, but he was not so sure about children. They were very
young, and it would be so easy for them to take cold, he thought. No,
it had best be hot. He would cook some water. This thought prompting
him, he set the saucepan on the stove and stirred the fire.
He was turning back to his regulations, when it occurred to him that
he must now find something to bathe the children in. Glancing about
amongst the few pots he possessed, he realized that the largest
saucepan, or "billy," in the house would not hold more than a gallon
of water. No, these were no use, for though he exercised all his
ingenuity he could see no way of bathing the children in any of them.
Once during his cogitations he was very nearly inspired. It flashed
through his mind that he might stand each child outside of a couple of
pots and wash them all over that way. But he quickly negatived the
thought. That wasn't his idea of a bath. They must sit _in_ the
water.
He was about to give the matter up in despair, when, in a moment of
inspiration, he remembered the washing-tub. Of course, that was the
very thing. They could both sit in that together. It was down at the
river, but he could easily fetch it up.
So he turned again in relief to the regulations. What next? He found
his place, and read the directions out slowly.
"'After their bath kids needs an hour's Bible talk.'"
He read it again. And then a third time, so as to make quite sure.
Then he turned thoughtfully to the door, staring out at the bright
sunlight beyond. He could hear the children's voices as they played
outside, but he was not heeding them. He was delving around in a hazy
recollection of Bible subjects, which he vaguely remembered having
studied when a child.
It was difficult--very difficult. But he was not beaten. There were
several subjects that occurred to him in scraps. There was Noah. Then
there was Moses. He recalled something of Solomon, and he knew that
David slew a giant.
But none of these subjects amounted to more than a dim recollection.
Of details he knew none. Worked into a thorough muddle with his worry,
he was almost despairing again when suddenly he remembered that Jessie
possessed a Bible. Perhaps it was still in the bedroom. He would go
and see. It would surely help him. So he promptly went in search of
it, and, in a few moments, was sitting down beside the table poring
over it and studiously preparing himself for his forthcoming tutelary
duties.
CHAPTER XXII
SUNDAY MORNING IN SUFFERING CREEK
On the veranda of the store was the usual Sunday morning gathering of
the citizens of Suffering Creek, an impromptu function which occurred
as regularly as the sun rose and set. Some of the men were clad in
their best black broadcloth, resplendent, if shiny at the seams, and
bespotted with drink and tobacco stains. But the majority had made no
such effort to differentiate between the seventh day of the week and
the other six. The only concession that everyone yielded, and then
with bad enough grace in many instances, was to add to the boredom of
their day of rest by performing a scanty ablution in the washing
trough at the back of the store.
Minky was one of the few who clung to the customs of his up-bringing.
He was there, ample, and gayly beaming, in "boiled" shirt, and a
highly colored vest, which clashed effusively with his brilliantly
variegated bow-tie, but of which he was inordinately proud.
It was the custom at these meetings to discuss any matters which
affected the well-being of the community, to listen to any item of
interest pointing the prosperity of the local gold industry, to thresh
out complaints. In fact, it became a sort of Local Government Board,
of which the storekeeper was president, and such men as Wild Bill,
Sandy Joyce and one or two of the more successful miners formed the
governing committee.
But it was yet comparatively early, and many sore heads were still
clinging to their rough pillows. Saturday night was always a heavy
occasion, and the Sunday morning sleep was a generally acknowledged
necessity. However, this did not prevent discussion amongst those
already assembled.
Wild Bill was not there. Sandy Joyce was still absent, although both
had been long since stirring. Someone sarcastically suggested that
they had gone off to inspect the gambler's rich strike before Sandy
got to work on it on the morrow. This drew a great laugh at Wild
Bill's expense. And it was only the loyal Minky's voice that checked
it.
"You'se fellers are laffin'," he said, in good-humored reproval. "Wal,
laff. I can't say I know why Bill's bo't that claim, but I'll say
this: I'd a heap sooner foller his money than any other man's. I've
sure got a notion we best do our laffin' right now."
"That's so," agreed Joe Brand reluctantly. "Bill's a cur'us feller.
He's so mighty cur'us I ain't got much use for him--personal. But I'll
say right here, he's wide enough to beat most any feller at any bluff
he's got savvee to put up. Howsum, every 'smart' falls fer things at
times. Y'see, they get lookin' fer rich strikes that hard, an' are so
busy keppin' other folks out o' them, it's dead easy gettin' 'em
trippin'. Guess that tow-headed sucker, Zip, 's got him trippin' about
now, sure."
Minky shook his head. He did not believe it. If Bill had been caught
napping, he must have willfully gone to sleep. He knew the man too
well. However, he had no intention of arguing the matter with these
people. So he turned away and stood staring out at the far distance
beyond the creek.
In a few moments the whole matter was dismissed from his mind, and his
thoughts filled with a something that lately had become a sort of
obsession to him. It was the safety of his gold-dust that troubled,
and as each day passed his apprehensions grew. He felt that trouble
was threatening in the air of Suffering Creek, and the thought of how
easily he might be taken at a disadvantage worried him terribly. He
knew that it was imperative for him to unload his gold. But how? How
could it be done in safety, in the light of past events? It was
suicidal to send it off to Spawn City on a stage, with the James gang
watching the district. And the Government--?
Suddenly his eyes lit excitedly. He pointed out across the creek with
startling abruptness, in a direction where the land sloped gradually
upwards towards the more distant foothills, in a broken carpet of pine
woods. He was indicating a rift in the forest, where, for a long
stretch, a wide clearing had been made by the axes of the pioneers of
the camp.
"Ho, fellers!" he cried. "Get a peek yonder. Who's that?"
In an instant every eye followed the direction of his outstretched
arm. And the men stood silently watching the progress of a horseman
racing headlong through the clearing and making for the creek in front
of them as fast as his horse could lay legs to the ground. So silent
and intent did the group on the veranda become, that faint, yet
sharply distinct, even at that distance, the thrashing of the horse's
hoofs floated to their straining ears on the still morning air, and
set them wondering.
On came the man at a furious pace. He was leaning far over his horse's
neck, so that the whole weight of his body was well clear of the
saddle. And as he came the waiting men could plainly see the rise and
fall of his arm, as he mercilessly flogged his straining beast. It was
Joe Brand who first broke the silence.
"Looks like Sid Morton," he hazarded. "I kind o' seem to mind his
sorrel with four white legs. He's comin' from the right direction,
too. Guess his ranch is ten miles up yonder. Say, he's makin' a hell
of a bat."
"He sure is." Jim Wright, the oldest miner in the camp, blinked his
red-rimmed eyes as they watered with the strain of watching, "It's
trouble that's chasin' him," he added, with conviction. "Trouble o'
some kind."
"What sort o' trouble?" Minky spoke half to himself. Just now there
was only one idea of trouble in his mind.
Somebody laughed foolishly.
"There ain't many sorts o' trouble sets a man chasin' like that," said
a voice in the background.
Minky glanced round.
"What are they, Van?" he inquired, and turned back again to his
scrutiny of the on-coming horseman.
"Sickness, an'--guns," replied the man addressed as Van, with another
foolish laugh. "If it's Sid he ain't got anybody out on his ranch to
be sick, 'cep' his two 'punchers. An' I don't guess he'd chase for
them. Must be 'guns.'"
No one answered him. Everybody was too intent on the extraordinary
phenomenon. The man was nearing the creek. In a few seconds he would
be hidden from view, for the opposite bank lay far below them, cut off
from sight by the height of the rising ground intervening on the
hither side.
A moment later a distinct movement amongst the watchers, which had
something almost of relief in it, told that this had happened. Minky
turned to Jim Wright, who chanced to be nearest him.
"It's Sid," he declared definitely.
The old man nodded.
"An' I guess Van's right," he agreed.
"He'll be along up in a minute," said Joe Brand.
Minky remained where he was watching the point at which he expected to
see the horseman reappear. This sudden apparition had fastened itself
upon his general apprehension and become part of it. What was the news
the man was bringing?
Some of the men moved off the veranda to meet the horseman when he
came up, but the majority remained where they were. In spite of their
interest, these people were rarely carried away by their feelings in a
matter of this sort. Time would tell them all they wanted to know.
Perhaps a good deal more than they cared to hear. So they preferred to
wait.
Their patience was quickly rewarded. In less than five minutes a
bobbing head rose above the brow of the incline. Then came the man. He
was still leaning forward to ease his panting horse, whose dilated
nostrils and flattened ears told the onlookers of its desperate
journey. The leg-weary beast floundered up the steep under quirt and
spur--and, in a moment, stood tottering, gasping and steaming before
the eager crowd.
Sid Morton almost fell out of the saddle. And as his feet came to the
ground he reeled. But Minky caught him, and he steadied himself.
"I'm beat," the horseman cried desperately. "For mercy's sake hand me
a horn o' whisky."
He flung himself down on the edge of the veranda, leaving his jaded
beast to anyone's care. He was too far spent to think of anything or
anybody but himself. Falling back against the post he closed his eyes
while the silent crowd looked on stupidly.
Minky seemed to be the only one who fully grasped the situation. He
passed the foundered horse on to his "choreman," and then himself
procured a stiff drink of rye whisky for the exhausted man. This he
administered without a moment's delay, and the ranchman opened his
eyes.
The next instant he sat up, and, in doing so, disclosed a large
dark-red patch on the post he had leaned against. Minky saw the
ominous stain.
"Wounded?" he inquired sharply.
"Some." Then he added, after a moment's hesitation, "Yes, guess I'm
done."
The ranchman spoke rapidly. For the moment at least his weakness
seemed to have passed, and the weariness to have gone out of his eyes
and voice. He strained eagerly, his eyes alight and bloodshot. The
whisky had given him momentary courage, momentary strength; the drawn
lines of rapidly draining life had smoothed out of his young cheeks.
"Here, listen," he cried, almost fiercely. "I'm beat. I know. But--but
I want to tell you things. You needn't to notice that hole in my
back." He writhed painfully. "Guess they--they got my lung or--or
somethin'. Y'see, it's the James gang. Some of 'em are"--a spasm of
pain shot athwart his face as he hesitated--"'bout three miles back
ther'--"
At this point a terrible fit of coughing interrupted him, and blood
trickled into the corners of his mouth. Minky understood. He
dispatched one of the bystanders for some brandy, while he knelt down
to the man's support. At once the drooping body sagged heavily upon
his arm; but when the paroxysm had passed the weight lightened, and
the dying man hurried on with his story, although his voice had lost
more than half of its former ring.
"Ther' ain't much time," he said, with something like a gasp. "He's
run off my stock, an' set my hay an' the corrals afire. He--he got us
when we was roundin'--roundin' up a bunch o' steers. Y'see--y'see, we
was in--in the saddle."
Again he paused. This time his breath came in gasps and deep-throated
gurglings. He struggled on, however, stumbling and gasping with almost
every second word.
"We put up a--scrap--good. An'--an' both--my boys was--was dropped
cold. After I--I emptied--my gun--I--I hit--the trail for here. Then
I--got it good. Say--"
Once more he was interrupted by a fit of terrible coughing. And the
moment it eased the storekeeper held the brandy, which one of the boys
had brought, to his blood-flecked lips. The poor fellow's end was not
far off. The onlookers knew it. Minky knew there was practically
nothing to be done for him. All these men had witnessed the approach
of death in this form too often before. A lung pierced by a bullet!
They could do nothing but look on curiously, helplessly and listen
carefully to the story he was trying to tell.
The man struggled with himself for some moments. The strong young body
was yielding reluctantly enough to the death-grip. And at last his
words gasped haltingly upon the still air.
"Their plugs--wasn't--fresh. Mine--was. That give--me--the--legs--of
'em. But--they--rode--hard, an'--"
His voice died down to a whistling gasp and his eyes closed. He was
sinking fast. Minky forced more brandy between his lips. And presently
the drooping eyelids widened, and a momentary strength lifted the
weakening body.
"They follered," he mumbled, "but--I--don't--know--how--many.
'Bout--three. Three--miles--back--I--I--lost--'em--"
His eyes were glazing and staring painfully. And as his last words
hovered on his lips they were drowned by the gurgling and rattling in
his throat. Suddenly a shudder passed through his frame. He started,
his eyes staring wildly.
"I'm--done!" he gasped. His arms shot up convulsively, his legs flung
out. And then all his weight dropped back on to the storekeeper's
supporting arm. The next moment his body seemed to heave as with a
deep, restful sigh, and his head lolled helplessly forward. He was
dead.
CHAPTER XXIII
A BATH AND--
Scipio started and looked up as a joyous greeting from the children
outside warned him of the approach of a visitor. He was rather glad of
the interruption, too. He found the Bible offered him such an enormous
field of research. It was worse than enormous; it was overwhelming.
The Bible was really more than he could study in the few minutes he
had allowed himself. As yet he had not found even one single mention
of the few subjects he still retained a vague recollection of.
As he glanced at the doorway it was darkened by a familiar figure.
Sunny Oak, as ragged, disreputable and unclean as usual, smiled
himself into the room.
"Howdy, Zip?" he greeted genially. "Guessed I'd git around, seem' it
was Sunday. Y'see, folks don't work any Sunday. I'd sure say it's a
real blessin' folks is 'lowed to rest one day in seven. Talkin' o'
work, I heerd tell you've took a pardner to your claim. Wild Bill's
smart. He ain't bluffed you any?"
The loafer seated himself in the other chair with an air of utter
weariness. He might just have finished a spell of the most arduous
labor, instead of having merely strolled across the dumps. Scipio
smiled faintly.
"He hasn't bluffed me any," he said gently. "Seems to me he wouldn't
bluff me. Yes, he's in on ha'f my claim. Y'see, he thinks ther's gold
in sight, an'--an' I know ther' ain't. That's what's troubling me. I
kind of feel mean some."
Sunny yawned luxuriously.
"Don't you worry any," he said easily. "Bill's mighty wide. If he's
come in on your claim he's--needin' to bad. Say--"
He broke off and turned alertly to the door. A sound of voices reached
them, and a moment later Sandy Joyce and Toby stood grinning in the
doorway.
"Gee!" cried Sunny. "Gettin' quite a party."
"I'm real pleased you folks come along," Scipio declared warmly. He
stood up and looked round uncertainly. "Say," he went on, his pale
face flushing a little ruefully, "come right in, boys. I don't see
jest where you're goin' to sit. Maybe the table's good an' strong.
This chair'll do for one."
But Toby would have none of it.
"Set you down, Zip," he cried. "I got this doorway. Guess the table'll
fit Sandy. He's kind o' high in his notions. I jest see Bill comin'
along up from the river. Looked like he was comin' this way. How's the
kids?"
"Why, bully," said Scipio amiably. "Y'see, I got 'em fixed right all
right since Sunny wrote out those regulations for me. Those
regulations are jest dandy, and I'm desperate obliged to him. A feller
would need to be a bum sort of fool, anyhow, who couldn't fix kids
right with it all set out so careful. There sure are things set down
there I'd never have thought of--an' I'm their father, too." He paused
and glanced nervously round at the friendly faces. Then, with evident
anxiety, he hurried on. "I was just thinkin'," he exclaimed, "maybe
some hot coffee wouldn't come amiss. Y'see, I ain't no rye. Guess I'll
make that coffee right away. I got water cooking on the stove. I was
goin' to use it for bathin' the kids, but--"
His visitors exchanged swift glances, and Sunny broke in. "Don't do
it, Zip," he said with an amiable grin. "These boys don't figger to
unpickle their vitals with no sech truck as coffee. Say"--his eyes
wandered to where his carefully written regulations were posted,
"talkin' o' baths, have you physicked the kids right?"
Scipio, feeling somewhat relieved, returned to his chair and lodged
himself upon its edge. He could not settle himself at his ease.
Somehow he felt that these men were entirely his superior in all those
things which count for manhood; and the kindness of such a visit
rather overwhelmed him. Then, too, he was sincerely regretting his
inadequate hospitality. Now he became nervously enthusiastic.
"I sure did," he cried eagerly. "Those physics were real elegant. If
you'll tell me what they cost you, Sunny, I'll square up now. How--"
He pulled out some money, but the loafer waved it aside with
ridiculous dignity.
"Thievin' doctors needs pay. I ain't no bum doc. What you give
'em--the kids?"
Scipio bundled his money back into his pocket, flushing at the thought
that he had unintentionally insulted his benefactor.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "I didn't give 'em no corn cure. Y'see,"
he added apologetically, "I couldn't find no corns on 'em to speak of.
But," he went on more hopefully, "I give 'em the cough cure. They
ain't got no coughs, neither of 'em, but, seein' they was to take a
bath, I guessed it 'ud be a kind of precaution. Then there were them
powders. How were they called? Why--Lick--Lick--well, they were called
Lick--something. Anyways, I give 'em one each. They didn't take 'em
easy, an' was nigh sick, but they got 'em down after awhile. Then,
seein' they got bruises on their legs, playin', I rubbed 'em good with
hoss lin'ment. After that I give 'em some o' that tonic--quinine an'
something. An' then, seein' they couldn't eat food this mornin', an'
had got sick headaches, I give 'em one o' them fizzy Seidlitz fellers
between 'em. Jamie bein' the smallest I give him the thin white
packet, an' the other, the blue one, I give to Vada. That seemed to
fix them good, an I guess they're most ready fer their baths by now."
"I guessed you'd treat 'em right," approved Sunny seriously. "Ther'
ain't nothin' like physic. You're sure a wise guy, Zip."
Sandy Joyce agreed, too.
"You was dead right," he said impressively. "It don't never do takin'
chances with kids o' that age. Chances is bum things, anyway. Y'see,
kids ken ketch such a heap o' things. Ther's bile, an' measles, an'
dropsy, an' cancer, an' hydryfoby, an' all kinds o' things. They's
li'ble to ketch 'em as easy as gettin' flies wi' molasses. An' some o'
them is ter'ble bad. Ever had hydryfoby? No? Wal, I ain't neither, but
I see a feller with it oncet, an' he jest went around barkin' like a
camp dog chasin' after swill bar'ls, an' was scared to death o'
water--"
"Some folks don't need hydryfoby fer that," put in Toby, with a grin.
"Ther' ain't no call fer you buttin' in," flashed Sandy angrily.
"Guess I'm talkin' o' things you ain't heerd tell of. You ain't out o'
your cradle yet."
He turned back to his host and prepared to continue his list of
horrors, but Sunny forestalled him.
"Talkin' o' water," he said, "you ain't bathed the kids yet?"
Scipio shook his head.
"The water's cookin'."
"Cookin'?" Toby whistled.
Sunny sat up, all interest.
"Hot bath?" he inquired, with wide eyes. "You ain't givin' 'em a _hot_
bath?" he exclaimed incredulously.
A troubled look came into Scipio's pale eyes. He doubted his purpose
in face of his friends' astonishment.
"Why, yes. That's how I _was_ thinking," he said weakly. "Y'see, I
guessed it would soften the dirt quicker, and make it easy wipin' it
off."
"But ain't you scared o' them--peelin'?" inquired Sandy, refusing to
be left out of the discussion.
Scipio looked perplexed.
"Peelin'?" he said. "I--I don't think I get you."
"Why," explained Sandy readily, "peelin' their skins off 'em. You
allus sets potatoes in b'ilin' water to git their skins peeled quick.
Same with hogs. Same with most anything. I call that a fool chance to
take."
Scipio's perplexity merged into a mild smile.
"I wouldn't jest set 'em into boilin' water," he explained; "kind of
warm, with a bit o' soda."
Sunny approved.
"That sure don't sound too bad," he declared. "But wot about 'em
gettin' cold? Takin' all that dirt off sudden, y'see--"
"He's dosed 'em wi' cough cure," broke in Toby.
"Sure," agreed Sunny. "I'd fergot--Say"--he turned to the doorway and
craned towards it--"here's--here's Wild Bill coming along."
Toby promptly scrambled up from the door-sill and made way for the
Trust president. He strode into the room with a quick glance round and
a short, harsh "Howdy?" for the lesser members of his corporation. His
manner towards Scipio was no less unbending.
And, curiously enough, his coming silenced all further discussion.
Scipio had nothing to say whatever, and the others felt that here was
their leader from whom they must take their cue.
Nor was it long in coming. Scipio rose and offered his chair to the
newcomer, but the gambler promptly kicked the proffered seat aside,
and took up his position on the fuel-box. He glared into the little
man's face for a few seconds, and then opened his lips.
"Wal?" he drawled.
Scipio stirred uneasily.
"I'm real glad to see you, Bill," he managed to mumble out. "I ain't
got no rye--"
"Rye--hell!" The gambler was not a patient man, and the laws of
hospitality interested him not in the least. "Say"--he pointed at the
open Bible on the table beside Sandy--"takin' on psalm-smitin'?"
Scipio hurled himself into the breach.
"It's them regulations Sunny give me for raisin' the kids. They need a
Bible talk after their bath. I bin readin' up some."
A momentary twinkle flashed into the gambler's eyes.
"Have you give 'em their bath?" he demanded.
Scipio pointed at the stove, on which the water was already boiling.
"The water's cookin'," he said. "Guess it's most ready." The gambler
glanced round the room severely.
"Then why the devil is you'se fellers settin' around? Wher's the
tub?"
"Down at the creek. It's the wash-tub," Scipio explained, bestirring
himself. The other men stood up ready.
There was no doubt that Bill had taken possession of the situation. He
always seemed to dominate his fellows. Now he caught Scipio's eye and
held him.
"Jest gather the things up quick," he said authoritatively, "an' we'll
get busy."
And as Scipio heaped up the necessary articles for the bath on the
table, he looked on with the keenest interest. Finally the little man
paused beside the heap, holding in his hand the box of water-softener,
which he was eyeing somewhat doubtfully. Bill's eyes still twinkled.
"Wot's that?" he demanded in his savage way, as though he had never
seen the box before.
"That? Why, that's for bathin'," said Scipio doubtfully. "Y'see, it's
a fixin' swell ladies in Noo York an' such places use for makin' their
baths soft an' dandy. Sunny brought it along last night. He guessed it
would be elegant for the kids. Y'see, his mother sent it a present to
him. He didn't reckon he had use for it, seein' he took his bath in
the creek every mornin'. He guessed natural water was best for him."
Bill snorted.
"Sunny's a bright lad," he said, while Toby softly exploded with
laughter in the doorway.
But the gambler was bent on the purpose in hand, and promptly
dismissed the loafer's fairy-story from his mind.
"Here, get around and bear a hand," he cried, indicating the pile on
the table. "You, Toby, quit laffin' an' git a holt on them clean
laundry. An' say, don't you muss 'em any. Sunny, you best pile up them
washin' fixin's--that hand-scrubber, the soap, that wash-flannel an'
the towels. Guess that's the nighest you'll ever come to bathin'
yourself. Sandy Joyce ken carry the hot water, an', if Zip's yaller
pup gets around, see you don't scald him any. Guess I'll handle these
yer dippers. That way Zip'll be free to take the kids along. After
they're bathed they ken set around in the sun, while Zip gives 'em a
real elegant Bible talk."
The whole thing was simplicity itself in the capable hands of a man of
Bill's energy. But for his advent the bath might have been delayed
until the water on the cookstove had boiled away. What with Sandy's
love of debate and Sunny's indolence, the visit of these men might
have been prolonged for hours. As it was, in five minutes after Bill's
appearance upon the scene the cortége was ready to set out for the
water's edge; and not only ready, but more than willing to submit the
all-unconscious twins to the combination of their inexperienced
efforts in matters ablutionary. The one saving clause for the poor
little creatures was the presence of their father and a man of
practical intelligence such as the gambler. How they might have fared
at the hands of the others is a matter best not contemplated too
closely.
At a word from Wild Bill the procession set out. Scipio headed it,
with a child clinging to each hand, doddling along at his side all
blissfully unconscious, but delighted at going whither their elders
led them. Vada babbled with delight, and kept up a fire of chattering
questions in a truly feminine manner, while little Jamie, stolid but
no less joyous, devoured everything with hungry, thoughtful eyes, and
punctuated his sister's remarks with characteristic grunts, and an
occasional emphatic ejaculation and protest at the yellow pup, who
would lick his dirty legs.
Behind these came Sandy Joyce, the picture of absurd dignity, as he
vainly strove to carry the boiler of water without scalding himself.
Toby came immediately behind him, with the bundle of laundry, a
tumbled mass in his arms, crushed firmly to his stout chest, lest, by
any ill-fate, he should drop any of the strange garments, which looked
so absurdly small in his ignorant eyes.
Next came Sunny with the cleansing properties, which he carried
gingerly, as though the very nature of them were repugnant to him, and
the labor of carrying them an offense to his creed of life. The soap
particularly troubled him. Its slippery nature made him drop it
several times, till it seemed almost as though it resented him
personally, and was trying to escape from the insult of such
association. Wild Bill brought up the rear of the column, bearing the
bright tin dippers, which clattered violently as they swung together
on their string loops. He suggested nothing so much as a herder
driving before him his unusual flock by the aid of a violent rattling
on tin cans.
Solemnly the procession wound its way down the hill. Only the voices
of the children, the yapping of the pup and the clatter of tinware
enlivened the journey. The men's minds were engrossed with their
various charges. It was serious--desperately serious. But then, a bath
in any form, much less a bath of two small children, was an affair of
the gravest importance to these men. Then, too, there was nervousness
with it. Everybody felt responsible, from the father to the desperate
instigator of what was, in their minds, something almost amounting to
an outrage.
However, the windings and roughnesses of the path, as it twisted its
way through the scrubby bushes lining the creek bank, were finally
negotiated more or less satisfactorily. The mishaps were not as great
as might have been anticipated. Sandy only scalded himself twice, and
his curses had to be stifled by a sharp reprimand from the gambler.
Toby skidded down the slope once, and only saved the laundry at the
personal expense of a torn shirt and a grazed elbow. Sunny, except for
his difference of opinion with the soap, enjoyed no other mishap, and
Bill's only transgression was to send one of the dippers, amidst a
volley of curses, hurtling at the yellow pup, who at one time
threatened to upset all Sandy's dignity, and incidentally the boiling
water, by getting mixed up with that worthy widower's legs.
The halt was made beside the wash-tub, and childish curiosity promptly
asserted itself.
"You ain't washin' more clothes, poppa?" demanded Vada, with wide
questioning eyes. "Ain't this Sunday?"
"Pop-pa wash tothes," mumbled Jamie.
Sunny took it upon himself to put the matter right in the small minds.
He beamed upon the children.
"Poppa's going to wash _you_," he said, with unction.
"Wot for?" demanded Vada. "We ain't done nothin'."
"'Cos you needs it," replied the loafer, uncomfortably avoiding the
blandly questioning eyes.
"Ugh!" interjected Jamie.
"We ain't as dirty as you," said Vada, after a thoughtful pause.
Sunny busied himself laying out the utensils on the grassiest spot he
could find. Toby glanced round after depositing the laundry
department. He guffawed loudly, and went on with his work. Sunny's
face went a dirty scarlet, but he refrained from retort. And promptly
little Vada went on.
"I don't want bath," she protested plaintively. And Jamie chorused in
with a grunt of agreement, while he busied himself trying to climb up
the sides of the tub.
Scipio snatched him away, and looked round weakly for support. It came
in a sharp command from Bill, who had seated himself on a fallen
tree-trunk.
"Git busy," he ordered. "Set that doggone water in the tub, an' Sunny
ken dip the boiler full of cold. You boys ken do that while Zip gets
the kids ready. Guess he'll likely know best wher' the strings an'
buttons is."
His orders were silently executed by the men. But the children had no
awe of the gambler, and their protests were many and querulous.
However, the tub was filled satisfactorily, and Scipio finally
succeeded in fumbling the clothes off the children.
It was a curious scene. Scipio moved about with an air of the mildest
perplexity. Sunny slouched through his work as though it were the
hardest of labor, although he was really enjoying himself. Toby was
grinning all over his face with huge enjoyment, while Sandy performed
his share with such an aspect of care that his labors might have been
of an absolutely epoch-making nature. Bill suggested simple authority.
The "kids" must be bathed, and he was going to see it done.
When all preparations had been made, Scipio became the chief operator,
and each man took up his position where best he could witness the
process. There was something so mildly stimulating to these ruffians
in observing the clumsy lavering of two small children. They all
appreciated cleanliness in theory; it was only the practice that they
were unaccustomed to, and here it was being demonstrated before their
interested eyes. They watched Scipio's efforts for some moments in
silence, while he, with gentle persuasion, overcame each childish
protest. He did it in such a kindly, patient way that very soon these
small atoms of humanity, sitting facing each other cross-legged in the
tub, gained ample confidence, and gave expression to infantile delight
by splashing each other with water, and incidentally treating their
father to an even less welcome bath.
They laughed and crowed and chattered while their father plied the
house-flannel, and only were their piping voices quiet at such moments
as their small round faces were smothered with soapsuds, or lost in
the embracing folds of the none too savory cloth.
But on the part of the spectators, their interest would not permit of
long silence. And it was Sandy Joyce, quite irrepressible where advice
was concerned, who found it necessary to interfere.
"Ain't you rubbin' 'em too hard?" he questioned, after prolonged
cogitation.
Scipio turned to reply in the midst of swabbing Jamie's lower limbs.
He was holding one foot dangerously high in the air, and the movement
caused him to upset the child's balance, so that his upper part
promptly disappeared beneath the frothing suds. A wild splashing and
yell from Vada warned her father of the threatened tragedy, and Jamie
was hauled up, coughing and spluttering. The little man, with scared
face, sought at once to pacify the frightened child, while Sunny
withered the interfering widower with a few well-chosen words.
"Say, you'd butt in an' tell folk they wasn't nailin' up your coffin
right," he cried angrily. "Will you kep that instrument o' foolishness
o' yours quiet fer ten minutes?"
Sandy flushed.
"They ain't got hides like hogs," he grumbled. "They needs handlin'
easy. Say, jest look what he's doin' now. What's--"
He broke off, and all eyes watched Scipio's movements as he turned
Jamie over, and, supporting his dripping body in the crook of his arm,
plied the flannel upon the boy's back. The moment was a tense one.
Then a sigh of relief went up as the child dropped back in the water
with a splash.
"I ain't never see kids handled that way," cried the disgusted Sandy,
unable to keep silence any longer. Then, as no one seemed inclined to
question his statement, he went on, "Wot I sez is, kids needs
women-folk to do they things right. Zip's handlin' 'em like raw beef."
Then he turned on Sunny, whose rebuke was still rankling. "Guess
you'll say he ain't--bein' contrary. Now, ef I was washin' 'em,
I'd--"
"Shut up," cried Wild Bill harshly. Then he added, with biting
sarcasm, "I ain't surprised you're a widder-man."
Toby made no attempt to disguise his laughter, and it maddened the
unfortunate Sandy; and if a look could have killed, Sunny would have
died grinning. However, the widower sheltered himself in the silence
demanded of him until the children were lifted out of the tub and
dried by their patient father. Nor did he even attempt to further
interfere while their parent struggled them into their little woolen
undershirts.
CHAPTER XXIV
--A BIBLE TALK
It was with a sigh of relief that Scipio now turned to Wild Bill.
Somehow, he naturally looked to him for guidance. Nor did he quite
know why.
"'Bout that Bible talk?" he inquired. "Guess you said they best set
around in the sun."
Bill nodded.
"I sure did. Guess they kind o' need airin' some. 'Tain't no use in
settin' in their clothes damp; they'll be gettin' sick, sure. Ther's a
dandy bit o' grass right here. Best set 'em down, an' get around an'
hand 'em your talk."
But the worried father pushed his weedy hair off his forehead with a
troubled air.
"I haven't read up a deal," he apologized.
The gambler promptly swept his objection aside.
"That don't figger any. Once you get goin' you won't find no trouble.
It's dead easy after you're started. That's the way it is with
passons. They jest get a holt of a notion, an' then--why, they jest
yarn."
"I see," replied Scipio doubtfully, while the other men gathered
round. "But," he went on more weakly still, "'bout that notion?"
Bill stirred impatiently.
"That's it. You start right in with the notion."
"Course," cried Sandy. "The notion's easy. Why, ther's heaps o' things
you ken take as a notion. Say, wa'an't ther' a yarn 'bout some blamed
citizen what took to a cave, an' the checkens an' things got busy
feedin' him?"
"Ravens," said Sunny.
"Ravens nuthin'," cried the indignant Sandy. "Checkens of the air,
they was."
Sunny shrugged.
"That ain't no sort o' Bible talk, anyway," he protested. "You need
suthin' what gives 'em a lesson. Now, ther's Nore an' his floatin'
ranch--"
"That wa'an't a ranch neither," contradicted Sandy promptly. "It was
jest a barn."
"Ark," said Toby.
"Wal, ark then," admitted Sandy. He didn't mind Toby's interference.
But the discussion was allowed to go no further. Bill's impatience
manifested itself promptly.
"Say, it don't matter a cuss whether it was an ark or a barn or a
ranch. Sunny's yarn goes. Now, jest set around an' git the kids in the
middle, an' you, Zip, git busy with this Nore racket."
The last authority had given its decision. There was no more to be
said, and the matter was promptly proceeded with. The expectant
children, who had stood by listening to the discussion of their
elders, were now seated on the grass, and before them sat the board of
Scriptural instruction. Bill remained in his position on the
tree-trunk. On the ground, cross-legged, sat Scipio, on his right.
Sunny lounged full length upon the ground next to him. Sandy and Toby
formed the other horn of the half-circle on the gambler's left.
It was a quaint picture upon which the warm noon sun shone down. The
open grass clearing, surrounded with tall dense bushes. On one side
the wash-tub and the various appurtenances of the bath, with the creek
a little way beyond. And in the open, sitting alone, side by side,
their little pink bodies bare of all but their coarse woolen
undershirts, their little faces shining with wholesome soap, their
eyes bright with expectancy for the story that was to come, the two
pretty children of a lonely father. Then, in a semicircle about them,
the members of the Trust, with their hard, unclean faces, their rough
clothes and rougher manners, and their uncultured minds driven by
hearts that were--well, just human.
"Git busy," ordered Bill, when the Trust had finally settled itself.
And promptly Scipio, with more determination than discretion, cleared
his throat and plunged into his peroration.
His mild face beamed. Gentleness and affection shone in every line of
it. And somehow his diffidence, the realization of his ignorance of
the work demanded of him, were absorbed and lost to his consciousness
in the wonderful parental delight of teaching his offspring.
"Say, kiddies," he began, with that soft inflection that seems so much
a part of some men of rough manners, "I want you to listen careful to
a yarn I'm goin' to tell you about. Y'see--"
He hesitated, and unconsciously one hand was lifted and passed across
his brow with a movement that suggested puzzlement. It was as though
he were not quite sure whither his story were going to lead him.
The gambler nodded encouragingly.
"Bully," he murmured, turning his eyes just for one moment in the
little man's direction. But it was only for a moment. The next he was
staring absorbedly out at the bush opposite, like a man lost in some
train of thought far removed from the matter in hand. His beady eyes
stared unsmilingly, but with curious intentness.
However, Scipio was far too much concerned with what lay before him to
think of anything else. But the sharply spoken encouragement spurred
him, and he went ahead.
"Now, maybe you both heard tell how God made this funny old world for
us to live in," he went on, endeavoring to give lightness to his
manner. "He made Sufferin' Creek, too--"
Toby coughed, and Sandy whispered audibly to him.
"I don't guess Zip ought to run Sufferin' Creek in this yarn," he said
seriously. "Sufferin' Creek don't seem right in a Bible talk."
Scipio waited, and then, ignoring the comment, labored clumsily on.
"Now, I'm goin' to tell you a yarn about it. Y'see, kiddies--y'see,
ther' weren't a heap o' folk around when God first fixed things
right--"
"Jest one man an' a snake," interrupted Sandy in his informative way.
"Shut up," whispered Toby, prodding him with his elbow. Sandy scowled,
but remained silent.
"Wal," continued Scipio, "as I was sayin', He jest made one sort o'
sample man an' a snake. An'," he added, suddenly brightening under
inspiration, "He sot 'em in a garden, an' called it the Garden of
Eden."
Little Vada suddenly clapped her hands.
"Yes, an' it was all flowers an'--an' fruit," she cried ecstatically.
Jamie's eyes were dancing with delight, too, but he remained silent,
waiting for developments.
The members of the Trust looked on with the deepest interest. Each
man's face wore a half-smile--that is, all except the gambler's, who
still appeared to be absorbed in his own thought--and the bush
opposite. But the interest of these men was less in the little man's
story than in a speculation as to when he was going to break down, and
yield his tutelary attitude before a battery of infantile questions.
However, Scipio was still in a fairly strong position.
"Well," he agreed, "I do guess ther' was fruit ther', but I don't
guess it was a fruit ranch exactly. Maybe it was sort of mixed
farmin'. Howsum, that don't matter a heap. Y'see, ther' was heaps an'
heaps of animals, an' bugs, an' spiders, an' things--an' jest one
man."
"Ther' was a woman," corrected the irrepressible Sandy. "That's dead
sure. They got busy on one of the man's ribs an' made her. Ain't that
so, Toby?"
He turned to the squat figure beside him for corroboration, but Sunny
took up the matter from across the semicircle.
"You're a wise guy," he exclaimed scornfully. "Can't you kep from
buttin' in? Say, I'd hate to know sech a heap as you."
Just for an instant Wild Bill turned his sharp eyes on his companions.
"Shut up you'se all," he cried. And promptly Scipio was allowed to
continue his story.
"Now, 'bout that garden," he said thoughtfully. "Y'see, God told that
feller he wasn't to pick no fruit. Y'see, I guess it was needed fer
cannin' or preservin'. Maybe it was needed for makin' elegant candy. I
don't know rightly--"
"You're talkin' foolish," exclaimed Sandy, jumping up excitedly.
"Cannin'?" he cried scornfully. "They didn't can fruit them days."
"Maybe you're right," said Scipio apologetically.
"I know I am," snorted Sandy.
"Then shut up," cried Bill, without turning his head.
"Anyhow," went on Scipio, when all argument had ceased, "it was jest
up to that feller not to pick that fruit. An' he didn't mean to
neither, only he got kind o' friendly with that snake--"
Little Vada jumped up.
"I know--I know," she cried, in the wildest excitement. "The snake
made him eat an apple, an' then the rain came down, an' poured an'
poured--"
"Poured an' poured," echoed Jamie, jumping to his feet and dancing
around his sister.
"That's so," admitted Scipio, in relief.
"Poured nothin'," murmured Sandy under his breath. "He's messin' up
the whole yarn."
But as his comment didn't reach the father's ears he went on
placidly.
"Wal, the rain poured down," he said, "so they was nigh drownded--"
"Why'd the rain tum?" suddenly inquired Jamie with interest.
"Ah!" murmured Scipio. Then he added brightly, "Because he picked the
fruit."
"Y'see," explained Vada, with sisterly patronage, "he didn't orter
picked the apple."
Jamie nodded without understanding.
"'Ess."
"Wal," went on Scipio, taking advantage of the pause, "he was nigh
drownded, an' he had to swim an' swim, an' then he built himself a
ranch."
"Barn," cried Sandy, unable to keep quiet any longer. "It was a barn
to kep his stock in."
"Ark," said Toby decidedly. "He built a Nore's Ark--same as toys
kiddies plays with."
"But Bill said Sunny's yarn goes," protested the troubled Scipio. And,
receiving an affirmatory nod from the preoccupied gambler, he went on.
"Wal, he set that ranch afloat, an' put out a boat an' rescued all the
other animals, an' bugs, an' spiders, an' things, an' then set out a
duck to see how things was going--"
"Not a duck, Zip," said Sunny, shaking his head sorrowfully.
"Course not," agreed Sandy scornfully.
"Pigeon," suggested Toby.
But little Vada saved the situation. She jumped to her feet, dragging
Jamie with her. Her dark eyes were shining, and her round little
cheeks were scarlet with excitement.
"It wasn't a duck, nor a pigeon, nor nothin' but a parrot," she
declared. "Momma told us. He sent out a parrot; an' it flew, an' flew,
an' flew. An' then it come back to the ark, carryin' a tree in its
beak. An' then Nore knew there wasn't no more rain, nor nothing, an'
they turned his wife into a pillow o' salt 'cos she'd made him eat the
apple. An', pop-pa, tell us another."
"'Ess, a nudder," cried Jamie, his chubby fat legs wabbling under him
as he danced about--"a nudder--a nudder--a nud--"
But his lisping request was never completed, for, without a word of
warning, Wild Bill suddenly leapt from his seat, and, with a wave of
his arm, swept the two children sprawling into their father's lap,
while he charged across the clearing. Just for a fraction of a second
he paused as he closed on the bush he had so long contemplated, and
his friends heard his voice in a furious oath.
"You son of a--!" he roared; and simultaneously there was a flash and
a sharp report from his gun--another, and yet another. Then he
vanished into the bush, his smoking revolver still in his hand ready
for use, followed, with no less speed, by Toby and Sandy Joyce.
For a moment Scipio stared; but Sunny Oak seemed to grasp something of
the situation. He flung himself before the two children, his right
hand gripping a revolver which he always carried concealed amongst his
rags. And at the same moment the gambler's voice came back to him.
"Huyk them kids right back to the store, an' kep 'em there!" it cried.
And instantly the indolent loafer, with a movement almost electrical
in its swiftness, seized Vada in his arms and dashed off up the hill,
followed by the little father, bearing the screaming Jamie in his.
Inside the bush the three men searched, with eyes and ears alert in
the fashion of furious terriers. The branches and inner leaves were
spattered with blood, showing that the gambler's shots had taken some
effect. The ground, too, was covered with footprints.
With a rush Bill set off trailing the latter, and so soft was the
ground that he had little or no difficulty in the matter. The trail
took them along the creek bank, and here and there a splash of blood
warned them that their quarry was severely wounded.
But, even so, they were doomed to disappointment. Thirty yards from
the clearing they came to a spot where the moist soil was well beaten
with horse's hoofs, and here the human footprints ended. All three men
stared out down the creek. And then it was that another furious oath
escaped the gambler's lips, as he beheld a racing horseman making good
his escape, more than a hundred yards below them.
For some moments Wild Bill stood raging impotently. Then he turned on
his companions, with a perfect devil glaring out of his ferocious
eyes.
"God's curse light on 'em!" he roared. "It's James' gang. May his soul
rot. I'll get 'em! I'll get 'em! They're after those kids. But, by the
wall-eyed Mackinaw, they shan't touch a hair o' their heads as long as
I'm a livin' man. It's war, boys! D'ye hear? It's him an' me. Me--an'
James! An' I swar to God he'll go down an' out as sure as my name's
Wild Bill!"
CHAPTER XXV
WILD BILL FIRES A BOMB
When Wild Bill returned to his hut later on in the afternoon he was
consumed by a cold, hard rage, such as comes but rarely in the life of
any man. There was no demonstrativeness: he had no words to give it
expression. It was the rage of a man who coldly, calmly collects every
faculty of brain and body into one great concentration for harm to its
object. It was a moment when every evil thought and feeling was drawn
into a cruel longing for harm--harm calculated to be of the most
merciless description.
Neither of the companions who had joined him in the pursuit of the
man they had discovered lurking down at the river had any real
understanding of what lay in the back of the gambler's mind. His
outburst there had been the first volcanic rage which had lit the
fires of hate now burning so deep down in his intolerant heart.
That outburst they had understood. That was the man as they knew
him. But this other man they knew nothing of. This was the real man
who returned to his hut, silent and ghastly, with implacable hatred
burning in his heart.
All three had hurriedly and silently returned to the store from their
futile chase. Bill offered no explanation, and his manner was so
forbidding that even the intrepid Sandy had found no use for the
questions he would so gladly have put.
When they arrived, Scipio and Sunny, with the twins, had reached the
place just before them. But they were lost sight of in the rush that
was made to tell the gambler of the happenings at Sid Morton's ranch.
Nor had he any choice but to listen to the luridly narrated facts.
However, his choice did fall in with their desires, and, after the
first brief outline, told with all the imagination this varied
collection of beings was capable of, he found himself demanding, as
eagerly as they were waiting to tell, every detail of the matter, and
even went so far as to examine the body of the dead rancher, roughly
laid out in the barn on a bed of hay. He listened almost without
comment, which was unusual in him. His manner displayed no heat. He
was cold, critical, and his only words were to ask sharp and
definitely pointed questions. Then, having given Minky instructions
for the safeguarding of the children, he departed without even
mentioning his own adventure down at the river.
But if he neglected to do so, it was otherwise with his friends, the
other members of the Trust. The moment his back was turned they shed
the story broadcast, each man competing with the other in his endeavor
to make it thoroughly palatable to the sensation-loving ears of their
fellow-townsmen. And probably of them all Sandy was the most
successful.
In half-an-hour, loyally supported by his friends, he had the whole of
Suffering Creek strung to such a pitch of nervous excitement that
every man was set looking to his firearms, and all talk was directed
towards the most adequate means of defending their homes and
property.
In the briefest possible time, from a peaceful, industrious camp,
Suffering Creek was transformed into a war base, every citizen stirred
not only to defense of his own, but with a longing to march out to the
fray, to seek these land pirates in the open and to exterminate them,
as they would willingly exterminate any other vermin.
Men talked war. Brains were feverishly racked for strategy, and for
historical accounts of a similar situation in which a town rose to
arms and took the law into its own hands. Stories flew from lip to
lip, and, as is usual under such stress, so did the convivial glass.
And the result which followed was quite in keeping with the occasion.
Quarrels and bickerings occurred, which kept the place at fever-heat
until the store closed down for the night and the supply of liquor was
cut off. Then slumber brought its beneficent opiate to distracted
nerves.
Throughout it all Minky kept his head level. Whatever he felt and
thought, he had nothing to offer on the altar of public suggestion. He
knew that of all these irresponsible debaters he had the most to lose.
Nor did he feel inclined to expose anything of the risk at which he
stood. It was a depressing time for him, so depressing that he could
see very little hope. His risk was enormous. He felt that the
probability was that this raiding gang were well enough posted as to
the store of gold he held in his cellars. He felt that, should James
or any of his people decide upon a coup, the attack would be well
timed, when the miners were out at their work, and he and the camp
generally were left defenseless.
What could he do? He must rid himself of the "dust" somehow. He must
dispose of it secretly. A hiding--that seemed to him, amidst his
trouble, to be the only thing. But where? That was the thing. He must
consult Bill. To his mind Bill was the only man upon whom he could
place any real reliance, upon whose judgment he could depend. So, with
his shrewd eyes ever on the watch for strangers amongst his customers,
he longed for the hours to pass until he could close his store and
seek the gambler in his hut.
In the meantime Wild Bill had cut himself off from his fellows,
spending the long evening hours in the solitude of his humble
dwelling. The man was strangely calm, but his fierce eyes and pale
face told of an enormous strain of thought driving him. His mind was
sweeping along over a series of vivid pictures of past events, mixed
up with equally vivid and strongly marked scenes of possible events to
come. He was reviewing silently, sternly, a situation which, by some
extraordinary kink in his vanity, he felt it was for him to assume the
responsibility of. He felt, although with no feeling of pride, that
he, and he alone, could see it through.
The fact of the matter was that, by some strange mental process,
James' doings--his approach to the camp, in fact his very existence--had
somehow become a direct individual challenge to him. Without
acknowledging it to himself, he in some subtle way understood that
everything this desperado did was a challenge to him--a sneering,
contemptuous challenge to him. James was metaphorically snapping his
fingers under his very nose.
That these were his feelings was undeniable. That the thoughts of the
possibilities of an attack on the camp were the mainspring of his
antagonism to the man, that this voluntary guardianship of Scipio and
his twins was the source of his rage against him, it was impossible to
believe. They may have influenced him in a small degree, but only in a
small degree. The man was cast in a very different mold from that of a
simple philanthropist. It was the man's vanity, the headstrong vanity
of a strong and selfish man, that drove him. And as he sat silently
raging under his thoughts of the happenings of that day, had he put
his paramount feelings into words he would have demanded how James
dared to exist in a district which he, Wild Bill of Abilene, had made
his own.
He spent the evening sitting on his bed or pacing his little hut, his
thoughts tumbling headlong through his brain. He found himself almost
absently inspecting his armory, and loading and unloading his favorite
weapons. There was no definite direction in anything he thought or
did, unless it were in the overwhelming hatred against James which
colored his every feeling. Without realizing it, every force of mind
and body was seeking inspiration.
And the evening was well-nigh spent before inspiration came. Careless
of time, of everything but his feelings, he had finally flung himself
full length upon his bed, brain-weary and resourceless. Then came the
change. As his head touched the pillow it almost seemed to rebound;
and he found himself sitting up again glaring at the opposite wall
with the desired inspiration in his gimlet eyes.
"Gee!" he breathed, with a force that sent the exclamation hissing
through the room.
And for an hour his attitude remained unchanged. His legs were drawn
up and his long arms were clasped about his knees. His eyes were
fiercely focused upon a cartridge-belt hanging upon the wall, and
there they remained, seemingly a fixture, while thought, no longer
chaotic, flew through his revivified brain. He gave no sign; he
uttered no word. But his face told its story of a fiendish joy which
swept from his head to his heart, and thrilled his whole body.
It was in the midst of this that he received a visit from his friend
Minky. And the moment the door opened in response to his summons the
look in his eyes, when he saw who his visitor was, was a cordial
welcome. He swung round and dropped his legs over the side of his
bunk.
"What's the time?" he demanded.
Minky pointed to the alarm-clock on the gambler's table.
"Nigh one o'clock," he said, with a faint smile.
But Bill ignored the quiet sarcasm.
"Good," he cried. Then he brought his eyes to the other's face. They
were literally blazing with suppressed excitement. There was something
in them, too, that lifted Minky out of his desperate mood. Somehow
they suggested hope to him. Somehow the very presence of this man had
a heartening effect.
"Say," cried the gambler in a tone that thrilled with power, "this is
Sunday. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday," he counted the days off on his
lean, muscular fingers. "That's it, sure. Wednesday we send out a
'stage,' an' you're goin' to ship your gold-dust on it. You'll ship it
to Spawn City. Meanwhiles you'll buy up all you feel like. Clean the
camp out of 'dust,' an' ship it by that stage."
The storekeeper stared. For a moment he thought his friend had taken
leave of his senses. A scathing refusal hovered on his lips. But the
words never matured. He was looking into the man's burning eyes, and
he realized that a big purpose lay behind his words.
"An'," he inquired, with a smile from which he could not quite shut
out the irony, "an' who's goin' to--drive it through?"
"I am."
The storekeeper jumped and his eyes widened. He started forward. Then
he checked himself. He struggled with a sudden emotion.
"You?" he cried in a sharp whisper. "I--I don't get you."
The gambler leapt to his feet. He strode down the length of the hut
and came back again. He finally paused before his bewildered friend.
"No, o' course you don't," he cried hotly; "course you don't. Here,
how much 'dust' ken you ship?"
"Maybe we'd need to ship sixty thousand dollars' worth. That is, if we
rake around among the boys."
Minky watched his man closely as he spoke. He was still doubting, but
he was ready enough to be convinced. He knew it was no use asking too
many questions. Wild Bill hated questions. He watched the latter
plunge a hand into the inside pocket of his coat and draw out a book.
He had no difficulty in recognizing it as the gambler flung it on the
table with a force that set the lamp rattling.
"There it is," he cried, with a fierce oath. "Ther's my bank-book.
Ther's seventy odd thousand dollars lyin' in the Spawn City bank to my
dogasted credit. See?" He glared; then he drew a step nearer and bent
forward. "I'm handin' you a check fer your dust," he went on. "I've
seventy thousand dollars says I'm a better man than James an' all his
rotten scum, an' that I'm goin' to shoot him to hell before the week's
out. _Now_ d'ye get me?"
Minky gasped. He had always believed he had long since fathomed the
depths of his wild friend. He had always believed that the gambler had
no moods which were not well known to him. He had seen him under
almost every condition of stress. Yet here was a side to his character
he had never even dreamed of, and he was flabbergasted.
For a moment he had no words with which to adequately reply, and he
merely shook his head. Instantly the other flew into one of his savage
paroxysms by which it was so much his habit to carry through his
purpose when obstructed.
"You stand there shakin' your fool head like some mosey old cow," he
cried, with a ruddy flush suddenly mounting to his temples. "An'
you'll go on shakin' it till ther' ain't 'dust' enuff in your store to
bury a louse. You'll go on shakin' it till James' gun rips out your
vitals. Gee!" He threw his arms above his head appealing. "Give me a
man," he cried. Then he brought one fist crashing down upon the table
and shouted his final words: "Say, you'll get right out an' post the
notices. I'm buyin' your 'dust,' an' I'm driving the stage."
CHAPTER XXVI
WILD BILL INSPECTS HIS CLAIM
Suffering Creek awoke on the Monday morning laboring under a hideous
depression of nightmare. There was no buoyancy in the contemplation of
the day's "prospect." It was as though that wholesome joy of life
which belongs to the "outdoor" man had suddenly been snatched away,
and only the contemplation of a dull round of unprofitable labor had
been left for the burdened mind to dwell upon.
It was in this spirit that Joe Brand rubbed his eyes and pulled on his
moleskin trousers. It was in this spirit that the miner, White,
slouching along to the store for breakfast, saw and greeted him.
"Nuthin' doin' in the night," he said, in something like the tone of a
disappointed pessimist.
"No." Joe Brand did not feel a great deal like talking. Besides the
nightmare depression that held him he had drunk a good deal of rye
whisky overnight.
White stared out across the creek, whither his thoughts were still
wandering.
"Maybe we--was scairt some," he observed, with a hollow laugh.
"Maybe."
Joe's manner was discouraging.
"Gettin' breakfast?" the other inquired presently.
"Guess so."
And the rest of the journey to the store was made in morose silence.
Others were already astir when they reached their destination. And at
some distance they beheld a small group of men clustering at one point
on the veranda. But such was their mood that the matter had no
interest whatever for them until they came within hailing distance.
Then it was that they were both startled into new life. Then it was
that all depression was swept away and active interest leapt. Then it
was that sore heads and troubled thoughts gave way before an
excitement almost equal to the previous day's, only that it carried
with it a hope which the latter had almost killed.
"Say, don't it beat hell?" demanded a burly prospector as they came
up, pointing back at the wall of the store where the group was
clustering like a swarm of bees.
"Don't what?" inquired Brand, with only partial interest.
"Why, that," cried the man, still pointing. "Ther' it is, all writ up
ther'. It's in Minky's writin', too. They're sendin' out a stage,
Wednesday. Git a peek at it."
But Brand and his companion did not wait for his final suggestion.
They, too, had already joined the cluster, and stood craning on the
outskirts of it. Yes, there it was, well chalked out in Minky's bold
capitals--an invitation to all his customers to trade all the gold
they chose to part with to him at the usual rates, or to ship direct
to the bank at Spawn City by a stage that was to leave Suffering Creek
at eight o'clock on Wednesday morning, its safe delivery insured, at
special rates, by the storekeeper himself.
It was the most astounding notice, under the circumstances, ever seen
on Suffering Creek, and as the citizens read it excitement surged to a
tremendous pitch.
The man called Van expressed something of the thought in every mind as
he turned to Brand, who happened to be at his side.
"Gee!" he cried, with ironical levity. "Old Minky's plum 'bug.' He's
waited to 'unload' till James' gang has got the camp held up three
miles out. Wal, I ain't shippin'. Guess I'll trade my dust at a
discount. It's a sight easier carryin' United States currency."
"But he's guaranteein' delivery at the bank," protested Brand.
"That's what it sez, sure," observed White doubtfully.
"It beats me," said the burly miner perplexedly, again drawn to the
notice by the apparent recklessness of its purport. "It beats me
sure," he reiterated. Then, after a thoughtful pause, he went back to
his original statement as something that expressed the limit of his
understanding. "It sure do beat hell."
So it was throughout the morning. And by noon every soul in the camp
had seen or heard of Minky's contemplated recklessness. The place was
wild with excitement, and, instead of setting out for their various
claims for the usual day's work, every man went out to scrape together
any "dust" he possessed, and brought it in to trade.
And Minky bought with perfect good-humor, discounting at the
recognized tariff, but always with solemn eyes, and a mind still
wondering at his overnight interview with Wild Bill. He had obeyed him
implicitly, knowing that he was making a liberal profit for himself,
whatever the gambler might be risking. All his transactions were
guaranteed for him by the small fortune which Bill possessed safely
deposited in the Spawn City bank. Well, it was not for him to
hesitate.
But his trading was not carried on without comment and questioning.
Besides which, there was a heap of rough sarcasm and satire to put up
with from his customers. But he put up with it. He could afford to.
And to the closest questioning he had always one answer, and no
enlightenment could they drag out of him.
"The stage goes, boys," he told them. "An' personal, I ain't scairt a
cent's-worth of James an' his gang. Though, to see the way you'se
fellers are fallin' over yourselves to make trade with me, I guess I
know some folks as is."
The marvel of the whole thing confounded the public mind. But the
selfishness of human nature demanded that advantage should be taken of
the situation. If Minky, who recently had jibbed at trading gold, had
suddenly eased the market, well, it was "up to him." It was his
"funeral." The public jumped at the chance of realizing, and so
relieving themselves of the cloud of trouble threatening them. James
could come along with a whole army of desperadoes, once they had rid
themselves of their "dust." They then would no longer have anything to
lose except their lives, and those they were always prepared to risk
in anything so enterprising as a little honest gun-play.
It was noon when Wild Bill was stirring. And he listened to the news
which greeted him on every hand with a calmly non-committal air. Nor,
when he found it necessary to comment, did he hesitate to do so in his
usual sharp, decided fashion.
"Minky's good grit," he declared on one occasion to a puzzled miner.
"I don't guess ther's many folks around as 'ud take his chances. I
allow Sufferin' Creek needs to be proud of sech a feller."
And his attitude promptly set up a new feeling in the camp. Minky's
heroic pose had not struck the people before. But now the full force
of it struck home in a manner which suddenly raised him to a great
pinnacle of popularity. The storekeeper of Suffering Creek was
standing between the camp and possible financial disaster. It was
noble. It was splendid. Yes, they had reason to be very thankful to
him.
Bill contemplated the notice long and earnestly when his attention was
first called to it. And his narrow eyes lit and twinkled as he read
down the carefully chalked capitals. Minky had certainly done it well.
But then Minky did most things well. He read it down a second time,
and then pushed his way into the store. It was some time before he
could reach his friend, but finally he got him to himself as he was
poring over a big cash-book. The storekeeper looked up. Nor had he any
greeting for his visitor. He was still dazed at the gambler's purpose.
And somehow it was the latter who had to speak first.
"You done it good, Minky," he said amiably.
"Ther'll be sixty thousand dollars," the storekeeper mumbled
doubtfully.
"Good."
"Good?"
"Sure." Bill turned and gazed out of the window. "It needs to be a big
pile. Makes things surer."
"Surer? I don't get you."
"No; that's so." The gambler turned back to the other abruptly. "Say,
you get busy an' gas. Gas till you got the camp yappin' like coyotes.
Tell 'em the stage is sure carryin' sixty thousand dollars' worth o'
good red gold." Then his manner suddenly changed and he laughed. "Say,
I'm jest goin' out to get a peek at my claim. I sure guess I bought a
dandy rich claim o' Zip."
"You orter know," said Minky, with a shake of the head. "I sure don't
seem to understand--"
"Course you don't," cried Bill, with strange good-nature. Then his
eyes became curiously reflective. "Wher's Zip?"
"Zip? Guess he's around with the kids. Y'see, the Bird's helpin' him
fix things. Maybe they're back in the dinin'-room."
Bill stood for a moment in deep thought. Then he turned suddenly, and
his fierce little eyes fixed themselves on his friend's face.
"Them kids," he said sharply. "Maybe I'll get you to kep 'em safe
right here fer three days an' more. After that we'll see." Then in a
moment his expression lightened and he laughed. "Guess I'll get Zip
to come along an' show me the claim."
* * * * *
Half-an-hour later the gambler was striding down the river bank, with
Scipio hurrying along at his side. Several times the little man had
endeavored to engage his companion in amiable conversation. He wanted
to talk about the episode at the river, but Bill would have none of
it. Nor was it until he was nearly half-way to their destination,
where Sandy Joyce was already at work, that he broke the silence in
which he had wrapped himself.
They had just emerged from a narrow cattle-track where they had been
forced to walk in single file on account of the bush which grew in
such abundance on either side of it. Bill was leading, and as the path
widened into a clearing, in which lay several fallen trees rooted out
of the ground by some long-passed flood of the creek, he suddenly
turned about and faced his diminutive friend.
"Here," he said, "we'll set here a piece. Guess we need to talk some."
He glanced quickly about, and finally flung himself upon the nearest
tree-trunk. "Set," he cried, pointing at another trunk lying opposite
to him.
Scipio wonderingly complied. He stood in considerable awe of the
gambler, and now he was ransacking his brain to discover the object of
this desire for a talk. He could find no adequate reason, except it
might be that Bill was repenting of his bargain in purchasing a
half-share in his claim. Yes, it might be that. It probably was that.
He had no doubt bought on inaccurate information. Scipio knew how
misleading and how wild many of the reports which flew about Suffering
Creek were. Besides, he was certain that Bill's information about his
claim, wherever he had got it from, was inaccurate. Yes, no doubt this
was what he wanted to talk about, and the honest-minded man promptly
decided that the gambler should have no cause to blame him. He need
have no doubts. He would by no means hold him to the bargain. He would
return the money--
Suddenly he remembered. He had already spent five dollars of it, and
he went hot and cold at the thought. He had nothing with which to
replace it.
However, he took no further thought, and, as Bill still remained
silent, he plunged into the matter at once.
"I got most all the money with me," he began, in his vague way
expecting the other to understand his meaning. "That is, all but fi'
dollars. Y'see, the kids needed--"
Bill's sharp eyes reached his face with a jump.
"Wot in the name o' blazes--" he cried.
But Scipio did not let him continue.
"I knew ther' wa'n't no gold showin' on my claim," he hurriedly
explained. "So I'll jest hand you back your dollars."
"Square-toed mackinaw!" the gambler cried, his face scarlet. Then he
broke out into one of his harsh laughs. "Say," he went on, with
pretended severity, "you can't squeal that way. I'm in ha'f your
claim, an' I ain't lettin' up my holt on it fer--fer nobody an'
nuthin'. Get that right here. You can't bluff me."
Scipio flushed. He somehow felt very small. The last thing he wanted
Bill to think was that he was trying to do him an injury.
"I'm sorry," he said helplessly. "Y'see, I thought, you needing to
talk to me so bad, you wanted, maybe, to quit my claim."
He turned away, gazing down the wood-lined river. Somehow he could not
face the gambler's stern eyes. Had he seen the sudden softening in
them the moment the other was sure he was unobserved, he might have
been less troubled. But the gambler had no soft side when men's eyes
were upon him.
"'Tain't about your claim I need to talk," Bill said, after a
brief pause. His voice was less harsh, and there was an unusual
thoughtfulness in its tone. "It's--it's--Say, Zip, I ain't fergot our
talk out there on the trail." He nodded his head out in the
direction of Spawn City. "You mind that talk when you was puttin' up
that fool proposition o' handin' James that kid?"
Scipio's eyes had come back to his companion, and their expression had
suddenly dropped to one of hopeless regret. His heart was stirred to
its depths by the reference to the past trouble which lay like a
cankerous sore so deep down in it.
He nodded. But otherwise he had no words.
"You're needin' your wife?" Bill went on brusquely.
Again Scipio nodded. But this time words came, too.
"But you was right," he said. "I saw it all after. I was plumb wrong.
An'--an' I ain't holding you to--what you said. You jest wanted to put
me right. I understood that--after."
Bill stirred uneasily, and kicked a protruding limb of the tree on
which he sat.
"You're a heap ready to let me out," he cried, with a return to his
harshest manner. "Who in blazes are you to say I don't need to do
the--things I said I'd do? Jest wait till you're ast to." He turned
away, and Scipio was left troubled and wondering.
But suddenly the lean body swung round again, and the little
prospector felt the burning intensity of the man's eyes as they
concentrated on his flushing face.
"You're needin' your wife?" he jerked out.
"More'n all the world," the little man cried, with emotion.
"Would you put up a--a scrap fer her?"
"With anybody."
The corners of Bill's mouth wrinkled, but his eyes remained hard and
commanding. Whatever feelings of an appreciative nature lay behind his
lean face they were well hidden.
"You'd face James an' all his gang--again? You'd face him if it sure
meant--death?"
"The chance o' death wouldn't stop me if I could get her back."
The quiet of the little man's tone carried a conviction far greater
than any outburst could have done.
"An' she's been--his?"
Scipio took a deep breath. His hands clenched. Just for a moment the
whites of his eyes became bloodshot with some rush of tremendous
feeling. It seemed as though he were about to break out into verbal
expression of his agony of heart. But when he finally did speak it was
in the same even tone, though his breath came hard and deep.
"I want her--whatever she is," he said quietly.
Bill rose to his feet, and a passionate light shone in his sparkling
eyes.
"Then take Minky's mule an' buckboard. Start right out fer James'
ranch before sun-up Wednesday mornin', an'--you'll sure get her. Come
on."
Scipio sprang to his feet, and a dozen hot questions leapt to his
mind. An ocean of gratitude was struggling to pour from his inadequate
tongue, but Bill would have none of it. He waved him aside and set off
for their destination, and the other could only follow. But at the
farther edge of the clearing again the gambler paused. This time a
sudden thought had changed his plans. He turned abruptly, and without
one particle of softening in his manner he ordered him back.
"Say," he cried, "ther' ain't no use fer you to get around further.
You ken jest light back to the store, an' see to them kids. Don't you
never let 'em out o' your sight till Wednesday come. Then hit out fer
James' ranch."
When Wild Bill eventually reached the claim, he found Sandy sitting on
an upturned bucket amidst the most deplorable surroundings in which a
gold prospector in quest of the precious metal could ever hope to find
himself.
The creek bank was some two hundred yards away, with a pronounced
rising ground between him and it. Behind him was a great cut-faced
rock of ironstone that certainly looked auriferous. The base of it lay
in a definite hollow, reed-grown and oozy. Beyond him, to the right,
following the river bank, the ground declined gradually towards a
black-looking, turgid and overgrown swamp. While, from the direction
in which the gambler approached, a low, dense, thorny bush grew, made
up of branches almost skeleton in their lack of leaves. It was a
forlorn and uninviting spot, calculated to dishearten anybody with a
heart less big and an enthusiasm less vital than Scipio's.
Bill stood for a moment surveying the scene before Sandy realized his
presence. And that first glance set him snorting contemptuously.
"Well, say--" he began. But words failed him, and he hurried across to
his "hired" man.
Sandy jumped up as he came near, and before the other could stop him
had poured out his opinion of things in general, and that claim in
particular, in a few well-chosen and effective words.
"Say, Zip orter sure be shot or hanged," he cried angrily, "an' this
doggone claim o' mud needs to be boosted through a dogasted volcany
an' blowed out the other side o' no sort o' place at all. Ther' sure
ain't nuthin' worse in the world than the foolishness of a tow-headed
fool."
But Bill ignored the outburst.
"How much gold you found?" he inquired coldly.
Sandy's indignant eyes blazed.
"Gold? Pea-shucks!" he roared, with a furious oath. "An' I tell you
right here I ain't to be made no fool of. You ken take this
mule-headed job an'--an'--well, you ken take it. I quit right here."
But again Bill ignored his outburst. There was not a vestige of
expression in his face as he moved across to the mouth of a shaft
Scipio had been sinking before his work had been interrupted by the
going of his wife. He looked into it and pointed.
"Guess you best get right on makin' this hole deeper. Ther' ain't
nuthin' like diggin' to find out. Zip's sure a wise guy. I don't guess
I know what you'll likely find--but--you best kep diggin'. That's sure
his notion."
Sandy went purple in the face, and spluttered violently in his attempt
to speak. Finally, when he did get his words out, it was only to
repeat his decision.
"It's jest a mud swamp," he cried, "an' I quit."
Bill turned swiftly. His movements were almost cat-like as he came up
and peered into Sandy's face.
"You'll kep right on diggin' that hole," he said, with an icy threat.
"An' come Wednesday you'll quit diggin' an' hit the trail on Zip's
track--you an' Sunny an' Toby--an' you'll sure see no harm comes to
him. But he ain't to see you, nor to know you're chasin' him. An' you
ain't to stop him, no matter what fool trick he gets playin'. Get
me?"
Sandy's choler died out before the other's purpose. He suddenly
realized that his work on the claim was not of any great consequence
to his employer, that Bill had other thoughts, other schemes in his
head, and that he, Sandy, was to have his place in them. He nodded.
"I get you," he said. "But--"
"Ther' ain't no 'buts,'" interrupted Bill. "You're goin' to do as I
sez. Meanwhiles you're goin' right on diggin' that hole, to earn your
dollars."
And without another word he turned and hurried away towards the mouth
of the trail whence he had appeared.
CHAPTER XXVII
SUSPENSE
It was nearly sundown. A chilly mist was stealing down the slopes of
the surrounding hills. It densified to a ruddy fog as it caught the
glow of the evening sun, and finally settled upon the valley. And with
each passing moment the hills seemed to recede, their outlines to grow
more indistinct and ghostly. And gradually the whole prospect took on
the depressing aspect of a day dying wearily.
Had Jessie been less preoccupied as she stood at the door of the
ranch-house she might have felt something of all this. But she heeded
nothing of the hour, and saw nothing of the picture before her. Her
eyes only visualized the scenes that a world of troubled and
apprehensive thought yielded her. Her mind and heart were full of a
great terror, a terror which left her helpless and dazed.
She stirred restlessly. Time and again she changed her position. Now
she was leaning against one casing of the doorway, now against the
other. A nervous glance over her shoulder, as some sound in the
darkness of the room behind her set her shivering, told of the
state of her nerves, as also, with ears ever on the alert, her
fearful glances at a definite spot in the rapidly dimming hills told
of a straining, harassed expectancy. Her nerves were almost at
breaking-point. Her handsome face was drawn and haggard. All the
youthful freshness seemed to have vanished from it forever, leaving
her radiant eyes shadowed and hopeless. It was a painful change. But
the outward and visible signs were nothing to the changes that had
taken place within her.
Thirty yards away a decrepit choreman was making pretense of some work
upon a corral fence. But it was only pretense. His real occupation was
espionage. His red-rimmed eyes never for a moment lost sight of his
master's woman when she showed herself in the open. A curious-looking
dog of immense proportions, half mastiff, half Newfoundland, squatted
on its haunches at his side, alternating his green-eyed attention
between a watchful regard for the hand that fed and thrashed it and
the woman at the doorway. There was not much to choose between the
faces of these wardens of the ranch. Both were cruel, both were
intensely vicious. In neither pair of eyes was there any friendliness
for the woman. And it needed little imagination to understand that
both possessed to the full all the instincts of the savage watch-dog.
But Jessie had no thought for either. Her own terrible thoughts and
feelings held her. It is doubtful if she was even aware of their
presence at all. Just now one thought stood out dominant in her mind.
She was expecting the return of--James. And the return of James
meant--She shuddered.
He was returning from his expedition in the neighborhood of Suffering
Creek, and this knowledge brought with it the remembrance that his
object was to give her possession of at least one of her children.
Distracted as she was with her mother's desire for possession of her
offspring, although the man was now only obeying her expressed wishes,
she dreaded the child's coming almost as much as she dreaded her
lover's return. The thought of seeing Vada in this man's arms maddened
her to such a degree that she was well-nigh beside herself.
For two whole days now had she brooded under a cloud of despair. She
had scarcely stirred out of her room; she had eaten scarcely enough to
sustain life. She had shut herself up, a prey to harrowing remorse and
terror--a remorse which she knew to be as useless as her terror was
nerve-racking. Her awakening had come, sudden, awful. And, like all
such awakenings, it had come too late, so that the horror of her
future was written in letters of fire before her mental eyes, a fire
which burnt into her broken heart and left her in the depths of an
unutterable despair.
It was on the morning of her lover's departure for the region of
Suffering Creek that the awakening had come. It had come with an
overwhelming rush of horror which, in the midst of her dressing, had
sent her reeling and fainting upon the bed from which she had only
just risen, and where for two hours she had subsequently lain in a
state of collapse.
She was brushing her hair, her mind busy with the pleasant thought
that shortly she was to have one of her children with her again. She
knew that her appeal to her husband had failed, but James had sworn to
keep his promise, and now he was setting out for that expressed
purpose. And such was her foolish woman's blind faith that she had no
doubts. When he returned he was to bring, at least, little Vada with
him. The fresh mountain air was doubly pleasant to her that morning.
The brilliant sunlight raised her spirits. All qualms of conscience
were thrust into the background, and she was as nearly happy as
earthly interest could make her.
She could see the crowded corrals from where she stood. She could hear
the bellowing of the restless cattle as they pushed and horned each
other in their forceful, bovine desire to get out to the succulent
grass of their beloved pastures. All the men were astir, preparing for
their lawless expedition. The saddle-horses, ready for the trail, were
hitched to the corral fences. Through the open window she could hear
her lover ordering and hectoring, as was his way of dealing with the
ruffians who served under his leadership; and a thrill of excitement,
a subtle sympathy, stirred her. She moved to the window, leaving her
beautiful hair flowing in the bright air, and stood watching for the
departure.
Then came that hideous thing which was to shadow all her future life.
It came almost without warning. In a flash, it seemed, the last tinge
of romance was swept from her thoughts, and the hideous skeleton of
reality was laid bare.
The men had tightened up the cinchas of their saddles, and passed the
reins over their horses' heads, ready to mount. She watched them all
with something very like admiration in her blinded eyes. Their hard,
desperate faces did not appear so to her. These things, in her foolish
mind, were the hall-mark of reckless courage, of strong, virile
manhood. They were men who feared nothing, who cared no more for their
own lives than they would care for the life of an enemy. And somehow
this seemed to her just as it should be.
She waited to see them mount their raw-boned bronchos. But somehow
there was a delay; and in this delay a change came over the scene. The
men drifted away from their horses and gathered into groups. They
stood whispering together with faces averted from their leader. A
feeling of apprehension somehow caught hold of her. She did not
understand why, but she felt that all was not right. She turned to
James, and saw that he was moving round his horse all unconcernedly,
and she wondered if he were aware of the change in his men.
But all further speculation was abruptly checked, for at that moment
she heard the leader issue one of his sharp orders. She did not quite
catch his words, but she noticed that no one moved or attempted to
comply. Only talk ceased instantly. Then she saw the handsome face of
her lover flush, as he glanced about him at this unusual phenomenon,
and in a moment she recognized the sudden savage anger that flashed
into his eyes. Simultaneously his hand dropped to the butt of one of
his guns.
Then she heard his words, as they were shouted to the accompaniment of
a string of vicious oaths.
"Ho, you, Ned, an' you, too, Sully!" he cried fiercely, "get your ears
flappin'. Huyk that rotten skunk Conroy out. I ain't tellin' you
again."
The woman had thrilled at his words. There was such command, such
fearlessness in them, in his whole poise. She felt, too, that there
was trouble looming. There was rebellion in the air. Her excitement
rose, and her sympathies were all for this one man.
The two men indicated suddenly bestirred themselves, and moved off
under their leader's eye. The rest drifted together--eight of them,
she found herself counting. And as they drew together a murmur arose.
Instantly James' gun flew from its holster; and he stood, the
personification of cold authority.
"Another word an' I empty this into your lousy hides!" she heard him
cry. And instantly the murmur died out.
But the threatening weapon did not return to its holster. James stood
there waiting. And presently she beheld the two men he had despatched
returning, bringing in their custody, tottering awkwardly between
them, the man Abe Conroy, with his arms tightly fastened behind his
back, and a pair of horse-hobbles securing his ankles. They came
slowly, for the hobbles allowed but little play, and halted less than
five yards away from their leader.
As they paused the woman shivered. Some premonition of what was about
to happen got hold of her, and struck terror to her heart. She stood
staring now, unable to move. A hideous fascination seemed to paralyze
her.
The next thing that reached her comprehension was that James was
speaking in a harsh metallic voice. She had never heard him speak like
that before, and her fears swiftly increased as his words floated in
through the open window.
"Now, you skunk," he was saying, "you guess you're man enough to run
this lay-out. You guess you're a bigger man than me. You guess you got
me squealin' around like a suckin' kid. You! An' I took you out o'
jail, wher' they was goin' to set you swingin'. Gee! I could tell you
a heap, but I ain't no time talkin' to bastards of your kidney.
Swingin's too good fer sech as you. Anyway, when I got work to do I do
it myself. Here, you, Ned, an' you, Sully, stand aside!"
She saw the two men withdraw. She wanted to scream, without quite
knowing why. But no sound came. Her eyes were starting out of her head
with the horror of what she knew to be about to happen. But she had no
power to stir hand or foot.
She saw James move forward. She saw the bloodless, horror-stricken
face of the prisoner. She saw him stumble as he attempted to move
away. There was no escape.
James moved forward with body crouching, and strides that covered the
intervening space with almost feline stealth.
He came right up to the man, his gun leading. She heard a report and
one dreadful cry of terror and pain. She saw Conroy crumple and fall
writhing upon the ground. She saw the blood streaming from his
stomach. Then the further horror came to her staring eyes as she saw
James stand over his victim and fire shot after shot into the hideous,
writhing heap.
But the limit was reached. With one wild scream she turned away and
flung herself upon her bed; and the next moment everything mercifully
became a blank to her.
That was on the Sunday morning. She saw nothing of what followed. She
knew nothing until she awoke some two hours later to the haunting
vision of the scene she had witnessed. And ever since it had clung to
her--clung like an obsession, a mental parasite sapping her nerve, her
very reason. Nor had she power to disassociate herself from it.
And now she was waiting in an agony of mind for the murderer's
return. Not only was she waiting for his return, but she expected to
see him bearing in his arms one of her own innocent children. The
thought of little Vada in his arms drove her frantic. Her innocent
little Vada in the arms of this cold-blooded assassin!
She knew him now for all he was. The scales had fallen from her
foolish eyes. All the romance of his hideous calling had passed in a
flash, and she saw it as it was. She had no words to express her
feelings of horror and revolting. In her weakness and wickedness she
had torn herself out of the life of a good man to fling herself upon
the bosom of this black-hearted villain. She loathed him; she loathed
his very name. But more than all else she loathed herself. Her
punishment was terrible. She was so helpless, so powerless. She knew
it, and the knowledge paralyzed her thought. What could she do? She
knew she was watched, and any move to get away would be at once
frustrated. She could do nothing--nothing.
No longer able to remain in her room, she had come out to breathe air
which she vainly hoped was less contaminated with the crimes of the
man whose home she had elected to share. But inside or out it made no
difference. The haunting was not of the place. It was in her mind; it
had enveloped her whole consciousness.
But through it all there was one longing, one yearning for all that
she had lost, all she had wantonly thrown away. Suffering Creek, with
its poverty-stricken home on the dumps, suggested paradise to her now.
She yearned as only a mother can yearn for the warm caresses of her
children. She longed for the honest love of the little man whom, in
the days of her arrogant womanhood, she had so mercilessly despised.
All his patient kindliness came back to her now. All his tremendous,
if misdirected, effort on her behalf, his never-failing loyalty and
courage, were things which to her, in her misery, were the most
blessed of all blessings. She wanted home--home. And in that one
bitter cry of her heart was expressed the awakening of her real
womanhood.
But it had come too late--too late. There was no home now for her but
the home of this man. There was no husband for her, only the illicit
love of this man. Her children--she could only obtain them by a theft.
And as this last thought came to her she remembered who it was who
must commit the theft.
The thought brought a fresh terror. How would he accomplish his end?
Had not Scipio tacitly refused to yield up her children? Then
how--how? She shivered. She knew the means James would readily,
probably only too gladly, adopt. Her husband, the little harmless man
who had always loved her, would be swept aside like anyone else who
stood in the way. James would shoot him down as he had shot Conroy
down; even, she fancied, he would shoot him down for the wanton
amusement of destroying his life.
Oh no, no! It was too horrible. He was her husband, the first man she
had ever cared for. She thought of all they had been to each other.
Her mind sped swiftly over past scenes which had so long been
forgotten. She remembered his gentleness, his kindly thought for her,
his self-effacement where her personal comforts were in question, his
devotion both to herself and her children. Every detail of their
disastrous married life sped swiftly before her straining mental
vision, leaving the man standing out something greater than a hero to
her yearning heart. And she had flung it all away in a moment of
passion. She had blinded herself in the arrogance of her woman's
vanity. Gone, gone. And now she was the mistress of a common
assassin.
So she lashed herself with the torture of repentance and regret as the
darkness fell. She did not stir from her post. The damp of the mist
was unnoticed, the chill of the air. She was waiting for that return
which was to claim her to an earthly hell, than which she could
conceive no greater--waiting like the condemned prisoner, numb,
helpless, fearful lest the end should come unobserved.
The ranch wardens waited, too. The man cursed his charge with all the
hatred of an evil nature, as the damp penetrated to his mean bones.
The dog, too, grew restless, but where his master was, there was his
place. He had long since learned that--to his cost.
The night crept on, and there was no change in the position, except
that the man sought the sheltering doorway of one of the barns, and
covered his damp shirt with a jacket. But the woman did not move. She
was beyond all conception of time. She was beyond any thought of
personal comfort or fatigue. All she knew was that she must wait--wait
for the coming of her now hated lover, that at least she might snatch
her child from his contaminating arms. And after that--well, after
that--She had no power to think of the afterwards.
The moon rose amidst the obscurity of the fog. It mounted, and at last
reached a height where its silvery light could no longer be denied by
the low-lying mists. But its reign was brief. Its cold splendor
rapidly began to shrink before the pink dawn, and in less than two
hours it was but a dim white circle set in the azure of the new-born
day.
Still the woman remained at her post, her dark eyes straining with her
vigil. She was drenched to the skin with the night-mists, but the
chill of her body was nothing to the chill of her heart. The spy was
still at his post in the barn doorway, but he was slumbering, as was
his canine servitor, lying curled up at his feet. The sun rose, the
mists cleared. And now the warming of day stirred the cattle in the
corrals.
Suddenly the waiting woman started. Her attention had never once
relaxed. She moved out with stiffened joints, and, shading her eyes
with her hand, stared into the gleaming sunlight. Her ears had caught
the distant thud of horses' hoofs, and now her eyes confirmed. Away
down the valley she could see the dim outline of a number of horsemen
riding towards the ranch.
Her heart began to thump in her bosom, and her limbs quaked under her.
What could she do? What must she do? Every thought, every idea that
her long vigil had suggested was swept from her mind. A blank
helplessness held her in its grip. She could only wait for what was to
come.
The pounding of hoofs grew louder, the figures grew bigger. They were
riding out of the sun, and her eyes were almost blinded as she looked
for that which she trembled to behold. She could not be certain of
anything yet, except that the return of her lover was at hand.
Nearer, nearer they came. Nearer, nearer still. Then suddenly a sharp
exclamation broke from the watcher. It was a cry which had in it a
strange thrill. It might have been the gasp of the condemned man at
the sound of the word "reprieve." It might have been the cry of one
momentarily relieved from years of suffering.
She could see them plainly. For now the figures were no longer
silhouetted against the sun. They had changed their course as they
neared the ranch, and the rising sun was well clear. She could even
recognize them by their horses. She counted. There were ten of them.
One was missing. Who? But her interest was only momentary. She
recognized the leader, and after that nothing else concerned her.
She could not mistake him. He sat his dark brown horse differently to
anybody else. He looked to be part of it. But there was no admiration
in her eyes. And yet there was an expression in them that had not been
in them since his departure. There was hope in her eyes, and something
akin to joy in her whole attitude. James was riding empty-handed!
Hence her cry. But now she glanced swiftly at each horseman, to be
sure that they, too, were empty-handed. Yes, each man was riding with
the loose swinging arms of the prairie man. And with a sigh that
contained in it every expression of an unbounded relief she turned and
vanished into the house. For the time, at least, Vada was safe.
CHAPTER XXVIII
JAMES
James clattered into the empty sitting-room and stared about him. His
dark face was flushed with excitement. The savage in him was stirred
to its best mood, but it was still the savage. He grinned as he
realized that the room was empty, and it was a grin of amusement. Some
thought in his mind gave him satisfaction, in spite of the fact that
there was no one to greet him.
The grin passed and left him serious. Even his excitement had abated.
He had remembered Jessie's scream at the scene she must have
witnessed. He remembered that he had left her fainting. With another
quick glance round he stood and called--
"Ho, you! Jess!"
There was no answer; and he called again, this time his handsome face
darkening. He had seen her from a distance outside the house, so there
was no doubt of her being about.
Still he received no answer.
An oath followed. But just as he was about to call again he heard the
sound of a skirt beyond the inner door. Instantly he checked his
impulse, and where before his swift-rising anger had shone in his eyes
a smile now greeted Jessie as she opened the door and entered the
room.
For a moment no verbal greeting passed between them. The man was
taking in every detail of her face and figure, much as a connoisseur
may note the points of some precious purchase he is about to make, or
a glutton may contemplate a favorite dish. He saw nothing in her face
of the effects of the strain through which she had passed. To him her
eyes were the same wonderful, passionate depths that had first drawn
his reckless manhood to flout every risk in hunting his quarry down.
Her lips were the same rich, moist, enticing lips he had pressed to
his in those past moments of passion. The rounded body was unchanged.
Yes, she was very desirable.
But he was too sure of his ground to notice that there was no
responsive admiration in the woman's eyes. And perhaps it was as well.
She was looking at him with eyes wide open to what he really was, and
all the revolting of her nature was uppermost. She loathed him as she
might some venomous reptile. She loathed him and feared him. His body
might have been the body of an Apollo, his face the most perfect of
God's creations. She knew him now for the cold-blooded murderer he
was, and so she loathed and feared him.
There were stains upon his cotton shirt-sleeves, upon the bosom of it
showing between the fronts of his unbuttoned waistcoat. There were
stains upon his white moleskin trousers.
"Blood," she said, pointing. And something of her feelings must have
been plain to any but his infatuated ears.
He laughed. It was a cruel laugh.
"Sure," he cried. "It was a great scrap. We took nigh a hundred head
of Sid Morton's cattle and burnt him out."
"And the blood?"
"Guess it must be his, or--Luke Tedby's." His face suddenly darkened.
"That mutton-headed gambler over on Suffering Creek did him up. I had
to carry him to shelter--after he got away."
But Jessie paid little attention. She was following up her own
thought.
"It isn't--Conroy's?"
James' eyes grew cold.
"That seems to worry you some," he cried coldly. Then he put the thing
aside with a laugh. "You'll get used to that sort of talk after you've
been here awhile. Say, Jes--"
"I can never get used to--murder."
The woman's eyes were alight with a somber fire. She had no idea of
whither her words and feelings were carrying her. All her best
feelings were up in arms, and she, too, was touched now with the
reckless spirit which drove these people. There was no hope for her
future. There was no hope whithersoever she looked. And now that she
had seen her children were still safe from the life she had flung
herself into, she cared very little what happened to her.
But the cruel despot, to whom life and death were of no account
whatsoever, was not likely to deal tenderly long with the woman he
desired did she prove anything but amenable. Now her words stung him
as they were meant to sting, and his mouth hardened.
"You're talking foolish," he cried in that coldly metallic way she had
heard him use before. "Conroy got all he needed. Maybe he deserved
more. Anyhow, ther's only one man running this lay-out, and I'm surely
that man. Say--" again he changed. This time it was a change back to
something of the lover she knew, and at once he became even more
hateful to her--"things missed fire at--the Creek. I didn't get hands
on your kids. I--"
"I'm glad." Jessie could have shouted aloud her joy, but the man's
look of surprise brought caution, and she qualified her words. "No;
we'd best leave them, after all," she said. "You see, these men--"
She looked fearlessly into his face. She was acting as only a woman
can act when the object of her affections is threatened.
And her lover warmed all unsuspiciously. It would have been better for
her had she only realized her power over him. But she was not clever.
She was not even brave.
James nodded.
"Sure," he said; and with that monosyllable dismissed the subject from
his mind for matters that gave him savage delight. "Say, we've had a
good round-up," he went on--"a dandy haul. But we're going to do
better--Oh yes, much better." Then his smile died out. He had almost
forgotten the woman in the contemplation of what he had in his mind.
This man was wedded to his villainies. They came before all else.
Jessie was his; he was sure of her. She was his possession, and he
took her for granted now. The excitement of his trade had once again
become paramount.
"Guess Sufferin' Creek has gone plumb crazy," he went on delightedly.
"I've had boys around to keep me posted. They been spotting things.
Old Minky has been sittin' so tight I guessed I'd have to raid the
store for his gold; an' now they've opened out. That buzzy-headed old
fool's goin' to send out a stage loaded down with dust. It starts
Wednesday morning, an' he guesses it's to win through to Spawn City.
Gee! An' they're shoutin' about it. Say, Jess, they say it's to carry
sixty thousand dollars. Well, it won't carry it far. That's why I'm
back here now. That's why I quit worrying with your kids when Wild
Bill did up Luke. We hustled home to change our plugs, an' are hittin'
the trail again right away. Sixty thousand dollars! Gee! what a haul!
Say, when I've taken that"--he moved a step nearer and dropped his
voice--"we're goin' to clear out of this--you an' me. Those guys out
there ain't never going to touch a cent. You leave that to me. We'll
hit for New Mexico, and to hell with the north country. Say, Jess,
ain't that fine? Fine?" he went on, with a laugh. "It's fine as you
are."
She had no answer for him. And he went on quite heedlessly, lost in
admiration of his own scheme, and joy at the prospect.
"We'll settle down to an elegant little ranch, most respectable like.
You can go to church. Ha, ha! Yes, you can go to church all reg'lar.
You can make clothes fer the poor, an' go to sociables an' things. An'
meanwhiles I can slip across the border and gather up a few
things--just to keep my hand in--"
"What time are we gettin' out?"
James swung round with the alertness of a panther. One of the men was
standing in the doorway, a burly ruffian whose face was turned to his
leader, but whose cruel eyes were rudely fixed on the woman.
"In ha'f-an-hour," cried James, with a swift return to his harsh
command. "Tell the boys to vittle for three days an' roll a blanket.
We'll need 'em fer sleep. An', say," he cried, with sudden threat,
"don't you git around here again till I call you. Get me?"
There was no mistaking his anger at the interruption. There was no
mistaking his meaning. The man slunk away. But as James turned back to
the woman his previous lightness had gone, and his ill-humor found
savage expression.
"There's someone else needing a lesson besides Conroy," he snarled.
Jessie shivered.
"He didn't mean harm," she protested weakly.
"Harm? Harm? He was staring at you. You ain't fer sech scum as him to
stare at. I'll have to teach him."
The man was lashing himself to that merciless fury Jessie had once
before witnessed, and now she foolishly strove to appease him. She
laughed. It was a forced laugh, but it served her purpose, for the
man's brow cleared instantly, and his thoughts diverted to a full
realization of her presence, and all she meant to him.
"You can laugh," he said, his eyes darkening with sudden lustful
passion. "But I can't have folks--starin' at you. Say, Jess, you don't
know, you can't think, how I feel about you. You're jest mine--mine."
His teeth clipped together with the force of his emotion. The brute in
him urged him as madly in his desire as it did in his harsher tempers.
"I just don't care for nothing else but you. An'--I got you now. Here,
you haven't kissed me since I came back. I'd forgot, thinking of that
sixty thousand of gold-dust. I'm off again in ha'f-an-hour--an' I
won't be back for three days. Here--"
His arms were held out and he drew nearer. But now the woman drew back
in unmistakable horror.
"Say," he cried in a voice still passionate, yet half angry, "you
don't need to get away. Ther's a wall back of you." Then, as she still
shrank back, and he saw the obvious terror in her eyes, his
swift-changing mood lost its warmth of passion and left it only angry.
"Ther's three other walls an' a door to this room, an' I can easy shut
the door."
He reached out and caught her by one arm. He swung her to him as
though she were a child. There was no escape. She struggled to free
herself, but her strength was as the strength of a babe to his, and in
a moment she was caught in his arms and hugged to his breast. She
writhed to free herself, but her efforts made no impression. And,
having possession of her, the man laughed. It was not a pleasant
laugh. He looked down at her. Her head was thrown back to avoid him.
His hot eyes grinned tantalizingly into her face.
"It's no use," he said. "You got to kiss me. You're mine. No, no,
don't you bother to kick any. You can't get away. Now, Jess, kiss me.
Kiss me good--good an' plenty." His arms crushed her closer. "What,
you won't? You won't kiss me? Ha, ha! Maybe that's why you ran back
into the house when I come along. Maybe that's why you wouldn't answer
when I called. What's come to you?"
He held her, waiting for a reply. But the woman was beyond speech in
her horror and rage. She was no longer terrified. She was beside
herself with fury and revolting. She hated the crushing arms about
her--the arms of a murderer. That one word stood out in her mind,
maddening her. She would not kiss him. She could not. She gasped and
struggled. She wanted to shriek for help, but that, she knew, was
useless.
"Let me go!" she cried, her voice hoarse with a fury equal to anything
he was capable of.
But she only held her the tighter; he only grinned the more. He, too,
was furious. He, too, meant to have his way. He was determined she
should submit.
Submission, however, was the farthest from her thoughts. He bent his
head forward. It came nearer to her up-thrown chin.
"Let me go! Let me go, you--you--murderer!"
It was out. She had no longer any power of restraint. And as the word
hissed upon the air the man's whole body seemed to suddenly stiffen.
His arms tightened, and she felt her ribs bend under their terrific
pressure.
"Murderer, eh?" she heard him cry, with an oath. "Murderer, eh? Now
you shall kiss me. Kiss me, you wild-cat--kiss me!"
As he spoke one hand was lifted to the back of her head. He pressed it
forward, and she was forced slowly, slowly, fighting every inch of the
way to keep her face out of reach of his lips. His face drew nearer
hers. She felt his hot breath upon her cheeks. She shut her eyes to
keep the sight of his hated, terrifying eyes out, but ever his lips
came nearer.
"What's come over you, you little fool?" he cried fiercely. "What is
it? Now, by hell! whatever it is, you shall--you shall kiss me."
With a sudden exertion of his great strength he crushed her face to
his, and the next instant flung her from him with a fierce cry of pain
and rage.
"You--!" he shouted, as she fell in a heap against the wall.
The blood was streaming from his cheek where her strong teeth had
bitten deep into the flesh. His hand went up to the mauled flesh, and
murder glared out of his eyes as he contemplated her huddled figure
lying motionless where he had flung her. And for one second it looked
as though he intended to complete the work he had begun, and kill her
where she lay, in the same manner in which he had treated the luckless
Conroy.
He stared insanely at her for some moments. Then a change came over
him, and he turned to the door.
"When I come back, my girl! When I come back!" he muttered threateningly.
At the door he paused and looked back. But his look was mercifully
hidden from his victim by unconsciousness.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE GOLD-STAGE
Two days of excitement were quite sufficient to upset the nerves of
Suffering Creek. The only excitement it was used to was the sudden
discovery of an extra good find of gold. The camp understood that. It
was like an inspiration to the creative worker. It stimulated the
energies, it uplifted. Any other sort of excitement had a paralyzing
effect. And thus the excitement of the present Sunday and Monday
entirely upset the rest of the week's work.
Everybody felt that the happenings of those days were merely the
forerunners of something yet to come, of something even more
startling. And the restlessness of uncertainty as to its nature kept
the population hanging about the camp, fearful that, in their absence,
things might occur, and they would miss participation in them.
The inhabitants of Suffering Creek were a virile race, strongly human,
full of interest in passing events, and men of appetite for any slices
of life that might come their way. So, having "cashed in" to the
"limit" all the gold-dust they possessed, they felt they were entitled
to spend a few days in watching events, and a few dollars in passing
the time until such events, if any, should come within their range of
vision.
What events were expected it is doubtful if the most inventive could
have put into words. The general opinion expressed--out of Minky's
hearing, of course, but to the accompaniment of deep libations of
his most execrable whisky--was that, personally, that astute trader
was, for some unaccountable reason, rapidly qualifying for the
"bug-house," and that the only thing due from them was to display
their loyalty to him by humoring him to the extent of discounting
all the "dust" they could lay hands on, and wishing him well out of
the trouble he seemed bent on laying up for himself. Meanwhile they
would take a holiday on the proceeds of their traffic, and, out of
sheer good-fellowship, stand by to help, or at least applaud, when
the _dénouement_ came.
Many of the shrewder men looked to Wild Bill to give a key to the
situation. They knew him to be Minky's closest friend. Besides that,
he was a man intensely "wide" and far-seeing in matters pertaining to
such a situation as at present existed.
But Wild Bill, in this case, was the blankest of blanks in the lottery
of their draw for information. Whether this blankness was real or
affected men could not make up their minds. The gambler was so unlike
his usual self. The hard, rough, autocratic manner of the man seemed
to have undergone a subtle change. He went about full of geniality and
a lightness his fellow-citizens had never before observed in him. And,
besides, he had suddenly become the only man in the place who seemed
to lack interest in the doings of the James gang. Even beyond the bare
facts of the outrage down by the river on Sunday morning, he could not
be cajoled into discussing that individual or his doings.
No, his immediate interest apparently lay in his newly purchased
half-claim. He spent the Monday afternoon there watching the unwilling
Sandy sweating at his labors. And on the Tuesday he even passed him a
helping hand. It did not occur to these men that Bill kept away to
avoid their cross-questionings. It only seemed to them that his new
toy had a greater fascination for him than those things which made for
the welfare of the community; that his inexperienced eyes were blinded
to the facts which were patent enough to them: namely, that he had
bought the most worthless property in the district.
So they laughed, behind his back, and shrugged their great shoulders
pityingly, and their pity was also touched with resentment that his
interest in Suffering Creek could be so easily diverted. It was Joe
Brand who handed them a most excellent laugh on the subject, though
the laugh was rather _at_ than _with_ him.
He was talking to Van and White and several other men at one of the
tables in the store. Whisky had brightened his eyes, which had been
quietly smiling for some time as the talk of Bill went round. Then he
suddenly bent forward and arrested the general attention.
"Say, boys," he cried, "here's a good one for you. What's the
diff'rence between Wild Bill and Minky?"
Van promptly guffawed.
"Gee!" he cried, "ther' ain't none. They're sure both 'bug.'"
A great laugh greeted the retort, but Joe shook his head.
"That sure ain't the answer, but it's real bright," he admitted
reluctantly, while Van preened himself.
"Guess they're both that wise they don't know if they're comin' down
or goin' up," he went on, seeking to add to the score he felt he had
made.
But Joe felt he was being robbed of the fruits of his effort, and
promptly insisted upon his riddle.
"What's the diff'rence between Wild Bill an' Minky?" he asked again,
this time with added emphasis.
He waited impatiently until one of the men shook his head, when he
snatched at the opportunity of firing his quip.
"Why," he cried, with a shout of delight, "Bill's put his gold into a
mudbank, an' Minky's jest yearnin' to set his gold into any old bank,"
and fell back laughing furiously.
But he had his merriment to himself. Van, feeling he had the company
with him, sneered.
"Gee! that's the worst ever," he cried witheringly.
White spat out a chew of tobacco.
"I'd say you're that bright you'd orter write comic Bible trac's," he
declared.
But even in his failure as a humorist Joe Brand gave expression to the
general opinion of the two men who, up till that time, had been
accounted, to use a local expression, the "wisest guys west o' Spawn
City."
Certainly, for the time being, the mighty had fallen, and their
associates, in the persons of Sunny Oak, Toby Jenks and Sandy Joyce,
had to stand by listening to remarks against their fellow Trust
members which, though distinctly offensive, they yet, in justice, had
to admit were perfectly warranted on the face of things. Even Scipio,
mild little man as he was, had to endure considerable chaff, which
worried and annoyed him, as to the way in which he had succeeded in
bluffing so shrewd a "guy" as Wild Bill into purchasing half his
claim.
But these things were only sidelights on the feelings of the moment.
Expectancy was at fever-heat, and each and every man was wondering
what was about to happen. For though their belief in Bill and Minky
had received a jolt, long months of experience had sown in them an
appreciation that took a power of uprooting.
The Monday and Tuesday passed without development of any sort. There
were several conferences between the members of the Trust, but these
were really only meetings at which the lesser members received more
minute instructions for the carrying out of their duties on the
Wednesday. No information otherwise was forthcoming for them from
either Minky or the president, and all attempt to extort any was
promptly nipped in the bud by the latter without the least compunction
or courtesy.
Sandy resented this attitude. Sunny complained of the lack of
confidence. But Toby sat back immensely enjoying the chagrin of his
two friends, and cordially swore that both Minky and Bill knew a
large-meshed sieve when they saw one.
Tuesday night was a memorable one on Suffering Creek. Never had there
been such a gathering in Minky's store; and his heart must have been
rejoiced to see the manner in which so many of the dollars he had
expended in the purchase of gold-dust came fluttering back to their
nest in his till. The camp appeared to have made up its mind to an
orgy of the finest brand. Drink flowed and overflowed. The store that
night fairly swam in whisky. The flood set in the moment supper was
finished, and from that time until two o'clock in the morning the
lusty storekeeper never had a moment's rest.
Men drank themselves drunk, and drank themselves sober again. There
was no poker or faro. No one wanted to gamble. There was sufficient
gamble in their minds on the subject of to-morrow's stage to satisfy
them for the moment. Would it get through? That was the question. And
the general opinion was an emphatic denial.
How could it? Had not scouts been sent out inquiring of outlying
settlers as to the prospect of a clear road? Had not information come
in that James was abroad, had been seen in a dozen different places in
the district? Had not the belief become general that the Spawn City
trail was being carefully watched, and even patrolled, by this common
enemy? Everybody knew that these things were so. The whole of this
stage business was simply flying in the face of Providence.
And amidst all the comment and talk Minky served the requirements of
his customers, wrapped in sphinx-like reserve. His geniality never
failed him. He had a pleasant word for everybody. And at every gibe,
at every warning, he beamed and nodded, but otherwise could not be
drawn into controversy. One remark, and one only, had he for all and
sundry who chose him as a butt for their pleasantries.
"Wal," he declared easily, "if I ladled out good United States
currency, to feed that bum tough James an' his crew o' hawks, seems to
me its findin' its way home right smart."
It was quite true. He stood to win in every direction. Sooner or later
every cent of money he had paid out in the purchase of gold would find
its way back to him, and go to help swell the fortune which was the
effort of his life. These men had not the commercial instinct of
Minky. And, furthermore, his meeting at night with the gambler, and
its resulting compact, was still a secret.
The popular laugh was for the moment against him, but he continued to
smile. And he knew that his smile would last the longer. He would
still be smiling when even the ghost of their laugh had been laid to
rest.
* * * * *
Sore heads were no deterrent next morning. Pillows were deserted at an
early hour. And those who had found it convenient to pass the brief
remainder of the night in their heavy, clay-soiled boots had the
advantage of breakfasting at the first hot rush of Birdie's
ministrations. And Birdie, with the understanding of her kind, had
bestowed special attention upon the quantity and quality of the
coffee, leaving the solid side of the meal almost unconsidered. It was
her duty to sooth parching throats, and she knew her duty.
It was a glorious morning. The sun rose radiant in a cloudless sky.
The air was still, so still. But the mountain chill began to give way
from the first moment that the great arc of daylight lifted its
dazzling crown above the horizon. The quiet of the morning was
perfect. It almost seemed as if Nature itself had hushed to an
expectant silence. The woe of the night-prowling coyote at the sight
of the dawn found no voice. The frogs upon the creek had not yet begun
their morning song. Even the camp dogs, whose ceaseless "yap" made
hideous all their waking hours, for some subtle reason moved about in
quest of their morning meal as though their success depended upon the
stealth of their movements.
Blear-eyed men appeared in their doorways half awake, and only just
recovering from their overnight orgy. They stood for some moments
voiceless and thoughtful. Then the concentration upon the store began.
It was strange to look upon. It was an almost simultaneous movement.
These half-dazed, wholly sick creatures moved with the precision of a
universally impelling force. The store might have been one huge
magnet--perhaps it was--and these dejected early risers mere atoms of
steel.
But the store reached, that wonderfully revivifying hair of the tail,
etc., partaken of, and a rapid change supervened. Quarts of coffee and
some trifling solid further stimulated jaded energies, and in less
than an hour the memory that the day was Wednesday, and that the
gold-stage was to set out upon its eventful journey, became the chief
thought in every mind. Curiosity and excitement ran riot, and
questions flew from lip to lip. How had Minky provided for the
safeguarding of his gold? Had he arranged for an adequate escort? To
whom was the gold to be entrusted?
The store was full of men. The veranda overflowed with them. There
were men of almost every nationality--from half-breed Mexicans,
popularly dubbed "gorl-durned Dagos," to the stolid Briton, the virile
New Yorker, the square-headed Teuton, the lithe, graceful prairie man
from the Southern States. But the usual noisy discussion of the
world's affairs, as viewed from the hidden valley in which lay
Suffering Creek, had no vital interest just now. And, after the first
rush of burning questions, a hush fell upon the assembly, and it
quickly composed itself, in various attitudes and positions of
advantage, to await, in what patience it could, the satisfying of its
curiosity.
Soon the hush became oppressive. It almost became a burden. Men
stirred uneasily under it; they chafed. And at last Joe Brand found
himself voicing something of the feelings of everybody. He spoke in a
whisper which, for the life of him, he could not have raised to full
voice. He was standing next to White, and he took him confidentially
by the shoulder and spoke, leaning over till his lips were on a level
with his ear.
"I allow funerals is joyous things an' nigger lynchin's is real
comic," he declared hoarsely. "But fer real rollickin' merriment I
never see the equal o' this yer gatherin'. I sure don't think it 'ud
damp things any ef I was to give 'em a Doxology."
The miner responded with a pensive smile.
"Mebbe you're right 'bout funerals an' nigger lynchin's," he whispered
back, "but they's jest a matter o' livin' an' dyin'. Y'see, Minky's
gamblin' sixty thousand dollars o' good red gold."
Brand nodded. And somehow he appreciated the point and became easier.
Later on Minky appeared in the store, and almost automatically every
eye was turned expectantly upon him. But he had only come to ascertain
if Wild Bill was about.
No, the gambler had not been seen. Someone jocularly suggested that he
and Zip were out visiting Sandy Joyce upon their claim. None of the
three had been seen that morning. But the levity was allowed to pass
without a smile, and Minky disappeared again into the back regions of
his store.
After that the time passed even more slowly. The store emptied; the
men moved out into the sunlight to await the first sight of the stage.
There was nothing else to do. Such was their saturation of the
previous night that even drink had no attraction at this early hour.
So they sat or lounged about, gazing out at the distant upland across
the river. There lay the vanishing-point of the Spawn City trail, and
beyond that they knew the danger-zone to lie. It was a danger-zone
they all understood, and, hardy as they were, they could not
understand anyone mad enough to risk a fortune of gold within its
radius. Not one of them would have faced it singly with so little as
twenty dollars in his pocket, much less laboring under the burden of
sixty thousand dollars. And yet somebody was going to do so to-day.
A pounding of hoofs and crunching of wheels suddenly swept all apathy
away. Every eye lit; every head turned. And in a moment Suffering
Creek was on its feet, agog with the intensest interest. For one brief
moment the rattle and clatter continued. Then, from round the corner,
with bits champing and satin coats gleaming in the sun, their
silver-mounted harness sparkling, Wild Bill's treasured team of six
horses swept into view. Round they swung, hitched to his well-known
spring-cart, and in a second had drawn up with a flourish in front of
the veranda.
A gasp of astonishment greeted this unexpected vision. Men stood
gaping at the beaming choreman sitting perched up on the driving-seat.
It was the first time in his life he had ever been allowed to handle
the gambler's equine children, and his joy and pride were written in
every furrow of his age-lined features.
The man sat waiting, while the thoroughbreds pawed the ground and
reached restively at their bits. But they were like babes to handle,
for their manners were perfect. They had been taught by a master-hand
whose lessons had been well learned. And the picture they made was one
that inspired admiration and envy in every eye and heart of those who
now beheld them.
But these were not the only emotions the sight provoked. Blank
astonishment and incredulous wonder stirred them, too. Bill's horses!
Bill's cart! Where--where was the gambler himself? Was this the stage?
Was Bill--?
The talk which had been so long suppressed now broke out afresh.
Everybody asked questions, but nobody answered any. They crowded
about the cart. They inspected the horses with eyes of admiration and
wonder. No man could have withstood the sight of the rope-like veins
standing out through their velvet skin. They fondled them, and talked
to them as men will talk to horses. And it was only when Minky
suddenly appeared in their midst, bearing in his arms an iron-clamped
case which he deposited in the body of the cart, that their attention
was diverted, and they remembered the purpose in hand.
The gold-chest deposited and made secure, the storekeeper turned to
the crowd about him.
"Well, boys," he said, with an amiable smile, "any more mail? Any you
fellers got things you need to send to your sisters--or somebody
else's sisters? You best get it ready sharp. We're startin' at eight
o'clock. After that you'll sure be too late. Y'see," he added
humorously, "we ain't figgered when the next stage goes." He pulled
out his nickel silver timepiece. "It's needin' five minutes to
schedule," he went on officially, glancing keenly down the trail.
Anyone sufficiently observant, and had they been quick enough, might
have detected a shade of anxiety in his glance. He moved round to the
side of the cart and spoke to the man in the driving-seat.
"It's nigh eight. He ain't here?" he said questioningly.
"Guess he'll be right along, boss," the little man returned in a low
voice.
Again the storekeeper glanced anxiously down the trail. Then he turned
away with a slight sigh.
"Well, boys," he said, with another attempt at jocularity, "if ther'
ain't nuthin' doin', guess this mail's sure closed."
Passing again to the back of the cart, he gazed affectionately upon
the gold-chest. Then he lifted his eyes just as Van voiced the
question in everybody's mind.
"You sure ain't sendin' pore old Danny with that stage?" he cried
incredulously. "You sure ain't sendin' him fer James to sift lead
through? You ain't lettin' him drive Bill's horses?"
"He sure ain't. Him drive my plugs? Him? Gee! Ther' ain't no one but
me drives them hosses--not if Congress passed it a law."
The harsh, familiar voice of Wild Bill grated contemptuously. He had
come up from his hut all unnoticed just in time to hear Van's
protesting inquiry. Now he stood with eyes only for his horses.
Daylight at last shone through the mist of doubt and puzzlement which
had kept the citizens of Suffering Creek in darkness so long. They
looked at this lean, harsh figure and understood. Here was the driver
of the stage, and, curiously, with this realization their doubts of
its welfare lessened. All along they had been blaming Bill for his
lack of interest in the affairs of the camp, and now--
They watched him with keen, narrowing eyes. What mad game was he
contemplating? They noted his dress. It was different to that which he
usually wore. His legs were encased in sheepskin chaps. He was wearing
a belt about his waist from which hung a heavy pair of guns. And under
his black, shiny, short coat he was wearing a simple buckskin shirt.
They watched him as he moved round his horses, examining the fit of
the bridles and the fastenings of the harness. He looked to the
buckles of the reins. He smoothed the satin coats of his children with
affectionate hand. Then in a moment they saw him spring into the
cart.
Taking the reins from the choreman, he settled himself into the
driving-seat, while the deposed charioteer clambered stiffly to the
ground.
Minky was at the wheel nearest to his friend. The horses, under the
master-hand, had suddenly become restive. Bill bent over, and the
storekeeper craned up towards him.
"Ther' was two fellers hit the trail this morning," the gambler said,
with a short laugh. "I see 'em when I was with Zip--'fore daylight."
"You--you best quit it," said Minky in serious, anxious tones. "We
kin, maybe, hold the gold up against him here. It ain't too late. It
ain't, sure."
Bill's face suddenly darkened. All the lightness which the prospect
before him had inspired suddenly left it. His words came so full of
bitter hatred that the other was startled.
"Not for a million-dollar halo!" he cried, reaching out for his long
whip.
With a dexterous swing he set it cracking over his horses' backs. The
high-strung beasts plunged at their bits, and the leaders started to
rear. Again he swung out his whip, and this time it flicked the
plunging leaders. Instantly there was a rush of feet and a scrunch of
wheels. The "tugs" pulled taut, and the gush of eager nostrils hissed
like steam upon the still air. There was a shout of farewell from the
onlookers, and the gambler turned in his seat.
"So long, fellers," he cried. "I'm makin' Spawn City by daylight
to-morrer--sure."
The next moment he was lost in a cloud of dust, as the horses raced
down the hill.
CHAPTER XXX
ON THE SPAWN CITY TRAIL
Wild Bill's lean hands clawed the reins with muscles of steel. For the
moment his six horses occupied his every thought. They were pulling
with the madness of high-bred racehorses. The trail lay before them,
their master sat behind. What more could they want, but that liberty
to stretch their willing bodies?
Down the hill and along the wood-lined trail that ran parallel to the
sluggish creek they raced. The dust rose under their feet, and the
wheels of the cart left a fog behind them. It rose in swirling clouds
as though to shut off all retreat. Presently the road narrowed to a
mere track, and the dark woods closed in. But there was no slackening
under the hand of the gambler. Nor had the horses any desire to
slacken their headlong rush. The woods broke and gave to a low bush,
and in a moment the track opened upon Scipio's claim.
Now, for the first time since the start as they swept across it, Bill
permitted his gaze to wander from his charges. He looked away at the
mouth of the tunnel Sandy had spent so much labor and such bitter
cursing in the process of constructing; and a half-smile flitted
across his hard face as he beheld the oozy débris, the idle tools, the
winch and buckets. The sight seemed to afford him amusement. There was
a softening, too, in his hard face. Maybe it was the result of his
amusement. Maybe it was due to some thought of the little man with
whom he was partners. But he seemed to freeze up again as the claim
passed, and the horses floundered over the heavy trail beside the
black, oily swamp beyond. It was bad driving here, and he steadied the
racing creatures down with voice and hand.
"Easy, Gipsy. Easy you, Pete. Now Maisie. So! Steady, boys. Easy!"
The harsh voice was hushed and gentle. He was speaking to creatures
that were not merely horses to him, but something nearer, perhaps even
dearer.
And the well-trained creatures responded at once, slowing to an easy
trot, a pace which they kept until the ford of the creek was reached.
Here they dropped to a walk as they splashed their way through the
turgid stream. But the moment the wheels of the cart topped the
opposite bank, they once more resumed their headlong gait.
At once the gambler sat up. He straightened his lean body as a man who
opens his lungs to breathe in deep draughts of fresh, bracing air. His
narrow eyes stared out aside of him and beyond. His nostrils expanded,
and his thin lips were tightly shut.
The camp was behind him. The trail, a hard, wide sand trail, lay
ahead. The wide, wild world was about him on every hand, reminding him
of days long gone by, reminding him that to-day his instincts were
still the same. The same fiery, militant spirit that had driven him
from one end of his country to the other still left him yearning for
the ruthless battle of wild places and wilder men. The long months of
inactivity, the long days of peace, the longer nights of his gambler's
craft, were for the moment gone. He was setting out, as in the old
days, surrounded by all in life he cared for, offering a challenge to
all the world, ready to grapple with whatsoever the gods of war might
choose to thrust in his way.
The man's spirits rose. The swift-flashing eyes brightened. His body
felt to be bursting with a ravishing joy of life. His purpose was his
own. The joy was his alone. He had found excuse for satisfying his
own greedy lust, a lust for battle which no overwhelming odds could
diminish. He was a savage. He knew it; he gloried in it. Peace to him
was a wearisome burden of which at all times he was ready to rid
himself. So he was born. So he had always lived. So, he knew, he would
die.
The trail rose with the upland. It rose with that gradation which so
wears down the ardor of almost any horse. But the creatures Wild Bill
was driving were made of unusual mettle. Their courage was the courage
of the man behind them. And only when his courage failed him would
their spirit falter. They swept up the long stretch as though the
effort were a pastime. With ears pricked forward, nostrils gushing,
their veins standing out like whipcord through their satin coats, they
moved as though every stride were an expression of the joy of living.
And the man's steel muscles were held at tension to keep their gait
within the bounds of reason.
As they neared the hill-top he turned and glanced back over his
shoulder. There lay the camp nestling on the far side of the creek.
There stood Minky's store, lording it over its lesser fellows with the
arrogance of successful commerce. He could see a small patch of
figures standing about its veranda, and he knew that many eyes were
watching for a final sight of him at the moment when he should vanish
over the hill.
They were friendly eyes, too, he knew. They were the eyes of men who
wished him well. But he doubted if those good wishes were for his own
sake. He knew he was not a man whom men loved. And he smiled grimly as
he glanced down at the chest of gold in the body of the cart.
In a moment his eyes were looking out ahead again, and all thought of
those he was leaving behind left his mind.
The hill-top passed, the horses swung down into a deep, long valley.
It was in this valley, some six or seven miles farther on, he had
encountered Scipio in Minky's buckboard. He thought of that meeting
now, and remembered many things; and as recollection stirred his teeth
shut tight till his jaw muscles stood out like walnuts through his
lean cheeks. He had promised Scipio that day. Well, his mind was
easier than his feelings. He was confident. But he was stirred to a
nervous desire to be doing.
Nothing escaped his watchful eyes. Every tree, every bush, every rise
and hollow passed under his closest scrutiny. But this was simply his
way, a way that had long since been forced into a habit. He did not
anticipate any developments yet. The battle-cry was yet to be sounded.
He knew the men he was likely to deal with better than any other
class. He knew their ways, their subtleties. Who should know them
better? Had not years of his life been spent--?
He laughed aloud, but his laughter rang without mirth. And his horses,
taking the sound to be a command, broke suddenly into a gallop. It was
the sympathy between man and beast asserting itself. They, too,
possessed that nervous desire to be doing. Something of the
significance of the journey was theirs, and their nerves were braced
with the temper of fine steel.
He steadied them down with the patience of a devoted father for a pack
of boisterous children. No harsh words disturbed their sensitive ears.
The certainty of their obedience made it unnecessary to exert any
display of violence. They promptly fell again into their racing trot,
and the cart once more ran smoothly over the hard beaten trail.
The higher reaches of the creek cut into the valley from the right,
and the trail deviated to a rise of sandy ground. He had reached the
point of his meeting with Scipio. Nor did he slacken his pace over the
dust-laden patch. It was passed in a choking cloud, and in a moment
the rise was topped and a wild, broken country spread out before him.
Five miles farther on he halted beside a small mountain stream and
breathed his horses.
But his halt was of the briefest. He simply let the horses stand in
their harness. It was not time to feed, but he removed their bits and
let them nip up the bunches of sweet grass about their feet. And as he
did so he paused a moment at the head of each animal, muttering words
of encouragement, and administering caresses with a hand which bore in
its touch an affection that no words of his could have conveyed.
Then he went back to the cart and made a few simple dispositions. One
was to securely lash the gold-chest in its place; but its place he
changed to the front of the cart. Another was to leave the lid of the
foot-box, built against the dashboard, wide open, and to so secure it
that it could not close again. Another was to adjust the lowered hood
of the cart in a certain way that it was raised head-high as he sat in
his driving-seat.
Then, with a grim satisfaction in his small eyes as he glanced over
his simple preparations, he jumped to the ground and replaced the bits
in his horses' mouths. In two minutes he was again rushing over the
trail, but this time through a world of crag and forest as primitive
and rugged as was his own savage soul.
So the journey went on, over mountainous hills, and deep down into
valleys as dark as only mountain forests of spruce and pine could make
them. Over a broken road that set the light cart perilously bumping,
speeding along the edges of precipices, with little more than inches
to spare, at a pace that might well set the nerves jangling with every
jolt. Later a halt for feed and water, and on again, the willing
horses taking their rest only as the difficulties of the trail reduced
their pace to a laborious walk.
The man sat alert through it all. There was no question in his mind.
He knew what lay ahead of him somewhere in those vast depths. He knew
that what he looked for was coming just as surely as the Day of Doom.
He did not ask when or where. That was not his way. It might come when
it chose, for his part. He was ready and even yearning for the moment
of its coming.
So his eyes never rested for a moment. Scarce a glance or thought did
he give to his horses. Theirs it was to keep to the trail. Theirs it
was to keep their pace. His was all other responsibility.
The sun was leaning towards the western crags, where, in the distance,
they raised their snow-crowned heads towards the heavens. The ruddy
daylight was deepening to that warmth of color which belongs to day's
old age. The forest shadows appeared to deepen, those dark forests so
far below him in the valleys. Here, where he was racing along at a
high level, all was bright, the air was joyous. Below him lay the
brooding stillness where lurked a hundred unknown dangers. There were
only about fifteen more miles of this broken solitude, and beyond that
stretched a world of waving, gracious grassland right on to the
prairie city whither he was bound.
He stirred; his roving eyes abruptly concentrated. One distant spot on
the rugged landscape held him. He craned forward. The movement caused
him to ease his hand upon the reins. Instantly the horses sprang into
a gallop. So intent was he that for the moment the change passed
unnoticed. He seemed only to have eyes and thought for that distant
hill-top. Then of a sudden he realized the dangerous breakneck speed,
and turned his attention upon his team.
The animals once more reduced to a sober pace, he turned again to the
spot which held his interest; and his eyes grew bright with a smile
that had nothing pleasant in it. He was grinning with a savage joy
more fierce, more threatening, than the cruellest frown. The next time
he bestirred himself it was to swing his gun-holsters more handy to
the front of his body.
Later on his interest seemed to lessen. No longer was there that
watchfulness in his eyes. Perhaps it was he deemed there was no longer
the necessity for it. Perhaps what he had seen had satisfied his
restless searching. Anyway, he now sat contemplating the shining backs
of his horses as they sped down the hill, and his eyes were friendly
as he watched the rolls of muscle writhing under their satin coats.
But when next he looked up his moment of gentleness had passed. His
easier moods were never of long duration. One swift glance again at
the distant hill, and then he turned from it and sat gazing at the
dank, oozy prospect of the low-lying flat he was just entering with no
sort of friendliness. The sharp hoofs of his team were flinging mud in
every direction, and the rattle of the wheels had deadened to a thick
sucking as they sank into the black mud. It was a heavy pull, but the
speed was not checked. It only needed an extra effort, and this the
willing team readily applied. He knew the spot well; and he knew that
beyond lay the hill, the crest of which had so held his attention a
few minutes before.
His thoughts traveled no farther than that hill. For the time at least
there was nothing beyond. Later it would be for him to consider that.
Just ahead of him lay the chances and changes which went to make up
such a life as his. This he knew. And somehow the thought stimulated
his pulses to a fuller appreciation of things.
In a few moments he was nearing the far boundary of the flat, and the
ascent of the hill was about to commence. He smiled. Yes, it was well
calculated. The hill would have to be taken at a walk. It was by far
the steepest of the journey. He remembered, too, that the crest of it
was reached by a final climb that became almost precipitous. He
remembered, too, that the black woods that crowded its sides at the
crest gave place to the skeleton trunks left by some long-forgotten
forest fire. Yes, it was the one spot on the whole journey best
calculated for what was to come.
The team no longer labored in the ooze. The ascent was begun. With
heads held high, with ears pricked and nostrils distended they faced
the big effort unflinchingly.
And the driver's mind was calculating many things. It was moving with
the swiftness of an able general's in the midst of a big action. He
glanced at the sky. Already the sun was hidden behind the western
hills. Already the shadows were lengthening and the gray of evening
was falling. The profound woods, dense and ghostly, had closed in. The
trail was so narrow that the dreary, weeping foliage often swept the
sides of the cart. But these things did not occur to him. His mind was
ahead, amongst those aged skeletons left by the raging fire-fiend.
Progress was slow. It was almost too slow for the man's eager nerves.
He wanted to reach his goal. His lean body thrilled with a profound
joy. He lusted for the battle which he knew to lie ahead of him. But,
even so, he gave no outward sign. His face was set and harsh. His
small eyes bored through the gloom, thrusting to penetrate beyond
every bend in the winding road. Nothing escaped them. Each small fur
that fled in terror at his approach was carefully noted, for they told
him things he wanted to know.
Now the final steep was reached. It was truly precipitous. The sharp
hoofs of the team clawed their way up. Such was the struggle that even
the man found himself leaning forward, instinctively desiring to help
the laboring animals. The bends in the trail were sudden and at brief
intervals. It was as though those responsible for the original
clearing of the road had realized the impossibility of a direct
ascent, and had chosen the zigzag path as the only means of
surmounting the hill.
The moments passed. Bend followed bend. The man in the cart found
himself mechanically counting them. Two more. One more. The summit was
almost reached. And beyond? He sighed. Maybe it was the sigh of a man
whose nerves are relieved from their tension, knowing that beyond this
last bend lay his goal. Maybe it was inspired by sympathy for his
struggling horses. Anyway, his whole manner underwent a change. The
watchfulness seemed to have gone from his eyes, his muscles to have
relaxed. He leant back in his seat like a man full of weariness, and
securely fastened his reins to an iron rail on the side of the cart.
He was at the bend now. The leaders were abreast of it. They were past
it. He--
There was a sharp rattle of firearms, and half-a-dozen bullets swept
pinging their way over his head. A hoarse voice shouted a command to
halt. His horses plunged forward. But, quick as lightning, his hands
flew to the reins, and he drew them up to a standstill in the open.
"Hands up!" shouted the same voice; and a horseman appeared on each
side of the team.
Then came an exhibition of the gambler as he was, as in the old days
he had always been known. It was all done in the fraction of a second.
Simultaneously his two guns leapt from his holsters and two shots rang
out. There was an ominous echo from the woods. One horseman reeled in
his saddle, and the horse of the other man stumbled and finally fell.
The next moment the man in the cart was crouching down, all but the
crown of his head and his gleaming eyes well sheltered by the
loose-hanging canvas hood.
"I'm 'most allus ready to put my hands up!" he snarled. "Come on!"
CHAPTER XXXI
THE BATTLE
A shout of fury. A wild chorus of meaningless blasphemy. A thundering
of hoofs. A shriek of pain--an appalling death-cry. The fight has
begun--such a fight, in its wanton savagery, as might shame even the
forest beasts. In a moment the human lusting for the blood of its
fellows is let loose, than which there is no more terrible madness on
earth.
Yet there was a difference. There was a difference of motive widely
separating the combatants; and it was a difference that left the
balance of offense doubtful.
To analyze the mental attitude of these people adequately would be
well-nigh impossible. Their outlook possessed distortions which
changed with chameleon-like rapidity. On the one hand was a band of
lawless ruffians, steeped to their very souls in every sort of crime,
in whose minds all law was anathema, in whose understanding all
possession was a deliberate challenge, in whose hearts was no pity, no
mercy, no feeling which belongs to the gentler side of human life; to
whose comprehension death has no meaning until its relentless grip is
fixed, and they feel the last spark of life crushing out of their own
bodies. Then--But the analysis becomes hopelessly chaotic.
On the other hand motive is perhaps even more difficult still, though
a shade less hopeless. The gambler was a man of strong thought, of
strong forces. Nor was he devoid of the gentler feelings of life. Yet
here lies the difficulty of associating the various sides of his
character with his actions. He had set out for this encounter. He had
yearned for it, as a child might yearn for a plaything. The
contemplation of it gave him ecstasy. With an inhuman joy he desired
the lives of these men. Not one, but all; and one even more than all.
Then, too, his purpose was in face of overwhelming odds--in face of
almost a certainty of death for himself. Such actions have been
performed before in noble cases, but here--?
Was it simply his purpose to yield himself a martyr to the public
welfare? Was it that he truly desired to avenge a wronged man? Was he
setting himself up as the avenger of Sid Morton's cruel death, a man
in whom he had no interest whatever? No. It would be absurd to believe
that these things were the promptings responsible for his present
actions. Some hideous psychological twist was driving him. Some
passion swayed him over which he had no control whatever. Some
degeneracy was upsetting his mental balance, and forcing him against
his better instincts. But, even so, his whole attitude was that of a
man of clear, alert mind, of iron purpose, of a courage invincible.
Calm and cold Wild Bill crouched while, in the first rush of battle,
the shots hailed about him. He reserved his fire, too, waiting for the
effective moment with the patience of a skillful general. His every
shot must tell, and tell desperately.
Three times he was hit in as many seconds, but beyond hugging his
flimsy shelter more closely he gave no sign. His purpose rose above
all physical hurt or sense of pain. He was watching the movements of
one man--of one man only. His gleaming eyes pursued the figure of the
outlaw leader to the exclusion of all else. James was his quarry. The
rest--well, the rest were merely incidental.
And, emboldened by his intended victim's silence, James suddenly
changed his tactics. A long-ranged battle was little enough to his
savage taste. He ceased the ineffective fire of his men and brought
them together. Then in a moment, with the reckless abandon of his
class, he headed them and charged. They came, as before, with a brazen
shout, and the air was hideous with a fresh outburst of blasphemy,
while a rush of lead searched the fragile cart in every direction.
But the din of voices, the crash of woodwork as the panels of the cart
were riddled by the wildly flung shots, was powerless to draw the
defender. His guns were ready. He was ready for the purpose in his
mind. That was all. His fierce eyes lit with a murderous intent as he
calculated with certainty and exactness.
On they came. They drove their maddened horses with savage spurs right
up to the cart. It was the moment the gambler awaited. He leapt, and
in a flash his tall figure was confronting the leader of the attack.
And as he rose his arms were outstretched and his great guns belched
their murderous fire. Two men rolled from their saddles with a
death-scream that died down to a hideous gurgle, as the racing hoofs
trod the last atom of life out of their bodies. His guns belched a
second time, and James' throat was plowed open, and the rich red blood
spurted in a ghastly tide. Another shot and another man fell forward,
clutching his horse's mane while he was borne from the battle-field to
the dim recesses of the forest by his uncontrolled and affrighted
beast.
But the gambler paid a high price for these successes--far higher
than he could really afford. Four times more he was badly hit. Four
times the hot slither of burning lead plowed its way amidst the
life-channels of his body. And his retreat to cover was something
almost in the nature of collapse.
But the spirit of the man admitted of no weakening. It rose dominant
over all physical sensation. He thrust aside the cognizance of his
hurts, and abandoned himself solely to his purpose. James was still
in the saddle, and the sight of his hated personality consumed him
with rage and disgust at the failure of his first attempt.
"Still around. Still around," he muttered. And in a moment the battle
was surging once more.
No longer was the leader of the attack moved by the irresponsible
bravado of his first attack. He was a raging savage, goaded by the
desperate wounds he had received, and the knowledge that he and all
his force were being held at bay by one man. So he charged again, a
headlong rush, howling as he came at the head of his four remaining
supporters.
They came like an avalanche, their voices making hideous the rapidly
falling night, while the wounded defender waited, waited, all his
purpose concentrated, husbanding his ebbing strength as a starving man
might husband the last crumbs of food. He knew that not only his
strength, but his very life was slowly ebbing in the red tide that was
fast saturating every shred of his clothing.
Again they reached the cart. Again the maddened horses were driven
head on to the dreaded fortress. And instantly their quarry rose to
his full height, a grim specter thrilling with a murderous purpose,
his arms outstretched, his guns held low, that there should be no
mistake this time.
The crash of battle was appalling. The scene was almost lost in the
smoke cloud which hung over it. There was fire and cross-fire. There
were exultant shouts and cries of pain. And through it all the
scuttling of rushing hoofs and champing bits. A moment and the
defender dropped. But instantly he rose again, gripping in his nervous
hands the butts of a pair of fresh guns snatched from his foot-box.
Nor did he stir foot again, nor relax a muscle, till every one of the
twelve chambers was emptied.
Then, with an oath that carried with it all the pent-up hatred of a
bitter heart, he flung both weapons in the direction whither his last
shot had gone, and, staggering back, dropped helplessly into the
driving-seat behind him.
The smoke hung heavily and drifted slowly away upon the still air. The
sound of rushing hoofs receded and died away in the distance, and in a
while a profound quiet settled upon the scene. The man lolled heavily
in his seat, and his eyes closed. His face was a ghastly gray, his
eyes were sunken and his blackened lips hung agape. His arms hung
helplessly at his side, and his legs were stretched out in a pitiable
attitude of uselessness.
The moments passed drearily. For a long time there was no movement of
any sort but the restless fidgeting of the horses. They had stood
through all the turmoil as their master had long since trained them to
stand. But now that it was over their eager spirits were demanding the
joy of the trail again. It almost seemed as though, in their equine
minds, they had a full realization of the meaning of that battle in
the wild, as though sympathy between master and beast had held them
during that fierce ten minutes still and passive, lest through any act
of theirs they should cross the will of the one being whom they
acknowledged their lord. And now that it was over and the crisis
passed, it seemed as if they understood that victory had been
achieved, and their duty once more lay upon the trail ahead of them.
At last the eyes of the man opened. The chafing of his horses had
penetrated to his numbing brain. Their fierce depths were dull and
lusterless as they rolled vaguely around. Yet there was intelligence
in them, although it was the intelligence of a weary, fainting mind.
They closed again, as though the will behind them lacked in its
support. And then followed a sigh, a deep, long sigh of exhaustion.
There was another pause, and presently there came a bodily movement.
The man stirred uneasily, in the manner of one gathering his weakening
forces for a supreme effort from which his whole body shrank. Again
his eyes opened, and this time their depths were full of purpose.
Suddenly his legs gathered under him and his arms drew up, and in a
moment he staggered to his feet, his hands clutching support upon the
back of the seat.
He stared about him doubtfully, and his uncertainty was pitiful to
behold. His eyes were only half open, as though the effort of
sustaining their lids was too great for his failing powers. They
wandered on over the scene, however, until they suddenly fixed
themselves upon a spot where two figures were stretched upon the
ground. One was lying upon its side with its knees drawn up as though
asleep; the other was stretched upon its back, its arms flung out and
its legs lying across the other's body. The dead eyes were staring up
at the darkened sky, glazed and motionless.
He stared down upon these figures for some time, and the sight seemed
to put fresh strength into him; and at last, when he turned away, a
pitiful attempt at triumph shone in his dull eyes, and a ghostly smile
flitted about the corners of his sagging lips.
He had seen all he wanted to see. His work was done. James was dead.
He knew death when he saw it, and he had seen it shining in those
staring eyes. James had passed over the one-way trail, and his had
been the hand that had sped him upon his journey.
Now he took a deep breath and stood swaying. Then he glanced with
measuring eye at the foot-box at his feet. He changed his support,
and, bending slowly, dragged a rawhide rope from inside it. The next
moment he fell back upon the seat. But his work had only begun. For
some time he fumbled with the rope, passing it about his body and the
iron stanchions of the back of the seat, and after awhile had
succeeded in knotting it securely. Then, after a moment of hard
breathing, he reached out and untied the reins from the rail of the
cart and gathered them into his hands. And as he did so his lips moved
and his voice croaked brokenly.
"Come on, Gyp," he mumbled hoarsely. "Come, gal. Hey--you, Pete. You,
too--Maisie. Come on. Get on."
It was the word his faithful friends had awaited.
Chilled and eager, they leapt at their bits, and the traces snapped
taut. They were off; and in their eager rush the reins were almost
torn from the driver's numbing fingers. Again he spoke, and in his
halting words was a world of affection and encouragement.
"Easy, children," he said. "Easy, boys an' gals. Ther' sure ain't no
hurry now. They're dead--all--dead. Dead as--mutton."
He clawed full possession of the reins again. And in a moment the cart
was speeding down the long gradient that was to bear them on the
prairie world beyond.
The man was lolling forward, straining on the rope that held his
helpless body to the seat, and his eyes closed wearily. The speed of
the team, the direction, these things meant nothing to him now. The
trail was well marked right in to Spawn City. There were no turnings.
That was all that mattered. These children of his would faithfully
keep on their way to the end. He knew these things without thinking,
and the knowledge left him indifferent. His only concern now was the
gold. It was in the cart, and it must reach Spawn City. To that his
honor was pledged.
The reins slipped through his fingers. He stirred uneasily. Then his
eyes opened again. For a moment his sagging lips closed. He was
summoning all his failing strength. He clutched the reins in one hand,
and with the other knotted them about his wrist. Then, with a gasp,
his left hand dropped from his task, while his right arm was held
outstretched by the strain of the pulling horses upon the reins.
There was now no longer any demand for further effort, and the
drooping body lolled over against the side of the cart as though the
man were seeking his rest. His head hung away at a helpless angle,
and his legs straggled. And thus the speeding team raced clear of the
mountain world and plunged through the darkness to the prairie
beyond.
* * * * *
The moon rose in all its cold splendor. The stars dimmed before its
frigid smile. The black vault of the heavens lit with a silvery sheen,
embracing the prairie world beneath its bejeweled pall.
The sea of grass lay shadowed in the moonlit dusk. But, in sharp
relief, a white ribbon-like trail split it from end to end, like
some forlorn creature with white outspread arms yearning in
desolation--yearning for the bustle and rush of busy life which it is
denied, yearning to be relieved from so desperate a solitude.
The vastness and silence dwarfs even thought. The things which are
great, which have significance, which have meaning to the human mind
are lost in such a world. Life itself becomes infinitesimal.
There is something moving in a tiny ebullition of dust along the white
trail. It looks so small. It moves so slowly, crawling, seemingly, at
a snail's pace. It is almost microscopical in the vastness.
Yet it is only these things by comparison. It is neither small, nor is
it traveling at a snail's pace. It is a cart drawn by six horses,
racing as though pursued by all the demons of the nether world.
And in the driving-seat is a curious, stiffly swaying figure. It is
strangely inanimate. Yet it suggests something that no ordinary human
figure could suggest. It is in its huddled attitude, its ghastly face,
its staring, unseeing eyes, which gaze out in every direction, as the
jolting of the cart turns and twists the body from side to side. There
is something colossal, something strangely stirring in the suggestion
of purpose in the figure. There is something to inspire wonder in the
most sluggish mind. It tells a story of some sort of heroism. It
tells a story of a master mind triumphing over bodily weakness and
suffering. It tells a story of superlative defiance--the defiance of
death.
* * * * *
The early risers of Spawn City were gathered in a stupefied crowd
outside the principal hotel in the place. Six jaded horses, drawing a
light spring-cart, had just pulled up. The poor creatures were utterly
spent, and stood with drooping heads and distended nostrils, gasping
and steaming, their weary legs tottering beneath them. Their great
eyes were yearning and sunken, and their small ears lay back,
indifferent to every sound or movement about them. Their last buoyancy
has been expended. They have run their mad race till their hearts are
nigh bursting.
But the horses were of the least interest to the onlookers. It was the
dusty spring-cart that interested their curious minds--the cart, and
the still and silent driver, who made no attempt to leave his seat.
They stood gaping, not daring to disturb the ghastly figure, not
daring even to approach it too closely. Their minds were thrilling
with a morbid horror which held them silent.
But at last there came a diversion. A burly, rough-clad man pushed his
way through the crowd, and his keen eyes flashed a quick look over the
whole outfit. He was the sheriff, and had been hurriedly summoned.
"Wild Bill!" he muttered. "Them's sure his plugs, too," he added, as
though seeking corroboration.
There was certainly doubt in his tone, and surprise, too; and he came
to the side of the cart and gazed up into the awful face drooping
forward over the outstretched arm to further convince himself. What he
beheld caused him to click his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
It was his only means of giving expression to the wave of horror that
swept over him.
With a leap he sprang into the seat, and began releasing the knotted
reins from the stiffened arm. So tight had the knots been drawn that
it took some moments. Then he turned, and with difficulty removed the
rawhide from about the middle of the huddled figure. Then he hailed
some of the onlookers.
"Ho, you, Joe! You, too, Lalor, an' Ned! Stand by, lads, an' bear a
hand," he cried authoritatively. "Guess I'll pass it out."
Then he stood up, staring down at the stiffened body; and wonder
looked out of his puzzled eyes.
"Gee! if it ain't Wild Bill the gambler, an'--an' he must ha' bin dead
nigh six hours."
CHAPTER XXXII
A MAN'S LOVE
It was with strangely mixed feelings that Scipio drove Minky's old
mule down the shelving trail leading into the secret valley where
stood James' ranch-house. The recollection of his first visit to the
place was a sort of nightmare which clung desperately in the back
cells of memory. The dreadful incidents leading up to it and
surrounding it could never be forgotten. Every detail of his headlong
journey in quest of the man who had wronged him, every detail of his
terrible discomfiture, would cling in his memory so long as he had
life.
But, in spite of memory, in spite of his wrongs, his heart-burnings,
the desolation of the past weeks, his heart rose buoyantly as he came
within sight of the place in which he still persisted in telling
himself that his Jessie was held a prisoner against her will. That was
his nature. No optimism was too big for him. No trouble was so great
that hope could altogether be crushed out of his heart.
He looked out over the splendid valley extending for miles on either
hand of him, and somehow he was glad. Somehow the glorious sunlight,
so softened by the shadowed forest which covered the hillsides, so
gentle beneath the crowding hills which troughed in the bed of waving
grass, sent his simple spirit soaring to heights of anticipatory
delight which, a few days back, had seemed beyond his reach.
At that moment, in spite of all that had gone before, the place was
very, very beautiful to him, life was wonderful, his very existence
was a joy. For was not Jessie waiting for him beyond, in that
ranch-house? Was not she waiting for his coming, that she might return
with him to their home? Was she not presently to be seated beside him
upon the rickety old seat of Minky's buckboard? And his final thought
caused him to glance regretfully down at the frayed cushion, wishing
cordially that he could have afforded her greater comfort.
Ah, well, perhaps she would not mind just for this once. And, after
all, she would be with him, which was the great thing. Wild Bill had
promised him that; and he had every confidence in Wild Bill.
Then he suddenly thought of something he might have done. Surely he
might have brought Vada with him. What a pity he didn't think of it
before he started out. It was foolish of him, very foolish. But he had
been so full of Jessie. The thought of winning her back had quite put
everything else out of his head. Yes, it was a pity. The presence of
Vada would certainly have added to her happiness, she was so fond of
her children.
Then he remembered his instructions. Bill had said he must go alone.
He must go alone--and be prepared to fight for her. Bill was a
wonderful man. He seemed to be able to do anything he chose. And
somehow he felt sorry he had bluffed him into buying half his claim.
He could feel the roll of bills, the result of that transaction, in
his hip pocket, and the pressure of them impressed itself unpleasantly
upon his conscience. He felt sure he had no right to them. He must
really give them back to the gambler later. He felt that his attitude
was a swindle on a good man. Bill was certainly a good man, a brave
man, but he was no business man. He, Scipio, had the advantage of him
there.
The buckboard rumbled down to the grassy trail which stretched from
the foot of the hillside to the ranch-house. And now the pale-eyed
little man bethought him of the fight Bill had promised him.
Quite unperturbed he looked down at the fierce pair of revolvers
hanging at his waist. He was taking no chances this time. He had
borrowed these guns from Minky, the same as he had borrowed the mule
and buckboard. They were fine weapons, too. He had tried them. Oh, no,
if it came to shooting he would give a different account of himself
this time. Mr. James must look to himself. So must Abe Conroy. He
would have no mercy. And he frowned darkly down at the gigantic
weapons.
Now he considered carefully the buildings ahead. The ranch was
certainly a fine place. He found it in his heart to admire it, and
only felt pity that it was the house of such a pitiable scoundrel as
James. And yet he really felt sorry for James. Perhaps, after all, he
ought not to be too hard on the man. Of course, he was a wicked
scoundrel, but that might be merely misfortune. And, anyway, Jessie,
his Jessie, was a very beautiful woman.
His eyes wandered on to the distant hills, catching up the smaller
details of interest as they traveled. There were hundreds of cattle
grazing about, and horses, too. Then there were the fenced-in pastures
and the branding corrals. James must certainly be an excellent
rancher, even if he were a scoundrel.
But the place was very still. Strangely still, he thought. There was
not even one of the usual camp dogs to offer him its hostile welcome.
He could see none of the "hands" moving about. Perhaps they were--
Of course. For the moment he had forgotten that they were not simple
ranchers. He had forgotten they were man-hunters. They were probably
out on the trail pursuing their nefarious calling. And, of course,
Bill knew it. That was why he had told him to drive out on this
particular morning. Wonderful man, Bill!
Suddenly the distant neighing of a horse startled him, and he looked
across the woods beyond the house, the direction, he calculated,
whence the sound came. But there was no horse to be seen. Nothing
except the darkling cover of pine woods. It was strange. He was sure
the sound came from that direction. No; there was certainly nothing in
the shape of a horse out there. There wasn't even a cow. Perhaps it
was a "stray" amongst the trees. So he dismissed the matter from his
mind and chirruped at the old mule.
And now he came up to the ranch; and the stillness of the place became
even more pronounced. It really was astonishing. Surely there must be
somebody about. He pushed his guns well to the front, and drew his
prairie hat forward so that the brim shaded his pale eyes. He further
shifted his reins into his left hand, and sat with his right on the
butt of one of his weapons. Whatever was to come he was ready for it.
One thing he had made up his mind to; he would stand no nonsense from
anybody--certainly not from James or Conroy.
The old mule plodded on, and, with the instinct of its kind, headed in
the direction of the nearest corral. And Scipio was forced to abandon
his warlike attitude, and with both hands drag him away into the
direction of the house door. But somehow in those last moments he
entirely forgot that his mission was a fighting one, and sat shaking
the reins and chirruping noisily in the approved manner of any farmer
on a visit.
He stared up at the house as he came. His eyes were filled with
longing. He forgot the barns, the corrals as possible ambushes. He
forgot every thought of offense or defense. There was the abode of his
beloved Jessie, and all he wondered was in which part of it lay her
prison. He was overflowing with a love so great that there was no room
in either brain or body for any other thought or feeling.
But Jessie was nowhere to be seen, and a shadow of disappointment
clouded his face as he halted the only too willing beast and clambered
down between the spidery wheels. Nor did he wait to secure his
faithful servitor, or to think of anything practical at all. He
hustled up to the open doorway, and, pushing his head in through it,
called till the echoes of the place rang--
"Ho, Jess! Ho, you, Jess! It's me--Zip! I come to fetch you to home."
The echoes died away and the place became still again. And somehow the
quiet of it set him bristling. His hands flew to his guns and remained
there while he stood listening. But no answer came, and his redundant
hope slowly ebbed, leaving a muddy shore of apprehension.
Then, with one glance back over his shoulder, he moved into the
building with much the stealth of a thief. In the living-room he stood
and stared about him uncertainly. It was the same room he had been in
before, and he remembered its every detail. Suddenly he pushed the
evil of those recollections aside and called again--
"Ho, Jess! Ho-o-o!"
But the confidence had gone from his tone, and his call suggested an
underlying doubt.
Again came the echoes. Again they died. Then--yes--there was a sound
that had nothing to do with echoes. Again--yes--sure. It was the sound
of someone moving in an upper room. He listened attentively, and again
his eyes brightened with ready hope.
"Jess! Jess!" he called.
And this time there was an answer.
Without a moment's hesitation, without a second's thought, he dashed
through an open doorway and ran up the narrow flight of stairs
beyond.
At last, at last! His Jessie! He had heard her voice. He had heard the
music he had longed for, craved for, prayed for. Was there anything in
the world that mattered else? Was there anything in the world that
could keep him from her now? No, not now. His love permeated his whole
being. There was no thought in his mind of what she had done. There
was no room in his simple heart for anything but the love he could not
help, and would not have helped if he could. There was no obstacle
now, be it mountain or stream, that he could not bridge to reach his
Jessie. His love was his life, and his life belonged to--Jessie.
He reached the top of the stairs, and a door stood open before him. He
did not pause to consider what lay beyond. His instinct guided him.
His love led him whither it would, and it led him straight into the
presence he desired more than all the world. It led him straight to
Jessie.
For the fraction of a second he became aware of a vision of womanhood,
to him the most perfect in all the world. He saw the well-loved face,
now pale and drawn with suffering and remorse. He saw the shadowed
eyes full of an affrighted, hunted expression. And, with a cry that
bore in its depth all the love of a heart as big as his small body, he
ran forward to clasp her in his arms.
But Jessie's voice arrested him half-way. It thrilled with hysterical
denial, with suffering, regret, horror. And so commanding was it that
he had no power to defy its mandate.
"No, no," she shrilled. "Keep back--back. You must not come near me. I
am not fit for you to touch."
"Not fit--?"
Scipio stared helplessly at her, his eyes settling uncertainly upon
her hands as though he expected to find upon them signs of some work
she might have been engaged upon--some work that left her, as she had
said, unfit to touch. His comprehension was never quick. His
imagination was his weakest point.
Then his eyes came to her well-loved face again, and he shook his
head.
"You--you got me beat, Jess. I--"
"Ah, Zip, Zip!" Suddenly Jessie's hands went up to her face and her
eyes were hidden. It was the movement of one who fears to witness the
hatred, the loathing, the scorn which her own accusing mind assures
her she merits. It was the movement of one whose heart was torn by
remorse and shame, whose eyes were open to her sins, and who realizes
that earthly damnation is her future lot. Her bosom heaved, and dry
sobs choked her. And the little man, who had come so far to claim her,
stood perplexed and troubled.
At last he struggled out a few words, longing to console, but scarcely
understanding how to go about it. All he understood was that she was
ill and suffering.
"Say, Jess, you mustn't to cry," he said wistfully. "Ther' ain't
nothin' to set you cryin'. Ther' sure ain't--"
But a woman's hysteria was a thing unknown to him, and his gentle
attempt was swept aside in a torrent of insensate denial.
"No, no! Don't come near me," she cried in a harsh, strident tone.
"Leave me. Leave me to my misery. Don't dare to come here mocking me.
Don't dare to accuse me. Who are you to accuse? You are no better than
me. You have no right to come here as my judge. You, with your smooth
ways, your quiet sneers. Don't you dare! Don't you dare! I'm no longer
your wife, so you have no right. I'm his--his. Do you understand? I'm
his. I shall live the life I choose, and you shall not molest me. I
know you. You've come to accuse me, to tell me all I am, to tax me
with my shame. It's cruel--cruel. Oh, God, help me--help me!"
The woman's voice died out in a piteous wail that smote straight to
the heart of the little man who stood shaking before her hysterical
outbreak. He knew not what to do. His love prompted him to go to her
and crush her to his simple, loving heart, but somehow he found
himself unable to do anything but gaze with longing eyes upon the
heart-broken figure, as she leant upon the foot-rail of the bed.
He stirred. And in the moments that passed while his eyes were fixed
upon her rich, heaving bosom, his mind groping vaguely, he became
aware of everything about him. He knew he was in her bedroom. He knew
that the furnishings were good. He knew that the sunlight was pouring
in through the open window, and that a broad band of dazzling light
was shining upon her lustrous dark hair. He knew all these things in
the same way that he knew she was suffering so that she came near
breaking his own sympathetic heart.
But though his intellect failed him, and he had no idea of what he
ought to say or do, words came at last and tumbled headlong from his
lips, just as they were inspired, all unconsidered, by his heart.
"Say, Jessie gal," he cried in a softly persuasive tone, "won't you
come to home--an'--an' help me out? Won't you, gal?"
But he was given no time to complete his appeal. The woman suddenly
raised her face, and once more broke out in hysterical fury.
"Home? Home? With you?" she cried. "Ha, ha! That's too good! Home,
with you to forever remind me what I am? For you to sneer at me, and
point me to your friends for what I am? Never, never! Go you back
where you came from. I'm not a wife. Do you hear? God help me, I'm--"
And she buried her face again upon her arms.
"Won't you come to home, gal?" the man persisted. "Won't you? I'm so
desp'rit lonesome. An' the kids, too. Gee! they're jest yearnin' an'
yearnin' for you--nigh as bad as me."
He took a step towards her with his arms outstretched. All his soul
was in his mild eyes. And presently Jessie raised her head again. She
stood staring at the wall opposite her. It was as though she dared not
face him. Her eyes were burning, but they were less wild, and a sudden
hope thrilled the man's heart. He hurried on, fearful lest the old
storm should break out again--
"Y'see, Jess, ther' ain't nuthin' to our pore little shack on the
'dumps' without you. Ther' sure ain't. Then ther's my claim. I sold
ha'f. An'--an' I got money now--I--"
The woman's eyes turned slowly upon him. They were red with unshed
tears. Their expression was curious. There was doubt and shrinking in
them. It almost seemed as if she were wondering if all the past days
of regret and longing had turned her brain, and she were listening to
words conjured by a distorted fancy, some insane delusion. She could
not believe. But Scipio continued, and his voice was real enough.
"I--know I ain't much of a feller for the likes of you, Jess," he said
earnestly. "I ain't quick. I ain't jest bright. But I do love you, my
dear. I love you so I can't think nothin' else. I want you to home,
Jess, that bad, I thank God ev'ry day He give you to me. I want you so
bad it don't seem you ever bin away from me. I want you that bad I
can't remember the last week or so. You'll come--to home, gal--now?
Think--jest think o' them bits o' twins. You wait till you see 'em
laff when they get eyes on you. Say, they're that bonny an' bright.
They're jest like you, wi' their eyes all a-sparklin', an' their
cheeks that rosy. Gee! they're jest a-yearnin' an' a-callin' fer their
mam--same as me."
The little man had moved another step nearer. His arms were still
outstretched, and his quaint face was all aglow with the warmth and
love that stirred him. Somewhere in the back of his dull head he knew
that he was pleading for something more than his life. He had no
subtlety in his manner or his words. It was just his heart talking for
him and guiding him.
And in the woman had risen a sudden hope. It was a struggling ray of
light in the blackness of her despair. It was a weak struggling
flicker--just a flicker. And even as it rose its power was dashed
again in the profundity of her suffering. She could not grasp the hand
held out--she could not see it. She could not believe the words her
ears heard.
"No, no, don't mock at me," she cried, with a sudden return to her old
wildness. "It is cruel, cruel! Leave me. For pity's sake go. How can
you stand there taunting me so? How can I go with you? How can I face
my children now? Do you know what I am? No, no, of course you don't.
You could never understand. You, with your foolish, simple mind. Shall
I tell you what I am? Shall I say it? Shall I--"
But the man's hand went up and held her silent.
"You don't need to say nothing, Jess," he said in his mildest tone.
"You don't need to, sure. Whatever you are, you're all the world to
me--jest all."
With a sudden cry the woman's head dropped upon her outspread arms,
and the merciful tears, so long denied her, gushed forth. Her body
heaved, and it seemed to the distraught man that her poor heart must
be breaking. He did not know what those tears meant to her. He did not
know that the victory of his love was very, very near. Only he saw her
bowed in passionate distress, and he had no thought of how to comfort
her.
He waited, waited. But the flood once broken loose must needs spend
itself. Such is the way with women, of whom he had so small an
understanding. He turned away to the window. He stared with unseeing
eyes at the fair picture of the beautiful valley. The moments
passed--long, dreary moments rapidly changing to minutes. And then at
last the storm began to die down, and he turned again towards her and
drew a step nearer.
"Jess--Jess," he murmured.
Then he took another hesitating step.
But his words seemed to have started her tears afresh, and into his
eyes came that painful perplexity again.
Again he ventured, and his step this time brought him close to her
side.
"Jess, gal--Jess," he pleaded, with infinite tenderness.
And as the woman continued to sob he stole one arm gently about her
waist. She made no move. Only her shaking body calmed, and her tears
became more silent.
He strove to draw her towards him, but she clung to the bed-rail with
almost child-like persistence, as though she dared not permit herself
the hope his encircling arms inspired. But she had not rebuffed him,
so with some assertion he thrust his other arm about her, and,
exerting force, deliberately turned her towards him.
"Say, don't you to cry, lass," he whispered softly. "Don't you, now.
It jest makes me sore right through. It jest makes me feel all of a
choke, an'--an' I want to cry, too. Say, gal, I love you good. I do,
Jess--I sure do. Ther' ain't nothin' in the world I wouldn't do to
stop them tears. Come to home, gal--come to home."
And as he finished speaking he drew her dark head down to his breast,
and laid his thin cheek against her wealth of hair. And, pressing her
to the home that was for all time hers, his own eyes filled with tears
which slowly rolled down his cheeks and mingled themselves with hers.
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE REASON WHY
When Scipio turned his back upon the valley it was with the intention
of resting his old mule at the place of the friendly farmer whom he
had encountered on his first memorable visit to James' secret abode.
From thence, after a night's rest, he would start late next day, and
make the creek soon after sundown. For the sake of Jessie he had no
desire to make a daylight entry into the camp.
The old mule certainly needed rest. And, besides, it was pleasant to
prolong the journey. Moments such as the present were scarce enough in
life. And though Jessie was with him for all time now, he greedily
hugged to himself these hours alone with her, when there was nothing
but the fair blue sky and waving grass, the hills and valleys, to
witness his happiness, none of the harshness of life to obtrude upon
his perfect joy; nothing, not even the merest duties of daily life, to
mar the delicious companionship which his wife's long-desired presence
afforded him. The whole journey was to be a sort of honeymoon, a
thousand times sweeter for the misery and unhappiness through which
they had both passed.
He thought of nothing else. The very existence of James and his gang
had passed from his recollection. He had no mind for dangers of any
sort. He had no mind for anything or anybody but his Jessie, his
beautiful Jessie--his wife.
Had he had the least curiosity or interest in other matters, there
were many things, strange things, about the recovery of his wife which
might have set him wondering. For instance, he might have speculated
as to the desertion of the ranch--the absence of dogs, the absence of
all those signs which tell of a busy enterprise--things which could
not be adequately accounted for by the mere absence of the head of it,
even though he were accompanied by his fighting men. He might have
glanced about among the barns and corrals, or--he might even have
questioned his Jessie.
Had he done either of these things a certain amount of enlightenment
would undoubtedly have penetrated to his unsuspicious mind. He must
inevitably have detected the hand or hands of his earthly guardian
angels in the manner in which his path had been cleared of all
obstructions.
Had he been less occupied with his own happiness, with the joy of
having Jessie once more beside him, and chanced to look back into the
valley as he left it forever, he would certainly have received
enlightenment. But he never knew what had been done for him, he never
knew the subtle working for his welfare.
Thus it was, all unobserved by him, the moment he was at sufficient
distance from the ranch, three horsemen suddenly appeared from amidst
the most adjacent point of the forest on the far side of the valley
and galloped across to the house. They ran their horses to cover
amongst the buildings and dismounted, immediately vanishing into one
of the barns.
And as they disappeared a good deal of laughter, a good deal of
forceful talk, came from the place which had swallowed them up. Then,
after awhile, the three reappeared in the open, and with them came an
old choreman, whose joints ached, and whose villainous temper had
seriously suffered under the harsh bonds which had held him secure
from interference with Scipio for so long.
The men herded him out before them, quite heedless of his bitter
vituperation and blasphemy. And when they had driven him forth Sunny
Oak pointed out to him the retreating buckboard as it vanished over
the far hillside.
"Ther' they go, you miser'ble old son of a moose," he cried with a
laugh. "Ther' they go. An' I guess when James gits around ag'in you'll
likely pay a mighty fine reck'nin'. An' I'll sure say I won't be a
heap sorry neither. You've give me a power o' trouble comin' along out
here. I ain't had no sort o' rest fer hours an' hours, an' I hate
folks that sets me busy."
"You're a pizenous varmint, sure," added Sandy, feeling that Sunny
must not be allowed all the talk. "An' your langwidge is that bad I'll
need to git around a Bible-class ag'in to disinfect my ears."
"You sure will," agreed Toby, with one of his fatuous grins. "I never
see any feller who needed disinfectin' more." Then he turned upon the
evil-faced choreman and added his morsel of admonition. "Say, old man,
as you hope to git buried yourself when James gits around ag'in, I
guess you best go an' dig that miser'ble cur o' yours under, 'fore he
gits pollutin' the air o' this yer valley, same as you are at the
moment. He's cost me a goodish scrap, but I don't grudge it him
noways. Scrappin's an elegant pastime, sure--when you come out right
end of it."
After that, cowed but furious, the old man was allowed to depart, and
the three guardians of Scipio's person deliberately returned to their
charge. Their instructions were quite clear, even though they only
partially understood the conditions making their work necessary.
Scipio must be safeguarded. They were to form an invisible escort,
clearing his road for him and making his journey safe. So they swung
into the saddle and rode hot-foot on the trail of their unconscious
charge.
For the most part they rode silently. Already the journey had been
long and tiresomely uneventful, and Sunny Oak particularly reveled in
an impotent peevishness which held him intensely sulky. The widower,
too, was feeling anything but amiable. What with his recent futile
work on a claim which was the ridicule of the camp, and now the
discomfort of a dreary journey, his feelings towards Wild Bill were
none too cordial. Perhaps Toby was the most cheerful of the three. The
matters of the Trust had been a pleasant break in the daily routine of
dispossessing himself of remittances from his friends in the East. And
the unusual effort made him feel good.
They had reached the crown of the hill bordering the valley, where the
trail debouched upon the prairie beyond, and the effort of easing his
horse, as the struggling beast clawed its way up the shelving slope,
at last set loose the tide of the loafer's ill-temper. He suddenly
turned upon his companions, his angry face dirty and sweating.
"Say," he cried, "of all the blamed fules I'd say we three was the
craziest ever pupped."
Sandy turned inquiring, contemptuous eyes in his direction. He always
adopted a defensive attitude when Sunny opened out. Toby only grinned
and waited for what was to come.
"Meanin'?" inquired Sandy in his coldest manner.
"Meanin'? Gee! it don't need a mule's intellec' to get my meanin',"
said the loafer witheringly. "Wot, in the name o' glory, would I mean
but this doggone ride we're takin'? Say, here's us three muttons
chasin' glory on the tail o' two soppy lambs that ain't got savvee
enough between 'em to guess the north end of a hoss when he's goin'
south. An', wot's more, we're doin' it like a lot o' cluckin' hens
chasin' a brood o' fule chicks. I tell you it jest makes me sick. An'
ef I don't git six weeks' rest straight on end after this is thro'
I'll be gettin' plumb 'bug,' or--or the colic, or suthin' ornery bum.
I've done. Sufferin' Creek ain't no place fer a peace-lovin' feller
like me, whose doin' all he knows to git thro' life easy an' without
breakin' up a natterally delicate constitootion. I'm done. I quit."
Sandy's face was a study in sneers. Not because he did not agree with
the sentiments, but Sunny always irritated him. But Toby only grinned
the harder, and for once, while the widower was preparing an adequate
retort, contrived to forestall him.
"Seems to me, Sunny, you ain't got a heap o' kick comin' to you," he
said in his slow way. "I allow you come in this racket because you
notioned it. Mebbe you'll say why you did it, else?"
This unexpected challenge from Toby had the effect of diverting the
widower's thoughts. He left the consideration of the snub he had been
preparing for the loafer for some future time, and waited for the
other's reply. But Sunny was roused, and stared angrily round upon the
grinning face of his questioner.
"Guess that ain't no affair of yours, anyway," he snorted. "I don't
stand fer questions from no remittance guy. Gee! things is gittin'
pretty low-down when it comes to that."
"Maybe a remittance man ain't a first-class callin'," said Toby, his
grin replaced by a hot flush. "But if it comes to that I'd say a lazy
loafin' bum ain't a heap o' credit noways neither. Howsum, them things
don't alter matters any. An' I, fer one, is sick o' your grouse--'cos
that's all it is. Say, you're settin' ther' on top o' that hoss like a
badly sculptured image that needs a week's bathin', an' talkin' like
the no-account fule most fellers guess you to be. Wal, show us you
ain't none o' them things, show us you got some sort of a man inside
your hide, an' tell us straight why you're out on this doggone trail
when you're yearnin' fer your blankets."
The attack was so unexpected that for once Sunny had no reply ready.
And Sandy positively beamed upon the challenger. And so they rode on
for a few moments. Then Toby broke the silence impatiently.
"Wal?" he inquired, his face wreathed in a grin that had none of the
amiability usual to it.
Sunny turned; and it was evident all his good-nature was restored. He
had suddenly realized that to be baited by the fatuous Toby was
almost refreshing, and he spoke without any sort of animosity. It
would certainly have been different had the challenge come from the
hectoring widower.
"Why for do I do it--an' hate it? Say, that's jest one o' them things
a feller can't tell. Y'see, a feller grouses thro' life, a-worritin'
hisself 'cos things don't seem right by his way o' thinkin'. That's
natteral. He guesses he wants to do things one way, then sudden-like,
fer no reason he ken see, he gits doin' 'em another. That's natteral,
too. Y'see, ther's two things, it seems to me, makes a feller act.
One's his fool head, an' the other--well, I don't rightly know what
the other is, 'cep' it's his stummick. Anyways, that's how it is. My
head makes me want to go one way, an' my feet gits me goin' another.
So it is with this lay-out. An' I guess, ef you was sure to git to
rock-bottom o' things, I'd say we're all doin' this thing 'cos Wild
Bill said so."
He finished up with a chuckle that thoroughly upset the equilibrium of
the widower, and set him jumping at the chance of retort.
"Guess you're scairt to death o' Wild Bill," he sneered.
"Wal," drawled Sunny easily, "I guess he's a feller wuth bein' scairt
of--which is more than you are."
Sandy snorted defiantly. But a further wordy war was averted by the
remittance man.
"Ther's more of a man to you than I allowed, Sunny," he said
sincerely. "There sure is. Bill's a man, whatever else he is. He's
sure the best man I've seen on Sufferin' Creek. But you're wrong 'bout
him bein' the reason of us worritin' ourselves sick on this yer trail.
It ain't your head which needs re-decoratin', neither. Nor it ain't
your stummick, which, I allow, ain't the most wholesome part of you.
Neither it ain't your splay feet. You missed it, Sunny, an' I allus
tho't you was a right smart guy. The reason you're on this doggone
trail chasin' glory wot don't never git around, is worryin' along in a
buckboard ahead of us, behind ole Minky's mule, an' he's hoofin' to
home at an express slug's gait. That's the reason you're on the trail,
an' nothin' else. You're jest a lazy, loafin', dirty bum as 'ud make
mud out of a fifty-gallon bath o' boilin' soapsuds if you was set in
it, but you was mighty sore seein' pore Zip kicked to death by his
rotten luck. An' feelin' that always you kind o' fergot to be tired.
That's why you're on this doggone trail. 'Cos your fool heart ain't as
dirty as your carkis."
And as he fired his last word Toby dashed his spurs into the flanks of
his jaded horse, and galloped out of reach of the tide of vituperation
he knew full well to be flowing in his wake.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE LUCK OF SCIPIO
Suffering Creek was again in a state of ferment. It seemed as if there
were nothing but one excitement after another in the place now. No
sooner was the matter of the gold-stage passed than a fresh
disturbance was upon them. And again the established industry of the
place was completely at a standstill. Human nature could no more
withstand the infection that was ravaging the camp than keep cool
under a political argument. The thing that had happened now was
tremendous.
Staid miners, old experienced hands whose lives were wedded to their
quest of gold, whose interest in affairs was only taken from a
standpoint of their benefit, or otherwise, to the gold interest, were
caught in the feverish tide, and sent hurtling along with the rushing
flood. Men whose pulses usually only received a quickening from the
news of a fresh gold discovery now found themselves gaping with the
wonder of it all, and asking themselves how it was this thing had
happened, and if, indeed, it had happened, or were they dreaming.
The whole thing was monstrous, stupendous, and here, happening in
their midst, practically all Suffering Creek were out of it. But in
spite of this the fever of excitement raged, and no one was wholly
impervious to it. Opinions ran riot--opinions hastily conceived and
expressed without consideration, which is the way of people whose
nerves have been suddenly strung tight by a matter of absorbing
interest. Men who knew nothing of the nature of things which could
produce so astonishing a result found themselves dissecting causes and
possibilities which did not exist, and never could exist. They hastily
proceeded to lay down their own law upon the subject with hot
emphasis. They felt it necessary to do this to disguise their lack of
knowledge and restore their personal standing. For the latter, they
felt, had been sorely shaken by this sudden triumph of those whom they
had so lately ridiculed.
And what was this wonderful thing that had happened? What was it that
had set these hardened men crazy with excitement? It had come so
suddenly, so mysteriously. It had come during the hours of darkness,
when weary men hugged their blankets, and dreamed their dreams of the
craft which made up their whole world.
There was no noise, no epoch-making upheaval, no blatant trumpetings
to herald its coming. And the discovery was made by a single man on
his way to his work just after the great golden sun had risen.
He was trailing his way along the creek bank over the road which led
eventually to Spawn City. He was slouching along the wood-lined track
at that swinging, laborious gait of a heavy-booted man. And his way
lay across the oozy claim of Scipio.
But he never reached the claim. Long before he came in view of it he
found himself confronted with a sluggish stream progressing slowly
along the beaten sand of the trail. For a moment he believed that the
creek had, for some freakish reason, suddenly overflowed its banks.
But this thought was swiftly swept aside, and he stood snuffing the
air like some warhorse, and gaping at the stream as it lapped about
his feet.
It came on slowly but irresistibly. And ahead of him, and amongst the
trailside bush, he beheld nothing but this rising flood. Then of a
sudden something of its meaning penetrated his dazed comprehension,
and, turning abruptly, he started to run for the higher ground. He
sped swiftly through the surrounding bush, dodging tree-trunks, and
threading his way circuitously in the direction where stood the great
cut bank of quartz which backed Scipio's claim. The smell of the air
had told him its tale, and he knew that he had made a wonderful, an
astounding discovery. And with this knowledge had come the thought of
his own possible advantage. Eagerly he began to seek the source of the
flood.
But his hopes were completely dashed the moment he reached the bank
overlooking Scipio's claim. There lay the source of the flood, right
in the heart of the little man's despised land. A great gusher of
coal-oil was belching from the mouth of the shaft which Sandy Joyce
had been at work upon, and the whole clearing, right from the oozy
swamp beyond to the higher ground of the river bank, stealing its way
along trail and through bush, lay a vast shallow lake of raw
coal-oil.
The disappointed man waited just sufficiently long to realize the
magnitude of Scipio's luck, and then set off at a run for the camp.
And in half-an-hour the camp was in a raging fever. In half-an-hour
nearly the whole of Suffering Creek had set out for the claim, that
they might see for themselves this wonderful thing that had happened.
In half-an-hour the whole thing was being explained in theory by
everybody to everybody else. In half-an-hour everybody was inquiring
for Scipio, and each and all were desirous of being first to convey
the news.
And when it was discovered that Scipio was from home, and knew nothing
of his good fortune, a fresh thought came to every mind. What had
become of him? They learned that he had borrowed Minky's buckboard,
and had driven away. And immediately in the public mind crept an
unexpressed question. Had Zip abandoned the place in the face of his
ill-luck, and, if so, what about this gigantic oil find?
However, there was nothing to be done at present but wait. The flow of
oil could not be checked, and the tremendous waste must go on. The
gusher would flow on until the pressure below lessened, and after that
it would die down, and require pumps to further exhaust it.
So the camp resigned itself to a contemplation of this wonderful new
industry that had sprung up unsought in their midst; and the luck of
Scipio was upon everybody's lips. Nor was there only the wonder of it
in every mind, for, after the first feelings of envy and covetousness
had passed away, the humor of the thing became apparent. And it was
Joe Brand, in the course of discussing the matter with Minky, who
first drew attention to the queer pranks which fortune sometimes
plays.
"Say, don't it lick creation?" he cried. "Can you beat it? No, sirree.
It's the best ever--it sure is. Say, here's the worstest mule-head
ever got foothold on this yer continent sets out to chase gold in a
place no one outside a bug-house would ever find time to git busy, an'
may I be skinned alive an' my bones grilled fer a cannibal's supper if
he don't find sech a fortune in ile as 'ud set all the whole blamed
world's ile market hatin' itself. Gee!"
And Minky nodded his head. He also smiled slyly upon those who stood
about him.
"Ther' sure is elegant humor to most things in this yer life," he said
dryly. "Which 'minds me Wild Bill bo't ha'f o' that claim o' Zip's
'fore he set out fer Spawn City."
And at his words somehow a curious thoughtfulness fell upon his
hearers. Nor was there any responsive smile among them. The humor he
spoke of seemed to have passed them by, leaving them quite untouched
by its point. And presently they drifted away, joining other groups,
where the reminder that Bill had been derided by the whole camp for
his absurd purchase had an equally damping effect.
But the day was to be more eventful even than the promise of the
morning had suggested. And the second surprise came about noon.
Excitement was still raging. Half the camp was down at Zip's claim
watching the miracle of the oil gusher, and the other half was either
on their way thither or returning from it. Some of them were gathering
the raw oil in cans and tubs, others were hurrying to do so. And none
of them quite knew why they were doing it, or what, if any, the use
they could put the stuff to. They were probably inspired by the fact
that there was the stuff going to waste by the hundreds of gallons,
and they felt it incumbent upon them to save what they could. Anyway,
it was difficult to tear themselves away from the fascinations of
Nature's prodigal outburst, and so, as being the easiest and most
pleasurable course, they abandoned themselves to it.
So it was that Minky found his store deserted. He lounged idly out on
to the veranda and propped himself against one of the posts. And,
standing there, his thoughtful eyes roamed, subtly attracted to the
spot where Zip's luck had demonstrated itself.
He stood there for some time watching the hurrying figures of the
miners as they moved to and fro, but his mind was far away. Somehow
Zip's luck, in spite of the excessive figures which extravagant minds
had estimated it at, only took second place with him. He was thinking
of the man who had journeyed to Spawn City. He was worrying about him,
his one and only friend.
He had understood something of that self-imposed task which the
gambler had undertaken, though its full significance had never quite
been his. Now he felt that in some way he was responsible. Now he felt
that the journey should never have been taken. He felt that he should
have refused to ship his gold. And yet he knew full well that his
refusal would have been quite useless. Wild Bill was a man whom
opposition only drove the harder, and he would have contrived a means
of carrying out his purpose, no matter what barred his way.
However, even with this assurance he still felt uncomfortably
regretful. His responsibility was no less, and for the life of him he
could not rise to enthusiasm over this luck of Scipio's. It would have
been different if Bill had been there to discuss the matter with him.
And as the moments passed his spirits fell lower and lower, until at
last a great depression weighed him down.
It was in the midst of this depression, when, for the hundredth time,
he had wished that his friend had never started out on his wild
enterprise, that he suddenly found himself staring out across the
river at the Spawn City trail. He stared for some moments, scarcely
comprehending that at which he looked. Then suddenly he became aware
of a horseman racing down the slope towards the river, and in a moment
mind and body were alert, and he stood waiting.
* * * * *
Minky was still standing on his veranda. But he was no longer leaning
against the post; he was holding a letter in his hand which he had
just finished reading. It was a painful-looking document for all its
neat, clear writing. It was stained with patches of dark red that were
almost brown, and the envelope he held in his other hand was almost
unrecognizable for the same hideous stain that completely covered it.
The man who had delivered it was resting on the edge of the veranda.
He had told his story; and now he sat chewing, and watching his weary
horse tethered at the hitching-post a few yards away.
"An' he drove that cart fer six hours--dead?" Minky asked, without
removing his eyes from the blood-stained letter.
"That's sure how I sed," returned the messenger, and went stolidly on
with his chewing. The other breathed deeply.
Then he read the letter over again. He read it slowly, so as to miss
no word or meaning it might contain. And, curiously, as he read a
feeling of wonder filled him at the excellence of the writing and
composition. He did not seem to remember having seen Bill's writing
before. And here the rough, hard-living gambler was displaying himself
a man of considerable education. It was curious. All the years of
their friendship had passed without him discovering that his gambling
friend was anything but an illiterate ruffian of the West, with
nothing but a great courage, a powerful personality and a moderately
honest heart to recommend him.
"My Dear Minky,
"I'm dead--dead as mutton. Whether I'm cooked mutton, or raw, I
can't just say. Anyway, I'm dead--or you wouldn't get this
letter.
"Now this letter is not to express regrets, or to sentimentalize.
You'll agree that's not my way. Death doesn't worry me any. No,
this letter is just a 'last will and testament,' as the lawyers
have it. And I'm sending it to you because I know you'll see
things fixed right for me. You see, I put everything into your
hands for two reasons: you're honest, and you're my friend. Now,
seeing you're rich and prosperous I leave you nothing out of my
wad. But I'd like to hand you a present of my team--if they're
still alive--team and harness and cart. And you'll know, seeing I
always had a notion the sun, moon and stars rose and set in my
horses, the spirit in which I give them to you, and the regard I
had for our friendship. Be good to them, old friend.
For the rest, my dollars, and anything else I've got, I'd like
Zip's kids to have. They're bright kids, and I've got a notion for
them. And, seeing Zip's their father, maybe dollars will be useful
to them. You can divide things equally between them.
"And in conclusion you can tell Zip if he can do a good turn,
which I don't suppose he'll be able to, to either Sunny Oak, or
Sandy Joyce, or Toby Jenks, he'd best do it. Because he owes them
something he'll probably never hear about.
"This is the last will and testament, as the lawyers say, of
"Your old friend,
"Wild Bill.
"(A no-account gambler, late of Abilene.)"
Minky looked up from the letter again, and his eyes were shadowed. He
felt that that letter contained more of the gambler's heart than he
would ever have allowed himself to display in life.
And into his mind came many memories--memories that stirred him
deeply. He was thinking of the days when he had first encountered Bill
years ago, when the name of Wild Bill was a terror throughout Texas
and the neighboring States. And he smiled as he remembered how a
perturbed Government had been forced, for their own peace of mind, and
for the sake of the peace of the country, to put this "terror" on the
side of law and order, and make him a sheriff of the county. And then,
too, he remembered the trouble Bill was always getting into through
mixing up his private feuds with his public duties. Still, he was a
great sheriff, and never was such order kept in the county.
He turned again to the man at his side.
"An' he got thro' with the gold?" he inquired slowly.
"Jest as I sed," retorted the weary messenger. "Guess I helped sheriff
to deposit it in the bank."
"And he's dead?"
The man stirred impatiently and spat.
"Dead--as mutton."
Minky sighed.
"An' you come along the Spawn City trail?" he asked presently.
"I ain't got wings."
"An' you saw--?"
"The birds flappin' around--nigh chokin' with human meat."
The man laughed cynically.
"Did you recognize--?"
"I see James. He was dead--as mutton, too--an' all his gang. Gee! It
must 'a' bin a hell of a scrap."
The man spat out a stream of tobacco juice and rubbed his hands.
"It sure must," agreed Minky. And he passed into the store.
* * * * *
It was dark when Scipio urged the old mule up the bank at the fork of
the creek. He was very weary, and Jessie was asleep beside him, with
her head pillowed upon his shoulder. His arm was about her, supporting
her, and he sat rigid, lest the bumping of the rattling vehicle should
waken her. The position for him was trying, but he never wavered.
Cramped and weary as he was, he strove by every means in his power to
leave her undisturbed.
And as he passed the river three ghostly figures ambled down to the
bank, and, after drinking their horses, likewise passed over. But
while Scipio kept to the trail, they vanished amidst the woods. Their
task was over, and they sought the shortest route to their homes.
And so Scipio came to his claim. And such was his state of mind, so
was he taken up with the happiness which the presence of his wife
beside him gave him, and such was his delight in looking forward to
the days to come, that he saw nothing of that which lay about him.
The air to him was sweet with all the perfumes his thankful heart
inspired in his thoughts. His road was a path of roses. The reek of
oil was beyond his simple ken. Nor did he heed the slush, slush of his
mule's feet, as the old beast floundered through the lake of oil
spread out on all sides about him. The gurgling, the sadly bubbling
gusher, even, might have been one of the fairy sounds of night, for
all thought he gave to it.
No; blind to all things practical as he always was, how was it
possible that Scipio, leaving Suffering Creek a poor, struggling
prospector, should realize by these outward signs that he had returned
to it, possibly, a millionaire?
CHAPTER XXXV
HOME
Scipio stood in the doorway of his hut with a hopelessly dazed look in
his pale eyes and a perplexed frown upon his brow. He had just
returned from Minky's store, whither he had been to fetch his twins
home. He had brought them with him, leading them, one in each hand.
And at sight of their mother they had torn themselves free from their
father's detaining hands and rushed at her.
Jessie, strangely subdued, but with a wonderful light of happiness in
her eyes, was in the midst of "turning out" the bedroom. She had spent
the whole morning cleaning and garnishing with a vigor, with a
heartwhole enjoyment, such as never in all her married life had she
displayed before. And now, as the children rushed at her, their piping
voices shrieking their joyous greeting, she hugged them to her bosom
as though she would squeeze their precious lives out of them. She
laughed and cried at the same time in a way that only women in the
throes of unspeakable joy can. Her words, too, were incoherent, as
incoherent as the babble of the children themselves. It was a sight of
mother-love rarely to be witnessed, a sight which, under normal
conditions, must have filled the simple heart of Scipio with a joy and
happiness quite beyond words.
But just now it left him untouched, and as he silently looked on he
passed one hand helplessly across his forehead. He pushed his hat back
so that his stubby fingers could rake amongst his yellow hair. And
Jessie, suddenly looking up from the two heads nestling so close
against her bosom, realized the trouble in her husband's face. Her
realization came with a swiftness that would have been impossible in
those old days of discontent.
"Why, Zip," she cried, starting to her feet and coming quickly towards
him, "what--what's the matter? What's wrong?"
But the little man only shook his head dazedly, and his eyes wandered
from her face to the two silently staring children, and then to the
table so carefully laid for the midday meal.
"Here, sit down," Jessie hurried on, darting towards a chair and
setting it for him beside the stove. "You're sick, sure," she
declared, peering into his pale face, as he silently, almost
helplessly, obeyed her. "It's the sun," she went on. "That's what it
is--driving in the sun all yesterday. It's--it's been too much for
you."
Again the man passed a hand across his brow. But this time he shook
his head.
"'Tain't the sun, Jess," he said vaguely. "It's--it's oil!"
For a moment the woman stared. Then she turned to the gaping twins,
and hustled them out of the room to play. Poor Zip's head had suddenly
gone wrong, she believed, and--
But as she came back from the door she found that he had risen from
the chair in which she had set him, and was standing looking at her,
and through her, and beyond her, as though she were not there at all.
And in an instant she was at his side, with an arm thrown protectingly
about his shoulders.
"Tell me, Zip--oh, tell me, dear, what's wrong? Surely--surely, after
all that has gone--Oh, tell me! Don't keep me in suspense. Is--is it
James?" she finished up in a terrified whisper.
The mention of that detested name had instant effect. Scipio's face
cleared, and the dazed look of his eyes vanished as if by magic. He
shook his head.
"James is dead," he said simply. And Jessie breathed a sigh of such
relief that even he observed it, and it gladdened him. "Yes," he went
on, "James is sure dead. Wild Bill done him up and his whole gang. But
Bill's gone, too."
"Bill, too?" Jessie murmured.
Scipio nodded; and perplexity stole over his face again.
"Yes. I--I don't seem to understand. Y'see, he done James up, an'--an'
James done him up--sort o' mutual. Y'see, they told me the rights of
it, but--but ther's so many things I--I don't seem to got room for
them all in my head. It seems, too, that Bill had quite a piece of
money. An' he's kind of given it to the kids. I--I don't--"
"How much?" demanded the practical feminine.
"Seventy thousand dollars," replied the bewildered man.
"Seventy thou--Who told you?"
"Why--Minky. Said he'd got it all. But--but that ain't the worst."
"Worst?"
Jessie was smiling now--smiling with that motherly, protecting
confidence so wonderfully womanly.
Scipio nodded; and his eyes sought hers for encouragement.
"Ther's the oil, millions an' millions of it--gallons, I mean."
"Oil? Millions of gallons? Oh, Zip, do--do be sensible."
Jessie stood before him, and his worried look seemed to have found a
reflection upon her handsome face.
"It isn't me. It ain't my fault. It sure ain't, Jess," he declared
wistfully. "I've seen it. It's there. My pore claim's jest drowned
with it. I'll never find that gold now--not if I was to pump a year.
It's just bubbling up an' up out o' the bowels of the earth, an'--an'
Minky says I'll have to set up pumps an' things, an' he's goin' to
help me. So is Sunny Oak, an' Toby, an' Sandy, an' he sez we'll find
the gold sure if we pump the oil. Sez it's there, an' I'll be rich as
Rockefeller an' all them millionaires. But I can't seem to see it, if
the gold's drownded in that messy, smelly oil. Maybe you ken see.
You're quicker'n me. You--"
But Jessie never let him finish.
"Oil?" she cried, her eyes swimming with tears of joy and gentle
affection for the simple soul so incapable of grasping anything but
his own single purpose. "Oil?" she cried. "Oh, Zip, don't you
understand? Don't you see? It's oil--coal-oil. You've been searching
for gold and found oil. And there's millions of dollars in coal-oil."
But the little man's face dropped.
"Seems a pity," he said dispiritedly. "I could 'a' swore ther' was
gold there--I sure could. I'd have found it, too--if the oil hadn't
washed us out. Bill thought so, too; an' Bill was right smart. Guess
we'll find it, though, after we pumped the oil."
Suddenly the woman reached out both arms and laid her hands upon his
diminutive shoulders. Her eyes had grown very tender.
"Zip," she cried gently, "Zip, I think God has been very good to me.
He's been kinder to me than He has been to you. You deserve His
goodness; I don't. And yet He's given me a man with a heart of--of
gold. He's given me a man whose love I have trampled under-foot and
flung away. He's given me a man who, by his own simple honesty, his
goodness, has shown me the road to perfect happiness. He's given me
all this in return for a sin that can never be wiped out--"
But suddenly Scipio freed himself from the gentle grasp of her
restraining hands, and caught her in his arms.
"Don't you--don't you to say it, Jess," he cried, all his great love
shining in his eyes. His perplexity and regret were all gone now, and
only had he thought of his love. "Don't you to say nuthin' against
yourself. You're my wife--my Jessie. An' as long as I've got life I
don't want nothin' else--but my Jessie. Say, gal, I do love you."
"And--and--oh, if you can only believe me, Zip, I love you."
The man reached up and drew the woman's face down to his, and kissed
her on the lips.
"It don't matter 'bout not finding that gold now," he cried, and
kissed her again.
"No, it--"
"Say, momma, ain't it dinner yet?"
"Ess, me want din-din."
The man and woman sprang guiltily apart before the wondering eyes of
their children, and the next moment both of the small creatures were
caught up and hugged in loving arms.
"Why, sure, kiddies," cried Scipio, his face wreathed in happy smiles.
"Momma's got dinner all fixed--so come right along."
THE END
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