CHAPTER IV
Mark Twaintells us that in the early Nevada days it gave a man no permanent satisfaction to shoot an enemy through both lungs, because the dry air was so exhilarating that the wounded foe was soon as good as new. Hugh McClintock was an illustration of this. He reached the Mormon settlement a white-faced rag of humanity. But he had lived hard and clean. The wind and the sun and able-bodied forbears had given him a constitution tough as hammered brass. When his brother Scot drove from Virginia City to see him, having heard the news that Hugh was wounded to death, he found the boy wrapped in a blanket and sitting in the sunshine at the corner of the ranch house. This was just a week after the end of the young brother’s wild ride.
“ ’Lo, Hugh! How are cases?” asked Scot, his gay smile beaming down at the boy.
“Fine as silk, Scot. I got an appetite like a bear. Sorry you had to come so far.”
“I hooked up soon as I heard about it, old f’ler. Now I’ve seen you I feel a lot better. The way I heard it you were ready to cash your chips.”
Scot’s arm was round the lad’s shoulder. The half-caress, the light in the fine eyes, the warmth of the voice, all told of the strong affection the older brother had for the younger. Hugh repaid this love with interest. In his eyes Scot was an Admirable Crichton, the most wonderful man he had ever been privileged to know. He trod the earth a king among his race—and the king could do no wrong.
No two sons of the same father and mother could have been more unlike than these. The last-born was counted steady as an eight-day clock, reliable as tested steel. The other walked wild and forbidden paths. Yet to call them unlike is to tell a half-truth. They had in common courage, a certain cleanness of fibre, and an engaging gaiety. Scot McClintock was nearly ten years older than Hugh, but there was a remarkable physical resemblance between them. Each had inherited from a Scotch father eyes of the same colour, a square-cut chin, and a strong Roman nose. The head of each was crowned with curls of russet gold.
The shoulders of Scot were broader, his figure less stringy. He was of splendid physique, tall, compact, powerful. Bearing himself with manly grace, he radiated vitality. His chin told the truth. He was indomitably resolute, a born leader. Vanity was his weakness. The spectacular appealed. It had been said of him that he would rather break down a door than wait for a key. The self-esteem of the man expressed itself in clothes. These he wore always for effect, with the knowledge that his fine figure would win him envy and admiration, even though he affected the dandy. In his frock coat of doeskin with its flaring skirt and broad lapels, his fancy vest cut wide to show a frilled shirt and blue satin necktie, his pegtop trousers, his immaculately varnished boots, and his flat-crowned silk derby, he was out of question the Beau Brummel of Washoe. Another might have been laughed at for this punctilious devotion to dress, but even in Virginia City nobody was hardy enough to poke fun at Scot McClintock.
Many smiled with him, for this blue-eyed gambler had a thousand friends. It was in his horoscope to fight or share his last dollar with you gladly. He did not care which. He could be brave, reckless, generous, sociable, or witty. But nobody could ever say that he was mean spirited.
“I’m going to take you back with me as soon as you can travel, Hugh,” he said.
“That’ll be to-morrow mo’ning.”
“Sure you can stand the jolting yet?”
“Sure. Ask Mother Jessup here.”
The rancher’s wife had come out from the house and been introduced to Scot. Now she smiled comfortably at her patient. “He’s doing fine.”
“He would, with you looking after him, Madam,” Scot answered gallantly.
“It’s a God’s mercy he stuck on all those miles, wounded the way he was. I don’t see how he ever did,” Mrs. Jessup said.
“I reckon he clamped his teeth on the job. Hugh’s right obstinate when he gets set,” the older brother said with affectionate pride.
“Runs in the family,” Hugh cut back, grinning.
“Maybe so. Well, tell me all about it, boy. Where did you jump the Piutes? And how did you make your getaway?”
“Not much to tell,” the younger brother replied, and gave a skeleton outline of the story.
They started on their journey next morning, made a short day of it on account of Hugh’s wound, and put up at Carson for the night.
On what had been known as Eagle Ranch, in the valley of the same name, the town of Carson had been built. During the previous decade both Eagle and Carson valleys had served as a refuge for those who ran off stolen stock from San Francisco and other California points. In these hidden parks the outlaws had been accustomed to rest and feed the herds before making the desert trip by obscure routes to Salt Lake. But those days were past. Carson now had two thousand inhabitants, a boom in town lots, and a civic consciousness. It had become respectable, though guns still flashed frequently. Already it was laying political wires to become the capital of Nevada, the “battle-born” state.
Through Carson supplies came by way of Mormon Station for the diggings at Virginia, along a road which wound around the base of the hills. As Scot drove in, the air was musical with chimes. Some of these came soft and mellow from a great distance. Each mule of the freight outfits had a circlet of bells suspended in a steel bow above its collar. They made music as they moved.
At the hay corral into which McClintock drove, scores of outfits were gathered, most of them freighters to or from the diggings. A dozen others could be heard jingling in, from one direction or the other. The winter had been a severe one, and hundreds of cattle in the adjacent valleys had died for lack of feed. Hay was scarce. There was a very strong demand for it to feed the freight outfits. Just now the price was three hundred dollars a ton. Ranchers found it far more profitable to let their cattle rustle on bunch grass and take a chance of roughing through than to feed hay worth such a price. Wherefore all the native hay went to the stock hauling supplies.
Scot hailed Baldy Green, a well-known stage driver. “How about places up on the stage for me and Hugh to-morrow, old-timer?”
Baldy rubbed the top of his shiny head and grinned at him. “Full up. Like to ditch a couple of my passengers for you if I could—a jewellery peddler and a sky pilot—but I don’t reckon I can, Scot.”
The eyes of the older McClintock sparkled. “Show ’em to me, Baldy.”
Three minutes later the Beau Brummel of Virginia City might have been seen in earnest conversation with a clergyman who hailed from Buffalo, New York. He was telling the story of the Indian attack upon his brother and making certain deductions from it. His manner of grave deference was perfect.
“But bless my soul, do you really think the redskins are likely to attack the stage to-morrow?” asked the startled missionary.
“Can’t tell, sir. They were certainly heading this way when last seen. Big chance of it, I’d say. I’m a sinner—a professional gambler. What does it matter about me? But you—the only minister of the Gospel in a hundred miles—you can’t be spared. The harvest is ripe for the reaper. Why not wait here a day or two and make sure the Piutes are not around?”
The missionary was frankly frightened, but he had in him the stuff of heroes. His lower lip became a thin straight line of resolution. No professional gambler should put his courage to shame. If he rode through the valley of the shadow he had a promise from Holy Writ to comfort him.
“I’ll go if the stage goes,” he said stoutly.
Scot McClintock knew when he was beaten temporarily. But he was not the man to give up a point upon which he had set his heart. He looked up a friend of his, the mayor of the town, drew him aside, and whispered persuasively in his ear.
The fat little man with whom he talked exploded a protest. “But doggone it, Scot, if the Gospel shark accepts, won’t I have to go to his meetin’?”
“Maybe so. What of it? Be a good scout, Adams. I want that boy of mine to get up to Virginia to-morrow so that I can make him comfortable.”
The mayor grinned. “Never saw your beat for gettin’ your own way. All right. I’ll rustle up some of the women and ask him.”
Scot dropped into the What Cheer House and glanced around. The jewellery salesman was sitting in a corner by himself. McClintock introduced himself and invited the stranger to a rum cocktail or a whisky sling. In five minutes he knew all about the peddler’s business and how much he hoped to make from the sale of his stock at Virginia.
“But why not sell it here in Carson? The town’s booming. Lots of money here. More women. Up in Virginia they can’t think anything except mines,” Scot suggested.
“My friendt, I make more at Virginia.”
“Well, you know your business better than I do. Hope we get through without trouble.”
“Trouble? Vat kind of trouble?”
“Injuns on warpath. They shot up my brother. I’m taking him up with me to a doctor. From the way the Piutes were heading I rather expect an attack on the stage to-morrow.”
The peddler rose to the bait, excitedly, with shrill voice. “And I haf paid my fare to Virginia. It’s an outrage. I vill demand a refund. I vill sue the company. I vill nodt travel in onsavety. You are right, my friendt. I sell my stock right here in Carson if I get a refund.”
“I would,” agreed McClintock sympathetically, “I know Baldy Green. Let’s see if he’ll stand for the refund.”
The stage driver played up to his friend with a serious face. It was not customary to make refunds. He had a kind of hunch the stage would get through without being attacked. But if the gentleman wanted to stay at Carson and if McClintock would guarantee him against loss to the company through an empty seat, probably it could be arranged. Incidentally, he mentioned that he had just heard from the clergyman cancelling his passage. He had been urged by a deputation of Carson citizens to stay in town over Sunday and preach on the plaza. This call, he felt, could not be ignored.
Baldy called Scot back as he was leaving. The stage driver’s face was one wrinkled grin. “You ce’tainly take the cake, old alkali. I got to give it to you. Afraid the stage will be attacked, are you? Dad gum yore hide, you know Injuns won’t dare come up here on the peck.”
“I’d hate to have the jewellery gentleman take any chances,” Scot explained.
“And preachin’ on the plaza. Don’t you know there’s hawss racin’ here every Sunday?” cackled Baldy.
“Competition is the life of trade. The ladies can meet an’ pray for their wicked husbands. They need it, don’t they?”
“Sure do. Well, I got no kick comin’. I won’t be here Sunday.”
Neither was Scot. He and his brother travelled Virginiaward in the morning. The “mud-wagon” had been left at Carson. They travelled in a beautiful painted Concord stage behind six high-stepping chestnuts decked with ivory rings, silver tassels, and expensive harness.
Baldy drove superbly. He and his kind were knights of the road. The wranglers and attendants were deferential to them, the public viewed them admiringly as celebrities. Baldy drew on his gauntlets slowly, mounted to the box, and took the ribbons from the hand of a hostler. There was a swift tightening of the reins, a sweeping crack of the whip. The leaders came round on the run, the swings at a gallop, and the wheelers at a trot.
The ride to Virginia was one worth taking. The road wound round curves, dropped into draws, swept along dugways beneath which were deep precipices. When he hit the curves Baldy gave the wheels play. Occasionally one of the back ones hung precariously over space. A minute later the stage perhaps had struck a level and the driver was riding the brakes while the horses dashed wildly forward. Ten miles an hour, up hill and down, over the precipitous mountain road, the chestnuts travelled wildly, every foot of the way guided by the man on the box who handled them coolly and expertly. Meanwhile, Baldy discussed casually with Scot McClintock the news of the day. With his whip he pointed to a bad turn.
“Hank Monk went over the grade yesterday—coach, hawsses, and passengers.”
“Much damage?”
“Nope—none a-tall. Nary a beast skinned. Paint on coach hardly scratched. Busted one tenderfoot’s laig. That’s all. Mighty lucky spill. Hank always did fall on his feet. Been me I’d prob’ly a-hurted one of the animals.”
“Lucky for all parties except the tenderfoot,” agreed Scot.
“Yep. Couldn’t a-been better. G’lang!”
The long whip snaked out with a crack like the sound of an exploding gun. The coach leaped forward, swaying like a cradle set on wheels. They were drawing close to Virginia now, and the whole desert was staked like the sole of a giant shoe. American Flat fell away to the rear. The chestnuts raced up Gold Hill and the Ophir Grade, across the divide, and down into Virginia City, which was perched on the lower slope of Mt. Davidson.
The town was an uncouth and windswept camp, but it represented uncounted hopes and amazing energy. In this mass of porphyry lay the fabulously rich Comstock Lode, from which in a single generation nearly a billion dollars’ worth of ore was to be taken.
The Concord dropped down into B Street, the horses covering the home stretch at a gallop. Baldy brought the coach along the rough street at a dead run, sweeping it skillfully around a train of wood-packed burros. He stopped exactly in front of the company’s office, twined the reins around the brake bar, and smiled at Scot.
“Yore friend the peddler will feel sold when he hears you wasn’t scalped.”
“The scenery flew past so fast I couldn’t tell whether it was punctuated with Piutes or not,” said Scot genially, as he swung down to help Hugh from inside.
The younger McClintock stepped out stiffly.
“Hope I didn’t mix yore inside geography too much,” Baldy asked him.
“I’m all right. The docs say the inside of a stagecoach is first rate for the inside of a man,” Hugh answered.
“Tha’s right, too—for a well man; but they don’t say it’s a sure cure for one the Injuns have been playin’ with, do they? Well, so long, young fellow. Don’t you let that rip-snortin’ brother o’ yours c’rupt you none.”
CHAPTER V
Throughthe throngs that crowded, not only the dilapidated sidewalks, but also the street itself, Scot guided his brother deftly toward the hotel. The whole appearance of the place was still higgledy-piggledy. Men lived in tents, in dugouts, in prospect holes, in shacks built of dry-goods boxes, canvas sacks, and brush. They cooked and ate as best they could, while they went about their business of prospecting or buying and selling “feet”[4]in what by courtesy were called mines.
[4]In Virginia City mining interests were then sold by feet, and not by shares.—W. M. R.
[4]In Virginia City mining interests were then sold by feet, and not by shares.—W. M. R.
“We’ll cut across this lot,” the gambler suggested.
A mud-stained wagon with a dirty canvas top had been unhitched close to the street. Two bony and dejected horses were tied to the wheels eating some brush that they were trying to persuade themselves was hay.
Hugh commented on the broomtails. “So thin they won’t throw a shadow.”
A moment later he was sorry, for as they rounded the wagon he saw a woman and child crouched over a camp fire. They were cooking a stew. A man sat on the wagon tongue smoking. He looked at the passing men out of sullen, clouded eyes.
A voice from the sidewalk drifted to the brothers. “Trouble, looks like. Sam Dutch has got Red Mike backed up against the bar of the Mile High, and he’s tryin’ to devil him into drawing a six-shooter.”
On the heels of the words there came the sound of a shot, followed by a second. A swift trampling of many feet, and the side door of the Mile High burst open. Men poured out of it as seeds are squirted from a pressed lemon. They dived in every direction to escape. After them came a single man, bare-headed, a revolver in his hand. He looked wildly round, then fled to the shelter of the wagon for safety. A huge fellow, bellowing like a bull, tore out of the saloon in pursuit.
An ironclad rule of the old fighting West is that every quarrel is a private one. No outsider has any right to interfere. Under ordinary conditions, the first impulse of the McClintocks would have been to dive for cover. The West considers it no reflection on a man’s courage for him to sing small when guns are out to settle a difference of opinion which is no concern of his.
The McClintocks, as though moved by the same spring, wheeled in their tracks and ran back to the wagon. The man on the tongue was disappearing into the bed through the opening in the canvas. But the woman and the little girl, terror-stricken, stood spellbound beside the fire. Pursued and pursuer were charging straight toward them. A bullet struck with a metallic clang the iron pot in the live coals. The child screamed.
Roughly the woman and the little girl went down at the same instant, flung to the ground by the impact of flying bodies. They heard more shots, but they knew nothing of what was going on. For the McClintock brothers were crouched above them, shielding them from the danger of wild bullets. They did not see the red-headed man stumble and pitch forward, nor did they see the big ruffian at his heels fling shot after shot into his prostrate form.
Hugh released his weight from the child, and lifted her to her feet in such a way that her face was turned from the tragedy.
“Run right along into the wagon where yore dad is, li’l girl, and don’t turn yore head,” he said, and his voice was very gentle.
She moved forward, whimpering as she went, and climbed to the wagon tongue. But, just as she was about to vanish inside, curiosity or some other impulse swung round her black and shaggy little head. Big dark eyes fastened on Hugh, then moved past him to the awful thing she was to see in her dreams for many a night. A man, red-haired and red-bearded, lay face up on the ground, sightless eyes staring up at the blue sky. A second man straddled the body with brutal triumph, a big slouchy fellow with coarse tawny hair reaching to his neck, and sandy whiskers tied under his chin. He wore a brown Peruvian hat, a blue army overcoat with a cape, and a woollen shirt. From his bootleg a horn-handled bowie knife projected.
“Wanted to be chief,[5]eh?” the murderer jeered in a heavy overbearing voice. “There’ll be only one chief in Virginia while Sam Dutch is here. If any one else wants the job, he’ll gets his like Red Mike did.” He shuffled away, Spanish spurs jingling, slouching and slow of movement. His gestures were heavy, except when shooting. No bad man in Washoe was quicker on the draw.
[5]It was a matter of pride among the desperadoes of Nevada in early days to be cock of the walk. Many a “bad man” died with his boots on because he aspired to be “chief” among his fellows. So long as these ruffians killed each other, the community paid little attention to their murders. When good citizens fell victim, a sentiment was created which eventually resulted in the supremacy of law.—W. M. R.
[5]It was a matter of pride among the desperadoes of Nevada in early days to be cock of the walk. Many a “bad man” died with his boots on because he aspired to be “chief” among his fellows. So long as these ruffians killed each other, the community paid little attention to their murders. When good citizens fell victim, a sentiment was created which eventually resulted in the supremacy of law.—W. M. R.
A faint trickle of smoke still issued from the barrel of his revolver as he thrust it back into its scabbard, where it could be seen beneath the flapping coat tails. He disappeared into the Mile High and proceeded to down half-a-dozen gin slings at the expense of friends who did not dare withhold this tribute of admiration lest he make one of them number eleven on his list. An hour later, Scot McClintock saw him there, in drunken slumber lying on a billiard table, the brute primordial, first among the bad men of the lawless camp because he was its most deadly ruffian. There were those who would have liked to make an end of him as he lay soddenly asleep, but he was so quick and terrible that their fear was greater than the lust to kill.
Scot helped from the ground the woman he had thrown. She looked at him, her breast rising and falling deep, fear still quick in the soft brown eyes. Her cheeks were white as the snow on Mt. Davidson.
“Madam, I’m sorry I was rough,” Scot said, and gave her the most gallant bow in Washoe. “But you were in the line of fire. I couldn’t take chances.”
Emotion shook her. A faint colour crept timidly into her face. She said, in a voice hardly audible: “You saved my life.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” the man answered, smiling.
Something eager, beautiful, made of the woman’s eyes soft stars of night. “I’ll never forget—never,” she promised, with a strangled sob.
There was a low jangling laugh at her shoulder. “Tha’s right. Always a fool if you can find a chance to be one, Moll,” a voice sneered.
The light died from the woman’s eyes, the colour from her cheeks. She became at once a creature lifeless, without spirit.
Scot turned, voice soft and suave. “Did you find what you went to look for in the wagon, sir?” he asked, raking the unkempt unclean emigrant with scornful eyes.
A dull flush burned into the man’s face. A furtive darting look slid from the yellow-gray eyes. It carried menace, as does sometimes that of a tamed wolf toward its trainer.
“I—I didn’t notice where Moll was when I started,” he said with sullen reluctance. “An’ I reckon tha’smybusiness.”
“Quite so,” agreed the gambler.
He bowed again to the woman in the cheap patched homespun, met the eyes of his brother, and turned to go.
From the wagon came a weak little wail. The McClintocks stood rooted in their tracks. Again the puling cry was raised. With a murmured exclamation the woman excused herself hurriedly and climbed into the covered wagon.
“Have you got a baby there?” asked Scot, a new note in his voice.
The father grunted a sulky “Yes.”
“A baby, Hugh. An honest-to-God baby. The first in Virginia City. What do you think about that?”
“Could we see it, do you reckon?” the younger brother asked eagerly.
Scot turned on him reproving eyes. “I’m surprised at you, Hugh. That baby’s being—fed—right now.” Suddenly he wheeled on the emigrant. “Boy or girl?”
“Girl!”
“Great. We’ll call her Virginia.”
“Her name’s Susan,” the father growled.
“No matter. We’ll change it. Last name?”
“Dodson. Her name’s goin’ to stay right what it is now.”
A crowd of men had poured upon the vacant lot to view the scene of the killing. Some were removing the body to an adjacent saloon, others were discussing the affair guardedly from its dramatic and not from its ethical standpoint. There was no question of ethics in an ordinary killing if both combatants had had ample warning. It was the boast of Virginia, just as it was later of Austin, Pioche, Aurora, and the other Nevada camps, that it had “a man for breakfast” each day. This was not the literal truth, but it was too nearly true for comfort. The diggings were infested with wild, lawless criminals driven from more settled communities. They robbed stages, held up citizens, and maintained the rule of the six-gun among communities the great majority of whose residents would much have preferred peace and order.
Scot climbed into the bed of an empty ore wagon and clapped his hands for silence. Only those in his immediate vicinity heard him, wherefore Scot got what he wanted by the simple expedient of firing his revolver into the air.
For a moment there was the threat of a stampede, but not after the discovery that McClintock had fired the gun. Scot was known as a professional gambler, a respectable business man who did not kill wantonly. It was evident that he wanted to make a speech. Anything in reason that Scot McClintock wanted in Virginia City he could have. He was the most popular man in camp.
“Go to it, Scot. Onload heap much oration,” someone shouted.
After which there was silence.
“Boys,” Scot began simply, “I’m going to tell you something that will please you a lot. We’ve got a baby in camp, a real, genuine, blown-in-the-bottle guaranteed baby, the first one that ever hit Virginia City. It’s a lady baby, and her name’s Susan. Now, we’ve none of us got anything against Susan. It’s a good name. But it’s not the name for our baby. We’re going to name that kid Virginia or know why.”
A wild howl of approval lifted into the air. The emotions of Washoe were direct and primitive. This was the sort of thing that made its sure appeal. These men were far from their womenkind and the ties of home. Many of them had slipped into ways that would have shocked their sheltered relatives in older communities. But they were sentimental as schoolgirls. A baby was the symbol of all the happiness they had left behind when they undertook the lonesome hardships of gold hunting. They cheered and shouted and shook hands with each other in deep delight.
“We’re going to give this kid a good send-off, because she’s our baby. Virginia is her name and Virginia is her home. I’m going to pass the hat, boys. You, El Dorado Johnnie and Jean Poulette and Six-Fingered Pete and Murphy Davis get your hats off and circulate among these Washoe millionaires and bummers. Dig deep into your jeans, every last one of you. We’re going to do the right thing by this little lady the good Lord has sent us. Whoop ’er up now,” adjured McClintock.
From every direction men came running to this new form of entertainment. Saloons and gambling houses emptied. The streets began to pack. Still the jingling of coins dropping into hats could be heard. Everybody gave. Scot appointed a committee to count the spoils and another committee to invite the town’s brass band down to the reception.
Meanwhile he whispered in Hugh’s ear and the boy carried a message to the prairie schooner.
“I want to see Mrs. Dodson,” he told that lady’s husband.
The dull, unimaginative face of the man was lit with cupidity and suspicion. It surely was not possible that all this money was going to be turned over to him just because he had a baby. The world couldn’t possibly be so full of fools. Yet it looked like it. He called his wife.
She came out to the tent flap with the baby in her arms. All this noise and confusion frightened her a little, but it did not disturb the tousled little girl by her side. It was meat and drink to her. Her eyes snapped with excitement. She had an inkling of what was going on, and she wriggled like a small, pleased puppy.
Hugh took off his hat. “Madam, we’d like to borrow for a little while yore family. We’re figurin’ on a sort of a parade, and we want the baby in it. We’d like to have you an’ the li’l girl go along to see the baby’s taken care of proper.”
“Goody, goody!” Victoria hopped from one foot to the other as a register of approval.
The woman hesitated. Her glance fluttered timidly to the husband. “I don’t know. What do you think, Rob?” Then, in a low voice: “I haven’t anything to wear. Perhaps you could take Baby.”
The boy interposed hurriedly. “That’s not quite the idea, ma’am. The boys are kinda hungry to see a sure enough mother and baby. It would be a kindness to them if you’d come yoreself. We’ll have the stage, an’ you can ride beside the driver. O’ course we don’t aim to be bossy about it, but our hearts are real set on this.” He smiled, and Hugh’s boyish grin was a winsome argument. It had the touch of sweet deference women liked. “They’re rough looking, ma’am, but none of these miners would hurt you for the world. It’s a celebration for the camp’s first baby.”
“Oh, let’s go, Sister Mollie,” urged Victoria. “I wantta ride in the pee-rade.”
The woman whispered with her husband. He broke out roughly: “Don’t be so damned finicky. Your dress is all right.”
“We’ll come,” the young woman told the boy. “In a few minutes we’ll be ready. And thank you for wanting us.”
Scot McClintock presently arrived himself and escorted the guests of honour to the stage. He assisted the young mother to the seat beside Baldy and passed the baby up to her. The infant was a plump little thing with fat dimpled arms and legs. It crowed up into Scot’s face and gurgled happily at him. Vicky was lifted up to the seat next her sister.
As master of ceremonies Scot, in a long red sash, mounted on a beautiful white horse, rode at the head of the procession. The stage came next, followed by Virginia’s young and exuberant brass band. After this marched the fire organizations in their red shirts and helmets. Empty ore wagons fell into line and were quickly filled with miners. A mixed crowd of residents on foot brought up the rear.
The contributions already collected had been poured from the hats into a tub. This was tied to the back of the stage, in the place where trunks and packages usually rested. All along A Street and back along B Street men fought to get at the tub with their money. The band played “Old Dan Tucker” and other popular airs, but out of deference to a divided public opinion did not give either “Yankee Doodle” or “Dixie.”[6]There were speeches, of course, full of bombast, eloquence, and local patriotism, all of which were vociferously applauded.
[6]The Civil War was being fought at this time, and though Nevada was far from the scene of action, sectional feeling was high. A fairly large minority of those in Virginia City and Carson were Southerners—W. M. R.
[6]The Civil War was being fought at this time, and though Nevada was far from the scene of action, sectional feeling was high. A fairly large minority of those in Virginia City and Carson were Southerners—W. M. R.
It was while the band was playing that the guest of honour began to cry.
“Stop that damn band and give the kid a chance,” someone shouted.
A hundred light-hearted sons of mirth took up the word. The band stopped in the middle of a bar, and to her mother’s embarrassment Miss Virginia Dodson entertained with a solo.
The marshal of the parade rode back to the coach and smiled up at the young mother.
“Don’t mind the boys,” he advised. “It’s just their way of showing how much they think of our baby. You know, ma’am, this town claims the young lady. We’ve adopted her, but if you say ‘Please’ real nice we’ll let you bring her up.”
Mollie’s bosom warmed within her. A lump rose in her throat and her eyes misted. For years she had been the chattel of Robert Dodson, a creature to be sneered at, derided, and beaten. This splendid-looking hero of romance treated her as though she were a lady. She wondered who he could be. Among all these rough-bearded miners he shone like diamonds in a mud heap. His clothes, manner, speech, the musical intonation of his voice, all set him apart from other men, she thought, even if his figure and face had not marked him for distinction.
A big blond lawyer with a long yellow beard was at the head of the committee appointed to count the money. His name was William M. Stewart. Later he represented Nevada in the United States Senate for many years. At the request of Scot McClintock he made the presentation speech, the baby in his arms at the time. The total amount collected ran over thirty-two hundred dollars.
Robert Dodson had been drinking more or less all day. He had taken the opportunity to celebrate rather steadily during the parade, since, as father of Virginia, he had been offered a nip at many bottles. Now he unwisely presented himself to take charge of the fund raised.
Stewart looked at him carefully, then exchanged glances with Scot.
“Friends,” said the future Senator, “I move a committee of three to take charge of Miss Virginia’s educational fund. If this is satisfactory I shall ask the citizens of the camp to name the trustees.”
It was so voted. When the time came to name the custodians of the fund the crowd shouted “McClintock” and “Stewart.”
The big blond lawyer consulted with Scot. “Mr. McClintock and I are glad to serve as trustees in your behalf, gentlemen,” announced Stewart. “With your permission we shall name Robert Dodson, the father of Virginia, as the third member.”
In the months that followed, Dodson flew into a rage whenever the trust fund was mentioned. He insinuated to his cronies over the bar that McClintock and Stewart were manipulating the money to their own advantage. The fact was that they refused to let their co-trustee get his fingers on any of it to dissipate.
CHAPTER VI
Fromevery state and many nations the pioneers of California came, young, ardent, hopeful, strong. Round the Horn in clipper ships, across the fever-swept Isthmus, by way of the long Overland Trail, they poured into the Golden West. They laughed at hardship. They wrote songs of defiance to bad luck and sang them while they worked and starved and died. Self-contained and confident, they gutted mountains, made deserts leafy green, built cities that were the marvel of their generation. To these sunset shores came the pick of the world’s adventurous youth.
Nevada absorbed the best and the worst of California’s seasoned veterans. Gay, reckless, debonair, the gold-seekers went their turbulent way. Every man was a law to himself, carried in his holster the redress for wrongs. The wildest excesses prevailed. The most brutal crimes went unpunished. For years there was no night at Virginia, at Austin, or at Eureka. The flare from dance halls, hurdy-gurdys, and gambling houses flung splashes of light on masses of roughly dressed men engaged in continual revelry.
But it would be unjust to condemn Washoe because it did not measure up to the standards of Philadelphia. At its worst no good woman was ever more revered than here, no child’s innocence more zealously guarded. And, as it proved, the strength of the bad man lacked the endurance of the one who was good. Law and order came to Nevada, brought by stalwarts who took their lives in their hands to punish desperadoes.
The dominance of law came slowly, because Washoe was under the jurisdiction of Utah, so far away across the desert that its authority was only a shadow. Until this handicap was taken away, no real civil authority was possible.
The earliest mining at Virginia was done from the grass roots, which fact accounts largely for the character of its population. Six-Mile Cañon heads on the north side of Mt. Davidson, Gold Cañon about a mile distant on its south slope. Placer miners, working among the decomposed rock and gravel of the ravines, moved up toward the mother lode without knowing it. The clay in which they dug was so tough it had to be “puddled” in water with shovels.
But the formation of the strata had convinced the astute that the Washoe diggings were a quartz proposition. The rocker and the long tom had had their day. Into the Ophir and the Gould & Curry, steam hoists had been put. The shafts were going deeper every hour. Much litigation developed, due in part to defective location work and disputes as to veins. This brought to the territory the ablest bar on the Pacific Coast. Among the newspaper reporters who worked a few months later on theTerritorial Enterprisewas Mark Twain. He was one of a dozen brilliant writers who later were known from coast to coast, all of whom were associated with the Goodwins on this paper.
No other such mining camp ever existed. Side by side with lawlessness and the roughest makeshifts there existed a high civilization which was satisfied with nothing less than the best. In the days to come, after the town had found its feet, McCullough, Booth, Barrett, and Modjeska played at Piper’s Opera House within a stone’s throw of the raucous uproar of the hurdy-gurdy houses. One lucky miner expressed himself in a mansion equipped with door stops of gold and door knobs of silver; another lifted his eyes to the stars and wrote his soul out with fire-tipped pen.
In this heterogeneous society there was at first no class consciousness. The professional gambler had a special standing. He was accepted as necessary to the community, much as a doctor or a merchant was. He set the standard of dress and of manners. If he was a “square sport” he played a fair game. The most distinguished men in the camp were glad to sit down at poker with such a gambler as Scot McClintock.
So long as the road from California was open Virginia City lived on the best that could be imported. But during the heavy winter just ending the trail had been closed for months. Food was dangerously short. The supply of potatoes and onions, the staple vegetables, had become completely exhausted. There was very little fresh meat, though jackrabbits were fortunately plentiful. To make conditions worse, soft heavy spring snows blocked the passes and made transportation impossible. At Placerville and at Strawberry Flat great trains of supplies waited for the opening of the trail.
On a sunny windswept afternoon Scot McClintock made his way from the International Hotel to the Crystal Palace, where he dealt faro to a high-priced clientele. He was pleasantly at peace with the world. If he carried a derringer in his pocket it was as a concession to the custom of a country where every man went armed. His progress along B Street and through the Crystal Palace to his seat was in the nature of a reception. For everybody knew Scot and wanted to claim acquaintance with him.
He nodded to the players, slid into his chair, and began to deal. His face took on the gambler’s mask of impassivity. This mask did not lift when a heavy-set huge man slouched into the Crystal Palace and to the corner where McClintock presided. Someone hastily moved aside to give the newcomer a place. Nobody in Virginia City disputed any question of precedence with Sam Dutch.
The desperado had been drinking. It was apparent to all that he was in an ugly humour. Gradually, inconspicuously, the players at that end of the hall cashed in their chips and departed from the immediate vicinity. Scot continued to deal with a wooden face, but behind his expressionless eyes was a wary intentness. Dutch meant trouble. He had come with the deliberate intention of making it.
Friends had brought to McClintock the word that he had better look out for Dutch. The bad man was jealous of his popularity, his influence in the camp, and above all of the fearlessness that would not accept intimidation. Shrewdly, with that instinct for safety common to all killers, the fellow had chosen his moment well. All the advantage would lie with him. The hands of the dealer must be above the table sliding out cards. His own could be on the butts of his six-shooters before he called for a showdown. What Dutch proposed was not a duel but deliberate cold-blooded murder.
Scot knew this. He knew, too, that if either of his hands lifted for an instant from the cards the ruffian opposite would fling slug after slug into his body. Nor could he expect any help from the lookout for the game. Dutch was too sure on the shoot to tempt interference.
The roulette wheel continued to turn. The stud and draw poker games went on. Automatically men made their bets, but the interest was gone from their play. The atmosphere had grown electric. The furtive attention of everybody focussed on two men, the killer and the victim he had selected. When would Dutch find his excuse to strike? In the tenseness of the suspense throats parched and nerves grew taut.
The contrast between the two men was striking. The one dealing the cards was clean-cut, graceful, and lithe as a tiger. From head to foot he was trim and well-groomed. Even the fingernails were polished pink in the latest San Francisco fashion. The huge man in front of him was dirty, his hair and beard unkempt, his figure slouchy. The long army overcoat he wore was splashed with mud. He looked the incarnation of brute force dominated by craft instead of intelligence.
Into the Crystal Palace a lean sun-and-wind browned man walked. He was about to start back to take his run on the pony express and he had come in to say good-bye to his brother. With one clear-eyed steady look he realized the situation. The gunman had not yet called for a showdown. He meant to choose his own time for fastening the quarrel on Scot. His rage might still be diverted into another channel.
Hugh did his thinking as he moved lightly forward. There was not a break in his stride as he walked straight to the faro table. Carelessly, it appeared, but really by cool design, he chose the place next to Dutch, close to him and on his right.
“Don’t crowd, young fella,” warned the bully heavily. “Me, when I play, I want room a-plenty.”
The pony express rider tossed a twenty-dollar gold piece on the table. “Chips,” he said, without even looking at Dutch.
The eyes of the McClintocks met. Hugh was no gambler. He was sitting in, Scot knew, to share and lessen the risk. If he could draw the gunman’s attention for even an instant at the critical moment it might save the dealer’s life. A stack of chips slid across to the boy.
The big ruffian slammed down a fist like a ham, so that the chips jumped. “Didja hear me speak, kid? Know who I am?” he blustered.
The sun streamed full on the boy’s fair curly head from the window above. It brought out the faint golden down on his lean cheek and emphasized a certain cherubic innocence of gaze that still lingered from his childhood.
“Why, no, I don’t reckon I do.”
“I’m Sam Dutch.”
Hugh coppered two of the big man’s bets and played the jack to win. “Knew a fellow called Dutch once—hanged for stealing sheep from the Mormons. No kin, maybe,” he said cheerfully.
The lookout stirred uneasily, then stepped from the place where he sat and disappeared through a side door. The cards slid out of the box. Hugh won both bets he had coppered. Scot sized up chips to match the bets, and the boy drew them in with his left hand.
Dutch turned to him a face distorted as a gargoyle. “Play yore own game and keep off’n the cards I play. An’ don’t get heavy with me,” he snarled with an oath.
“Sure not,” Hugh promised amiably. “It was down on the Humboldt Sink they hanged him, I recollect.”
The bad man thrust his unkempt head closer. “Get outa here. You’re crowdin’ me. I don’t want my private graveyard to hold no kid-size coffins.”
“Room for both of us,” said Hugh coolly, and he did not give a fraction of an inch. Instead, he coppered another of the camp bully’s bets, playing the ace to lose.
“Not room for me an’ you here both. I tell you I’m Sam Dutch.”
Scot slid out the cards. The ace lost.
“Yes, I heard you—no need to shout,” Hugh said tranquilly, reaching for his winnings.
Dutch brushed his arm aside roughly. He raked in the chips. “I’ll collect on that ace,” he announced.
“You played it to win and it lost,” Hugh told him.
“Did I?” The killer was dangerously near explosion point. “Don’t forget, young fella, that I’m chief in this town.”
Hugh looked straight at him, his blue eyes narrowed ever so little. “So? Who elected you?”
This cool defiance from an unknown smooth-cheeked boy put the match to the ruffian’s rage. He snatched from his head the Peruvian hat and stamped it under his feet. His teeth ground savagely. He stooped as though to leap, and as he did so his fingers closed on the horn handle of the bowie projecting from his boot leg. The long blade flashed in the sunlight.
Almost simultaneously a derringer and a navy revolver flamed.
A stupid puzzled expression gathered on the face of the man in the army overcoat. He seemed to be groping for the meaning of what had happened. The huge body swayed and the bowie clattered to the floor.
Both brothers watched the killer intently. Neither fired a second shot, though every sense, nerve, and muscle waited in readiness for instant action.
Dutch clutched at the faro table with both hands, then unexpectedly pitched forward upon it, scattering chips and cards in all directions.
From behind the bar, from back of chairs and tables, men cautiously emerged. Others gathered themselves from the floor where they had been lying low. The lookout stuck a head carefully through the side doorway. There would be no more shooting.
Scot spoke quietly. “I take you-all to witness, gentlemen, that he came here looking for trouble. My brother and I fired in self-defence.”
Someone thrust a hand under the big body and pushed aside the blue coat. “Heart’s still beating,” he announced.
“Then send for a doctor and have him looked after. I’ll pay the bill,” Scot said, still in an even expressionless voice.
“Hadn’t you better finish the job?” a voice whispered in Hugh’s ear.
Hugh turned, dizzy with nausea. “God, no!” he answered.
“If he lives he’ll get you sure—both of you.”
“We’re not murderers,” the boy said.
He groped his way to a chair and sat down quickly. Was he going to faint?
A hand fell on his shoulder. Through a haze Scot’s voice came warm and low: “Good old Hugh. Saved my life sure. You were that cool—and game. Every move you made counted. If you hadn’t devilled him till he lost his head he’d likely have got one of us. Boy, I’m proud of you.”
Hugh was ashamed of his weakness. “I didn’t play the baby this away when I got that Piute at the pass,” he said apologetically.
“Nothing to it, boy. You came through fine. Except for you—well, I would have cashed in. Come. Let’s get out of here.”
The owner of the Crystal Palace was standing near.
“Can you get someone else to finish my shift?” Scot asked.
“Sure.” The proprietor did a little legitimate grumbling. “There’s sixty-five saloons in this town, an’ I’ll be doggoned if everybody doesn’t come here to do their gun stuff. Seems like a man will walk clear up from Gold Hill so’s to pull off his fireworks at the Crystal. It don’t do business no good, lemme tell you.”
“You’re out of luck,” his dealer smiled. “But we couldn’t really help it this time.”
“I don’t say you could, Scot. I won’t mourn for Sam Dutch if you’ve got him. All I say is I try to run a quiet, respectable place an’ looks like I never get a chance.”
The brothers walked out to the street. Patrons of the place fell back to let them pass and followed with their eyes the two straight, light-stepping men. Hugh was still a little stringy in build, but even in his immaturity it would have been hard to find a more promising-looking youngster. As for Scot, he was acknowledged to be the handsomest man in the diggings. No woman ever saw him pass without wanting to look at him twice.
The news had swept through town already, and as the brothers walked down the street a hundred men stopped to shake hands with and congratulate them. But even now they whispered their approval. It was possible Dutch might survive his wounds, in which case they were prepared to resume ostensible neutrality. The killer’s name was one that sent the chills down the backs of even courageous men. He was more deadly than a rattlesnake because he usually did not give warning before he struck.