CHAPTER XXXIITHE NIGHT OF JUNE FIFTEENTH
ELIZABETH MUNDY and her daughter had gone to the city on “the inside” of the range. Joshua Cole moved about his little cabin with a listless air when not wrapped up in his studies. Five days had passed since he waved good-by to Madge as the six-horse stage took up the long trip from Ragtown to the desert town of Spur. Joshua was not going East. He had trailed down from the summit of Spyglass Mountain one evening to find a vigorous fire blazing at one corner of his cabin, and had heard the thud of hoofs galloping off into the dusk. Five buckets of water from the near-by well had saved his cabin and his precious books and papers, but the owner now realized that Sweet meant business and he dared not leave the country. Even as Felix Wolfgang had planned.
The first time that Joshua rode to Ragtown for the mail after Madge’s departure he encountered California Bill. The two seated themselves in a remote corner of The Silver Dollar, and Joshua told of the bullet holes in his cabin roof, of one shattered window, of the fire of pitchy pine splinters laid by horsemen who had galloped away into the dusk, and of the rifleman on a shelf of Spyglass Mountain.
“And now,” he finished, “what’s your advice, old Bill? I’ll respect it—even act on it—as I would the advice of no other man I know.”
“Pin the medal here, Tony,” chuckled Bill, tapping his broad breast with a stubby forefinger. “Pin ’er here, an’ listen to words o’ wisdom.”
“Shoot!”
“Do nothin’ but stick and watch yer prop’ty, an’ leave th’ rest to that interestin’, quaint, an’ exclusive character known as California Bill.”
“But, Bill, I don’t want to foist my troubles on you. I’ll do the doing. I merely want advice.”
“An’ ye’ve got ’er, son—ye’ve got ’er. I’m th’ only man in these here mountains that c’n handle this here deal. Funny—but I am, seems. So it’s up to me to handle her. I know Lee Sweet like I know my off lead mule, an’ it’s a toss-up whichun’s the ornriest o’ th’ two. Lee’s th’ stubbornest, but th’ mule’s ears are th’ longest. Th’ mule’s meaner than Lee Sweet, but Lee Sweet he thinks he’s th’ meanest. However, he thinks wrong. I’m s’prised at Lee. Ye see, I know ’im so well. ’Tain’t like Lee a-tall to act thataway. So, knowin’ that, I draw certain conclusions, based on certain things I’ve witnessed here of late. So keep ridin’ wide an’ pretty, Tony, an’ don’t strangle th’ biscuit—an’ leave th’ rest to me. How’s Shanty Madge makin’ out these days?”
Thus abruptly did California Bill close the matter of Sweet’s persecution, intimating that he would attend to everything and relieve Joshua of all worry.
“Why, didn’t you know?” Joshua returned. “She and her mother have gone on the inside for a few weeks—to visit the Montgomerys.”
“To visit th’ Montgomerys, eh?”—and the keen slate eyes of the old freighter studied Joshua from under their dense blackcheval-de-frise. “Jack Montgomery in th’ mountains these days?”
“No, he’s still in the city.”
California intermittently separated and spread his thick fingers on the table before him, watching the operation thoughtfully.
“Did ye ever ask Madge to marry ye, Tony?” he asked suddenly.
Joshua’s face flamed red. “I—I— Come to think of it, I don’t believe I ever did, Bill.”
Bill snorted softly and ceased his finger exercise to absently toy with one of the fluffy little white rabbit tails that puffed out above the lobe of each of his ears.
“You’re a hell of a lady’s man,” he observed disgustedly. “Say, Tony, if ye let that dude of a Jack Montgomery get Shanty Madge away from ye, I’ll—I’ll— I’m off ye f’r life, that’s all! Maybe ye savvy Mars, but ye don’t know anything about Venus. Ye’re loco in th’ head when it comes to themujeres.”
“I’ve let Madge see what I am,” Joshua said. “If she wants me, she— Well, it’s up to her.”
“Up to hermy eye! Ye gotta crowd ’em,amigo—ye gotta crowd ’em right up ag’in th’ fence. They like it.”
“How do you know they do? You’re a great one to talk.”
“Oh, I’ve had my little spells o’ wranglin’ with ’em. I’ll bet ye a strip o’ whang leather Jack Montgomery’s crowded her.”
“He’s asked her to marry him, if that’s what you mean.”
“And she ain’t done it yet, has she? No, she ain’t. An’ why? ’Cause she’s waitin’ for you to buck up an’ show a little savvy. Say, Tony, ye make me sick as a drenched mule.”
“I’ve tried to be a little dignified in the matter,” Joshua defended.
“I’ll tell th’ cockeyed world ye have!” scoffed California Bill. “Dignified! God! Who ever heard o’ love bein’ dignified? Say, that’s th’ best one I ever heard. Nobody on earth but you could have sprung that, Tony. If there’s anything on earth thatain’tdignified, it’s love. A manc’n get drunk an’ fall in a mud puddle, an’ get up an’ walk off dignified. A pallbearer might stub his toe an’ sprawl ’round till even the corpse laughed, but he’d be dignified ’longside a real he-man in love. Say, ye’re a reg’lar howl!”
“It’s strange,” mused Joshua, a little stiffly, “that you failed to call my attention to all this until Madge was out of the mountains.”
“Hell’s afire, man!—I thought it was all settled between you two long ago! I never dreamed ye was such a sucker!”
“She longs for money,” said Joshua. “She halfway wants me to give up my astronomy, and I can’t do that.”
“Money my foot! What’d she buy with it? Mules? She longs for love, and all she wants ye to give up is a little love-talk.”
Joshua looked doubtfully at Bill, then down at the table and blushed furiously.
“I’ve already called her dear twice,” he made announcement, “and once I—I put my arm around her.”
California Bill roared and pounded the table with his heavy fist. “Muy bueno!” he applauded. “Hi-yu skookum!He called her dear twice! Oh, Lord! And once he put his arm around her—seems! Sufferin’ snakes, Tony, don’t ye know how funny ye are? Ye’re funny just like a toad—who don’t know he’s funny a-tall!”
But Bill changed his tactics when he saw the brooding look in Joshua’s eyes.
“I’ll tell ye what ye do,” he said, laying a stubby hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You write Madge right away an’ let her know it’s turned out ye dassent go East; an’ if I’m not mistaken she’ll be lopin’ back soon’s she’s bought her trinkets. An’ then if ye don’t start a riot with her—get right down to business an’ make he-man love to her, th’ fightin’, faunchin’, rarin’, won’t-take-no-for-an-answer kind—why,then ye deserve to lose her. Now go on home an’ write to her so’s ye c’n get yer letter off to-morrow. I’m plumb disgusted with ye—seems. Go on—an’ leave Lee Sweet to a man that savvies menandwomen. Wait a minute!... I’ll buy th’ drinks before ye go.”
California Bill continued to sit at the table long after Joshua had ridden off on his dapple gray. He took a stiff drink of whisky now and then for the good of his soul, and rolled many brown-paper cigarettes. He kept his sharp eyes on the ever-growing crowd before the bar, until Lee Sweet, a little the worse for drink, staggered in with three of his punchers behind him. Then Bill left the place and went to The Golden Eagle.
In The Golden Eagle he lounged at the bar for a time, talking with acquaintances, then found a table and sat alone. His shrewd eyes roved frequently to Slim Wolfgang, presiding over the stud game, his green-celluloid eyeshield drawn low over his eyes, his coat off, displaying the sleeves of a garish silk shirt, his billiard-cloth vest and golden buttons making him as conspicuous as a parrot in a cage of hawks.
Bill saw Slim’s girl when she danced with some heavy-footed construction stiff, watched her while she hung over Slim’s chair, or ogled some one to buy her a drink for the good of the house and her own percentage.
California was thinking deeply. Old man-hunter that he was, he was capable of putting two and two together, and was not a stranger to the delicate art of deduction. Long ago he had decided that no mere freak of chance had brought The Whimperer and Slim Wolfgang to the country where Joshua Cole was working. And now that Lee Sweet had begun heckling the new homesteader, Bill was deeply interested in the close companionship he had of late observedbetween Wolfgang, Sweet, and the girl called Winnie the Weeper. Here was a mystery to be solved, and Bill meant to solve it.
But he was unfortunate that night in that neither Winnie the Weeper nor Slim Wolfgang made any move to join Lee Sweet. And not once did the cattleman enter The Golden Eagle. So Bill gave up his quest at midnight and went to bed, for he must be up early and on his way to Spur to continue his part in supplying the seemingly insatiable wants of Demarest, Spruce and Tillou.
After that night, every time that California Bill made Ragtown he watched for an opportunity to solve the mystery of Felix Wolfgang’s sojourn there. He hoped to discover the reason by stealing up on the gambler’s tent when he and Winnie and Sweet were holding a conference. He had rightly decided that Sweet was merely a tool in the hands of the parasitical pair, that they were egging him on to harass Joshua in order to serve their own mysterious ends. Sweet he did not fear, for he considered him incapable of any serious crime, a big, blustering, self-important boy who merely needed a spanking.
Then it occurred to Bill that he was on the wrong tack altogether, and he cursed himself for an idiot. If Winnie and Wolfgang were working against Joshua through Lee Sweet, Bill would learn nothing by listening in on a conversation among the three. He must forget Sweet for the time being, and make an effort to spy on the gambler and his girl when they were alone.
So he took to loitering about the town until he saw Winnie and Slim leave The Golden Eagle, when he would steal up in the darkness and stand silent at the back of their tent, with only the thin canvas between him and them. Three times he did this, but he heard nothing to his advantage. And these three times carried the actors in thislittle mountain drama well into the month of June, for each of Bill’s trips to Spur occupied eight days.
Bill was learning nothing from his stealthy spying. He had not once encountered Joshua during the month and a half that followed Joshua’s tale of Sweet’s activities. So he did not know whether Sweet had done anything more against him or not. Sweet was busy with the cattle now, for the spring drive into the mountains was on. Many herds had already been brought in and were scattered over the lush meadows, now rank with succulent feed. Sweet and the greater portion of his vaqueros were on the desert rounding up the stragglers over a range that extended for ninety miles. California Bill was about discouraged over the result of his efforts to help his friend when, on the night of the fifteenth of June, he stood silent at the back of Wolfgang’s tent and overheard conversation and certain other sounds that made him cup a thick hand behind his ear.
Because it was evident from what he heard that Slim Wolfgang and Winnie the Weeper were packing their trunks in readiness to take the stage for Spur next morning. And Slim asked Winnie if she remembered what her ticket from New York to California had cost.
This was sufficient to cause California Bill to clear for action. He had found out nothing, and now this precious pair were on their way East in the morning. There was only one thing to be done before it was too late. Bill stooped and softly began to pull the stakes from the ground at one corner of the tent. A little later he gently lifted one canvas wall, gave his body a quick flip, and was inside.
The girl sucked in a scream, turned chalk-white, and stared at him. Slim Wolfgang wheeled from a trunk that he was strapping, made a crawling dive for the table, andwheeled again, half crouched, a Colt revolver leveled at California Bill.
“Well, wot d’youse want in here?” he snarled.
“Son,” said Bill, “don’t point that there thing at me. Put ’er on th’ table. I wanta talk to ye a bit.”
“Talk den, an’ make ’er snappy! Wot d’youse want o’ me?”
“Lay th’ smoke-iron on th’ table, son,” Bill ordered again. “What’s th’ use o’ yer flourishin’ ’er? Ye wouldn’t dast shoot California Bill. They’d hang ye, come mornin’. Be nice now—an’sensible.”
All the time that he was speaking California Bill had been walking deliberately toward the gambler. His hands, hanging at his sides, held no gun. Winnie the Weeper shrank away from him as he neared her, backed to the bed, and sat down weakly, her trembling legs unable to hold her any longer. The slate-gray eyes of the old freighter were fixed on the pale-blue eyes of Felix Wolfgang, and in them was no unkindly light. But they held a fixity, an unwavering, fearless, purposeful look that kept the gambler in a statuesque attitude, undecided, deep down in his heart afraid and hopeless. Slim had fought many battles, with weapons and without, but always with tramps or gangsters who feared him because of his cunning and his deadly methods. Never before had an enemy walked straight up to him, unarmed, and completely ignoring the menace of his gun. It was new to Slim, and the cold fear gripped him that, even if he should shoot, this calm, unconcerned old Westerner would in the end come out the winner. And Slim had much at stake. He did not know that those hypnotic slate eyes of California Bill had brought many a braver man than he was to surrender—that Bill was a fatalist, and had faced many a threatening gun as he now facedthis one, convinced that when his time came to die he would simply die, and that would be the end of it.
“Wu-wot d’youse want, I’m astin’ youse?” Slim quavered, as Bill stood within arm’s-length of him; and he was surprised at the break in his voice and its lack of plug-ugly huskiness.
“Why, that there gun, first,” replied California Bill; and before Slim knew what had taken place the revolver had been twisted from his hand and dropped into the freighter’s pocket—but Slim’s wrist still ached.
“There—now that’s a heap better,” Bill said soothingly. “Now le’s set on th’ bed—you an’ me an’ yermuchacha—an’ ye’re gonta tell me all about why ye’re here, an’ what ye got ag’in my friend, Cole of Spyglass Mountain.”
“I—”
“Will,” complacently finished Bill, and his powerful fingers suddenly grasped Slim’s already aching wrist.
Those stubby digits, thick as corncobs, closed down slowly like a vise closing on a piece of wood.
“I c’n break ’er, son—jest as easy. Now gentle down an’ come to th’ bed with me. We’ll all set together, me in th’ middle, holdin’ onto both o’ ye friendly like; an’ we’ll talk about Tony an’ yer trip out West.”
Winnie the Weeper half rose at this, and glanced about, ready to dart out of the tent before Bill could drag hermaquereauto the bedside.
“Look, ma’am,” said Bill; and he flipped his right hand downward as does a man who has had his hand in mud and rids himself of it. And nestled in the palm of it the girl saw a stubby .32 automatic pistol, which theretofore had hung inside Bill’s sleeve, attached to a rubber band that was bound about his elbow.
“I’m tellin’ ye frankly,” he drawled, “that yer man couldn’t ’a’ shot me when I was walkin’ on ’im a minuteback. I coulda flipped this gun, dropped, and bored ’im while his bullet was goin’ over my head. I coulda read in his eye th’ instant he was gonta pull trigger—but that look didn’t come there. I hate to brag, but this here case is diff’rent. I’m workin’ for th’ best friend I got. Set down, ma’am—tha-a-a-at’s right. Now, son—”
And he led the unprotesting gambler to the bed, back upon which the girl had already sunk and was weeping softly, and sat himself down between them, with a hand gripping the wrist of each.
“Now we’re allhi-yu skookum,” he remarked jocularly. “Let’s have th’ yarn from one end to t’other, an’ le’s don’t make no mistakes.”