CHAPTER XXIXTHE 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 thedénouementcame.
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 ratheratthanwithhim.
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 XXXON 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 XXXITHE 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.”