Blear-eyed men appeared in their doorways half awake, and only just recovering from their overnight orgy. They stood for some moments voiceless and thoughtful. Then the concentration upon the store began. It was strange to look upon. It was an almost simultaneous movement. These half-dazed, wholly sick creatures moved with the precision of a universally impelling force. The store might have been one huge magnet–perhaps it was–and these dejected early risers mere atoms of steel.
But the store reached, that wonderfully revivifying hair of the tail, etc., partaken of, and a rapid change supervened. Quarts of coffee and some trifling solid further stimulated jaded energies, and in less than an hour the memory that the day was Wednesday, and that the gold-stage was to set out upon its eventful journey, became the chief thought in every mind. Curiosity and excitement ran riot, and questions flew from lip to lip. How had Minky provided for the safeguarding of his gold? Had he arranged for an adequate escort? To whom was the gold to be entrusted?
The store was full of men. The veranda overflowed with them. There were men of almost every nationality–from half-breed Mexicans, popularly dubbed “gorl-durned Dagos,” to the stolid Briton, the virile New Yorker, the square-headed Teuton, the lithe, graceful prairie man from the Southern States. But the usual noisy discussion of the world’s affairs, as viewed from the hidden valley in which lay Suffering Creek, had no vital interest just now. And, after the first rush of burning questions, a hush fell upon the assembly, and it quickly composed itself, in various attitudes and positions of advantage, to await, in what patience it could, the satisfying of its curiosity.
Soon the hush became oppressive. It almost became a burden. Men stirred uneasily under it; they chafed. And at last Joe Brand found himself voicing something of the feelings of everybody. He spoke in a whisper which, for the life of him, he could not have raised to full voice. He was standing next to White, and he took him confidentially by the shoulder and spoke, leaning over till his lips were on a level with his ear.
“I allow funerals is joyous things an’ nigger lynchin’s is real comic,” he declared hoarsely. “But fer real rollickin’ merriment I never see the equal o’ this yer gatherin’. I sure don’t think it ’ud damp things any ef I was to give ’em a Doxology.”
The miner responded with a pensive smile.
“Mebbe you’re right ’bout funerals an’ nigger lynchin’s,” he whispered back, “but they’s jest a matter o’ livin’ an’ dyin’. Y’see, Minky’s gamblin’ sixty thousand dollars o’ good red gold.”
Brand nodded. And somehow he appreciated the point and became easier.
Later on Minky appeared in the store, and almost automatically every eye was turned expectantly upon him. But he had only come to ascertain if Wild Bill was about.
No, the gambler had not been seen. Someone jocularly suggested that he and Zip were out visiting Sandy Joyce upon their claim. None of the three had been seen that morning. But the levity was allowed to pass without a smile, and Minky disappeared again into the back regions of his store.
After that the time passed even more slowly. The store emptied; the men moved out into the sunlight to await the first sight of the stage. There was nothing else to do. Such was their saturation of the previous night that even drink had no attraction at this early hour. So they sat or lounged about, gazing out at the distant upland across the river. There lay the vanishing-point of the Spawn City trail, and beyond that they knew the danger-zone to lie. It was a danger-zone they all understood, and, hardy as they were, they could not understand anyone mad enough to risk a fortune of gold within its radius. Not one of them would have faced it singly with so little as twenty dollars in his pocket, much less laboring under the burden of sixty thousand dollars. And yet somebody was going to do so to-day.
A pounding of hoofs and crunching of wheels suddenly swept all apathy away. Every eye lit; every head turned. And in a moment Suffering Creek was on its feet, agog with the intensest interest. For one brief moment the rattle and clatter continued. Then, from round the corner, with bits champing and satin coats gleaming in the sun, their silver-mounted harness sparkling, Wild Bill’s treasured team of six horses swept into view. Round they swung, hitched to his well-known spring-cart, and in a second had drawn up with a flourish in front of the veranda.
A gasp of astonishment greeted this unexpected vision. Men stood gaping at the beaming choreman sitting perched up on the driving-seat. It was the first time in his life he had ever been allowed to handle the gambler’s equine children, and his joy and pride were written in every furrow of his age-lined features.
The man sat waiting, while the thoroughbreds pawed the ground and reached restively at their bits. But they were like babes to handle, for their manners were perfect. They had been taught by a master-hand whose lessons had been well learned. And the picture they made was one that inspired admiration and envy in every eye and heart of those who now beheld them.
But these were not the only emotions the sight provoked. Blank astonishment and incredulous wonder stirred them, too. Bill’s horses! Bill’s cart! Where–where was the gambler himself? Was this the stage? Was Bill–?
The talk which had been so long suppressed now broke out afresh. Everybody asked questions, but nobody answered any. They crowded about the cart. They inspected the horses with eyes of admiration and wonder. No man could have withstood the sight of the rope-like veins standing out through their velvet skin. They fondled them, and talked to them as men will talk to horses. And it was only when Minky suddenly appeared in their midst, bearing in his arms an iron-clamped case which he deposited in the body of the cart, that their attention was diverted, and they remembered the purpose in hand.
The gold-chest deposited and made secure, the storekeeper turned to the crowd about him.
“Well, boys,” he said, with an amiable smile, “any more mail? Any you fellers got things you need to send to your sisters–or somebody else’s sisters? You best get it ready sharp. We’re startin’ at eight o’clock. After that you’ll sure be too late. Y’see,” he added humorously, “we ain’t figgered when the next stage goes.” He pulled out his nickel silver timepiece. “It’s needin’ five minutes to schedule,” he went on officially, glancing keenly down the trail. Anyone sufficiently observant, and had they been quick enough, might have detected a shade of anxiety in his glance. He moved round to the side of the cart and spoke to the man in the driving-seat.
“It’s nigh eight. He ain’t here?” he said questioningly.
“Guess he’ll be right along, boss,” the little man returned in a low voice.
Again the storekeeper glanced anxiously down the trail. Then he turned away with a slight sigh.
“Well, boys,” he said, with another attempt at jocularity, “if ther’ ain’t nuthin’ doin’, guess this mail’s sure closed.”
Passing again to the back of the cart, he gazed affectionately upon the gold-chest. Then he lifted his eyes just as Van voiced the question in everybody’s mind.
“You sure ain’t sendin’ pore old Danny with that stage?” he cried incredulously. “You sure ain’t sendin’ him fer James to sift lead through? You ain’t lettin’ him drive Bill’s horses?”
“He sure ain’t. Him drive my plugs? Him? Gee! Ther’ ain’t no one but me drives them hosses–not if Congress passed it a law.”
The harsh, familiar voice of Wild Bill grated contemptuously. He had come up from his hut all unnoticed just in time to hear Van’s protesting inquiry. Now he stood with eyes only for his horses.
Daylight at last shone through the mist of doubt and puzzlement which had kept the citizens of Suffering Creek in darkness so long. They looked at this lean, harsh figure and understood. Here was the driver of the stage, and, curiously, with this realization their doubts of its welfare lessened. All along they had been blaming Bill for his lack of interest in the affairs of the camp, and now–
They watched him with keen, narrowing eyes. What mad game was he contemplating? They noted his dress. It was different to that which he usually wore. His legs were encased in sheepskin chaps. He was wearing a belt about his waist from which hung a heavy pair of guns. And under his black, shiny, short coat he was wearing a simple buckskin shirt.
They watched him as he moved round his horses, examining the fit of the bridles and the fastenings of the harness. He looked to the buckles of the reins. He smoothed the satin coats of his children with affectionate hand. Then in a moment they saw him spring into the cart.
Taking the reins from the choreman, he settled himself into the driving-seat, while the deposed charioteer clambered stiffly to the ground.
Minky was at the wheel nearest to his friend. The horses, under the master-hand, had suddenly become restive. Bill bent over, and the storekeeper craned up towards him.
“Ther’ was two fellers hit the trail this morning,” the gambler said, with a short laugh. “I see ’em when I was with Zip–’fore daylight.”
“You–you best quit it,” said Minky in serious, anxious tones. “We kin, maybe, hold the gold up against him here. It ain’t too late. It ain’t, sure.”
Bill’s face suddenly darkened. All the lightness which the prospect before him had inspired suddenly left it. His words came so full of bitter hatred that the other was startled.
“Not for a million-dollar halo!” he cried, reaching out for his long whip.
With a dexterous swing he set it cracking over his horses’ backs. The high-strung beasts plunged at their bits, and the leaders started to rear. Again he swung out his whip, and this time it flicked the plunging leaders. Instantly there was a rush of feet and a scrunch of wheels. The “tugs” pulled taut, and the gush of eager nostrils hissed like steam upon the still air. There was a shout of farewell from the onlookers, and the gambler turned in his seat.
“So long, fellers,” he cried. “I’m makin’ Spawn City by daylight to-morrer–sure.”
The next moment he was lost in a cloud of dust, as the horses raced down the hill.
CHAPTER XXX
ON THE SPAWN CITY TRAIL
Wild Bill’s lean hands clawed the reins with muscles of steel. For the moment his six horses occupied his every thought. They were pulling with the madness of high-bred racehorses. The trail lay before them, their master sat behind. What more could they want, but that liberty to stretch their willing bodies?
Down the hill and along the wood-lined trail that ran parallel to the sluggish creek they raced. The dust rose under their feet, and the wheels of the cart left a fog behind them. It rose in swirling clouds as though to shut off all retreat. Presently the road narrowed to a mere track, and the dark woods closed in. But there was no slackening under the hand of the gambler. Nor had the horses any desire to slacken their headlong rush. The woods broke and gave to a low bush, and in a moment the track opened upon Scipio’s claim.
Now, for the first time since the start as they swept across it, Bill permitted his gaze to wander from his charges. He looked away at the mouth of the tunnel Sandy had spent so much labor and such bitter cursing in the process of constructing; and a half-smile flitted across his hard face as he beheld the oozy débris, the idle tools, the winch and buckets. The sight seemed to afford him amusement. There was a softening, too, in his hard face. Maybe it was the result of his amusement. Maybe it was due to some thought of the little man with whom he was partners. But he seemed to freeze up again as the claim passed, and the horses floundered over the heavy trail beside the black, oily swamp beyond. It was bad driving here, and he steadied the racing creatures down with voice and hand.
“Easy, Gipsy. Easy you, Pete. Now Maisie. So! Steady, boys. Easy!”
The harsh voice was hushed and gentle. He was speaking to creatures that were not merely horses to him, but something nearer, perhaps even dearer.
And the well-trained creatures responded at once, slowing to an easy trot, a pace which they kept until the ford of the creek was reached. Here they dropped to a walk as they splashed their way through the turgid stream. But the moment the wheels of the cart topped the opposite bank, they once more resumed their headlong gait.
At once the gambler sat up. He straightened his lean body as a man who opens his lungs to breathe in deep draughts of fresh, bracing air. His narrow eyes stared out aside of him and beyond. His nostrils expanded, and his thin lips were tightly shut.
The camp was behind him. The trail, a hard, wide sand trail, lay ahead. The wide, wild world was about him on every hand, reminding him of days long gone by, reminding him that to-day his instincts were still the same. The same fiery, militant spirit that had driven him from one end of his country to the other still left him yearning for the ruthless battle of wild places and wilder men. The long months of inactivity, the long days of peace, the longer nights of his gambler’s craft, were for the moment gone. He was setting out, as in the old days, surrounded by all in life he cared for, offering a challenge to all the world, ready to grapple with whatsoever the gods of war might choose to thrust in his way.
The man’s spirits rose. The swift-flashing eyes brightened. His body felt to be bursting with a ravishing joy of life. His purpose was his own. The joy was his alone. He had found excuse for satisfying his own greedy lust, a lust for battle which no overwhelming odds could diminish. He was a savage. He knew it; he gloried in it. Peace to him was a wearisome burden of which at all times he was ready to rid himself. So he was born. So he had always lived. So, he knew, he would die.
The trail rose with the upland. It rose with that gradation which so wears down the ardor of almost any horse. But the creatures Wild Bill was driving were made of unusual mettle. Their courage was the courage of the man behind them. And only when his courage failed him would their spirit falter. They swept up the long stretch as though the effort were a pastime. With ears pricked forward, nostrils gushing, their veins standing out like whipcord through their satin coats, they moved as though every stride were an expression of the joy of living. And the man’s steel muscles were held at tension to keep their gait within the bounds of reason.
As they neared the hill-top he turned and glanced back over his shoulder. There lay the camp nestling on the far side of the creek. There stood Minky’s store, lording it over its lesser fellows with the arrogance of successful commerce. He could see a small patch of figures standing about its veranda, and he knew that many eyes were watching for a final sight of him at the moment when he should vanish over the hill.
They were friendly eyes, too, he knew. They were the eyes of men who wished him well. But he doubted if those good wishes were for his own sake. He knew he was not a man whom men loved. And he smiled grimly as he glanced down at the chest of gold in the body of the cart.
In a moment his eyes were looking out ahead again, and all thought of those he was leaving behind left his mind.
The hill-top passed, the horses swung down into a deep, long valley. It was in this valley, some six or seven miles farther on, he had encountered Scipio in Minky’s buckboard. He thought of that meeting now, and remembered many things; and as recollection stirred his teeth shut tight till his jaw muscles stood out like walnuts through his lean cheeks. He had promised Scipio that day. Well, his mind was easier than his feelings. He was confident. But he was stirred to a nervous desire to be doing.
Nothing escaped his watchful eyes. Every tree, every bush, every rise and hollow passed under his closest scrutiny. But this was simply his way, a way that had long since been forced into a habit. He did not anticipate any developments yet. The battle-cry was yet to be sounded. He knew the men he was likely to deal with better than any other class. He knew their ways, their subtleties. Who should know them better? Had not years of his life been spent–?
He laughed aloud, but his laughter rang without mirth. And his horses, taking the sound to be a command, broke suddenly into a gallop. It was the sympathy between man and beast asserting itself. They, too, possessed that nervous desire to be doing. Something of the significance of the journey was theirs, and their nerves were braced with the temper of fine steel.
He steadied them down with the patience of a devoted father for a pack of boisterous children. No harsh words disturbed their sensitive ears. The certainty of their obedience made it unnecessary to exert any display of violence. They promptly fell again into their racing trot, and the cart once more ran smoothly over the hard beaten trail.
The higher reaches of the creek cut into the valley from the right, and the trail deviated to a rise of sandy ground. He had reached the point of his meeting with Scipio. Nor did he slacken his pace over the dust-laden patch. It was passed in a choking cloud, and in a moment the rise was topped and a wild, broken country spread out before him.
Five miles farther on he halted beside a small mountain stream and breathed his horses.
But his halt was of the briefest. He simply let the horses stand in their harness. It was not time to feed, but he removed their bits and let them nip up the bunches of sweet grass about their feet. And as he did so he paused a moment at the head of each animal, muttering words of encouragement, and administering caresses with a hand which bore in its touch an affection that no words of his could have conveyed.
Then he went back to the cart and made a few simple dispositions. One was to securely lash the gold-chest in its place; but its place he changed to the front of the cart. Another was to leave the lid of the foot-box, built against the dashboard, wide open, and to so secure it that it could not close again. Another was to adjust the lowered hood of the cart in a certain way that it was raised head-high as he sat in his driving-seat.
Then, with a grim satisfaction in his small eyes as he glanced over his simple preparations, he jumped to the ground and replaced the bits in his horses’ mouths. In two minutes he was again rushing over the trail, but this time through a world of crag and forest as primitive and rugged as was his own savage soul.
So the journey went on, over mountainous hills, and deep down into valleys as dark as only mountain forests of spruce and pine could make them. Over a broken road that set the light cart perilously bumping, speeding along the edges of precipices, with little more than inches to spare, at a pace that might well set the nerves jangling with every jolt. Later a halt for feed and water, and on again, the willing horses taking their rest only as the difficulties of the trail reduced their pace to a laborious walk.
The man sat alert through it all. There was no question in his mind. He knew what lay ahead of him somewhere in those vast depths. He knew that what he looked for was coming just as surely as the Day of Doom. He did not ask when or where. That was not his way. It might come when it chose, for his part. He was ready and even yearning for the moment of its coming.
So his eyes never rested for a moment. Scarce a glance or thought did he give to his horses. Theirs it was to keep to the trail. Theirs it was to keep their pace. His was all other responsibility.
The sun was leaning towards the western crags, where, in the distance, they raised their snow-crowned heads towards the heavens. The ruddy daylight was deepening to that warmth of color which belongs to day’s old age. The forest shadows appeared to deepen, those dark forests so far below him in the valleys. Here, where he was racing along at a high level, all was bright, the air was joyous. Below him lay the brooding stillness where lurked a hundred unknown dangers. There were only about fifteen more miles of this broken solitude, and beyond that stretched a world of waving, gracious grassland right on to the prairie city whither he was bound.
He stirred; his roving eyes abruptly concentrated. One distant spot on the rugged landscape held him. He craned forward. The movement caused him to ease his hand upon the reins. Instantly the horses sprang into a gallop. So intent was he that for the moment the change passed unnoticed. He seemed only to have eyes and thought for that distant hill-top. Then of a sudden he realized the dangerous breakneck speed, and turned his attention upon his team.
The animals once more reduced to a sober pace, he turned again to the spot which held his interest; and his eyes grew bright with a smile that had nothing pleasant in it. He was grinning with a savage joy more fierce, more threatening, than the cruellest frown. The next time he bestirred himself it was to swing his gun-holsters more handy to the front of his body.
Later on his interest seemed to lessen. No longer was there that watchfulness in his eyes. Perhaps it was he deemed there was no longer the necessity for it. Perhaps what he had seen had satisfied his restless searching. Anyway, he now sat contemplating the shining backs of his horses as they sped down the hill, and his eyes were friendly as he watched the rolls of muscle writhing under their satin coats.
But when next he looked up his moment of gentleness had passed. His easier moods were never of long duration. One swift glance again at the distant hill, and then he turned from it and sat gazing at the dank, oozy prospect of the low-lying flat he was just entering with no sort of friendliness. The sharp hoofs of his team were flinging mud in every direction, and the rattle of the wheels had deadened to a thick sucking as they sank into the black mud. It was a heavy pull, but the speed was not checked. It only needed an extra effort, and this the willing team readily applied. He knew the spot well; and he knew that beyond lay the hill, the crest of which had so held his attention a few minutes before.
His thoughts traveled no farther than that hill. For the time at least there was nothing beyond. Later it would be for him to consider that. Just ahead of him lay the chances and changes which went to make up such a life as his. This he knew. And somehow the thought stimulated his pulses to a fuller appreciation of things.
In a few moments he was nearing the far boundary of the flat, and the ascent of the hill was about to commence. He smiled. Yes, it was well calculated. The hill would have to be taken at a walk. It was by far the steepest of the journey. He remembered, too, that the crest of it was reached by a final climb that became almost precipitous. He remembered, too, that the black woods that crowded its sides at the crest gave place to the skeleton trunks left by some long-forgotten forest fire. Yes, it was the one spot on the whole journey best calculated for what was to come.
The team no longer labored in the ooze. The ascent was begun. With heads held high, with ears pricked and nostrils distended they faced the big effort unflinchingly.
And the driver’s mind was calculating many things. It was moving with the swiftness of an able general’s in the midst of a big action. He glanced at the sky. Already the sun was hidden behind the western hills. Already the shadows were lengthening and the gray of evening was falling. The profound woods, dense and ghostly, had closed in. The trail was so narrow that the dreary, weeping foliage often swept the sides of the cart. But these things did not occur to him. His mind was ahead, amongst those aged skeletons left by the raging fire-fiend.
Progress was slow. It was almost too slow for the man’s eager nerves. He wanted to reach his goal. His lean body thrilled with a profound joy. He lusted for the battle which he knew to lie ahead of him. But, even so, he gave no outward sign. His face was set and harsh. His small eyes bored through the gloom, thrusting to penetrate beyond every bend in the winding road. Nothing escaped them. Each small fur that fled in terror at his approach was carefully noted, for they told him things he wanted to know.
Now the final steep was reached. It was truly precipitous. The sharp hoofs of the team clawed their way up. Such was the struggle that even the man found himself leaning forward, instinctively desiring to help the laboring animals. The bends in the trail were sudden and at brief intervals. It was as though those responsible for the original clearing of the road had realized the impossibility of a direct ascent, and had chosen the zigzag path as the only means of surmounting the hill.
The moments passed. Bend followed bend. The man in the cart found himself mechanically counting them. Two more. One more. The summit was almost reached. And beyond? He sighed. Maybe it was the sigh of a man whose nerves are relieved from their tension, knowing that beyond this last bend lay his goal. Maybe it was inspired by sympathy for his struggling horses. Anyway, his whole manner underwent a change. The watchfulness seemed to have gone from his eyes, his muscles to have relaxed. He leant back in his seat like a man full of weariness, and securely fastened his reins to an iron rail on the side of the cart.
He was at the bend now. The leaders were abreast of it. They were past it. He–
There was a sharp rattle of firearms, and half-a-dozen bullets swept pinging their way over his head. A hoarse voice shouted a command to halt. His horses plunged forward. But, quick as lightning, his hands flew to the reins, and he drew them up to a standstill in the open.
“Hands up!” shouted the same voice; and a horseman appeared on each side of the team.
Then came an exhibition of the gambler as he was, as in the old days he had always been known. It was all done in the fraction of a second. Simultaneously his two guns leapt from his holsters and two shots rang out. There was an ominous echo from the woods. One horseman reeled in his saddle, and the horse of the other man stumbled and finally fell.
The next moment the man in the cart was crouching down, all but the crown of his head and his gleaming eyes well sheltered by the loose-hanging canvas hood.
“I’m ’most allus ready to put my hands up!” he snarled. “Come on!”