RODERICK spent a few days in Rawlins, improving his acquaintance with
Jim Rankin and making a general survey of the situation. The ex-sheriff
proved to be a veritable repository of local information, and Roderick
soon knew a little about everyone and everything in the district. He
learned that Tom Sun, one of his father’s old associates, had from
small beginnings come to be the largest sheep owner in the state; he
was rich and prosperous. With Boney Earnest, however, the other friend
mentioned in the letter, the case was different. Boney had stuck
for years to prospecting and desultory mining without achieving any
substantial success, but had eventually become a blast furnace man in
the big smelting plant at Encampment. There he had worked his way up to
a foreman’s position, and with his practical knowledge of all the ores
in the region was the real brains of the establishment, as Jim Rankin
forcibly declared. He had a large family which absorbed all his earnings
and always kept him on the ragged edge of necessity.
Rankin himself was not too well fixed—just making a more or less
precarious subsistence out of his stage line and livery stable business.
But he had several big mining deals in hand or at least in prospect, one
or other of which was “dead sure to turn up trumps some day.” The
“some day” appeared to be indefinitely postponed, but meanwhile Jim
had the happiness of living in the genial sunshiny atmosphere of hope.
And the coming of Roderick had changed this mellowed sunshine into
positive radiance, rekindling all the old fires of enthusiasm in the
heart of the old-time prospector. With Roderick the first surge of eager
impetuosity had now settled down into quiet determination. But old Jim
Rankin’s blood was at fever-heat in his eagerness to find the hidden
valley. When alone with Roderick he could talk of nothing else.
Roderick, however, had shrewdly and cautiously summed up the measure of
his usefulness. Jim Rankin had not the necessary capital to finance
a systematic search among the mountain fastnesses where nature so
jealously guarded her secret. Nor could he leave his horses and his
livery business for any long period, however glibly he might talk
about “going out and finding the blamed place.” As for any precise
knowledge of where the quest should be commenced, he had none. He had
shared in the frequent attempts and failures of Roderick’s father, and
after a lapse of some fifteen or sixteen years had even a slimmer chance
now than then of hitting the spot. So, all things duly considered,
Roderick had adhered to his original resolution of playing a lone hand.
Not even to Rankin did he show his father’s letter and map; their
relations were simply an understanding that the old frontiersman would
help Roderick out to the best of his power whenever opportunity offered
and in all possible ways, and that for services rendered there would be
liberal recompense should golden dreams come to be realized.
Another reason weighed with Roderick in holding to a policy of
reticence. Despite Jim’s own frequent cautions to “keep mum—say
nothing to nobody,” he himself was not the best hand at keeping a
secret, especially after a few cocktails had lubricated his natural
loquacity. At such moments, under the mildly stimulating influence, Jim
dearly loved to hint at mysterious knowledge locked up in his breast.
And in a mining camp vague hints are liable to become finger posts and
signboards—the very rocks and trees seem to be possessed of ears. So
young Warfield was at least erring on the safe side in keeping his own
counsel and giving no unnecessary confidences anywhere.
There was nothing to be gained by remaining longer at Rawlins.
Roderick’s slender finances rendered it imperative that he should
find work of some kind—work that would enable him to save a sufficient
stake for the prospecting venture, or give him the chance to search
out the proper moneyed partner who would be ready to share in the
undertaking. And since he had to work it would be well that his
work should, if possible, be on the range, where while earning his
maintenance and husbanding his resources, he could at the same time
be spying out the land and gaining invaluable experience. So he had on
several occasions discussed with Jim Rankin the chances of finding a
temporary job on one of the big cattle ranches, and after one of these
conversations had come his decision to move at once from Rawlins. His
first “voyage of discovery” would be to Encampment, the busy smelter
town. He remembered the cordial invitation extended to him by Grant
Jones, the newspaper man, and felt sure he would run across him there.
From the first he had felt strongly drawn to this buoyant young spirit
of the West, and mingled with his desire for such comradeship was just
a little longing, maybe, to glimpse again the fair smiling faces of the
twin sisters—“mountain wild flowers” as Grant Jones had so happily
described Barbara and Dorothy Shields.
So one fine morning Roderick found himself seated beside Jim Rankin
on the driver’s seat of an old-fashioned Concord stage coach. With a
crack of Jim’s whip, the six frisky horses, as was their wont at the
beginning of a journey, started off at a gallop down the street. Five or
six passengers were stowed away in the coach. But these were nothing
to Jim Rankin and Roderick Warfield. They could converse on their own
affairs during the long day’s drive. The old frontiersman was, as
usual, in talkative mood.
“By gunnies,” he exclaimed sotto-voce, as they wheeled along,
“we’ll find that pesky lost gold mine, don’t you forget it. I know
pretty dangnation near its location now. You bet I do and I’ll unbosom
myself and take you to it—jist you and me. I’m thinkin’ a heap
these yere days, you bet I am.”
Along in the afternoon they crossed over Jack Creek, an important stream
of water flowing from the west into the North Platte River. Jim Rankin
stopped the stage coach and pointed out to our hero the “deadline”
between the cattle and sheep range. “All this yere territory,” said
Jim, “lying north uv Jack Creek is nachure’s sheep pasture and all
lyin’ south uv Jack is cattle range.”
“It’s well known,” he went on, “where them blamed pesky sheep
feed and graze, by gunnies, vegetation don’t grow agin successful for
several years. The sheep not only nachurlly eat the grass down to its
roots, but their sharp hoofs cut the earth into fine pulp fields uv
dust. Jack Creek is the dividin’ line—the ‘dead line.’”
“What do you mean by the ‘dead line’.” asked Roderick.
“The ‘dead line,’”replied old Jim as he clucked to his
horses and swung his long whip at the off-leader—“the ‘dead
line’ is where by the great horn spoon the sheep can’t go any furder
south and the cattle darsn’t come any furder north, or when they do,
Hell’s a-pop-pin.’”
“What happens?”
“What happens?” repeated the frontiersman as he expectorated a
huge pit-tew of tobacco juice at a cactus that stood near the roadway.
“Why, by gunnies, hundreds uv ondefensible sheep have been actooally
clubbed to death in a single night by raidin’ cowboys and the
sheep-herders shot to death while sleepin’ in their camp wagons: and
their cookin’ outfit, which is usually in one end uv the wagon, as
well as the camp wagons, burned to conceal evidence of these dastardly
murders. Oh, they sure do make things gay and genial like.”
“Astonishing! The cowboys must be a pretty wicked lot,” interrogated
Roderick.
“Well, it’s about six uv one and half a dozen uv the other. You
see these pesky sheep herders and the cowboys are all torn off the same
piece uv cloth. Many a range rider has been picked from his hoss by
these sheep men hidden away in these here rocky cliffs which overlook
the valley. They sure ‘nuff get tumultuous.”
“But what about the law?” inquired Roderick. “Does it afford no
protection?”
Jim laughed derisively, pushed his hat far back and replied:
“Everybody that does any killin’ in these here parts sure does it
in self-defense.” He chuckled at his superior knowledge of the West.
“Leastways, that’s what the evidence brings out afore the courts.
However, Tom Sun says the fussin’ is about over with. Last year
more’n twenty cattle men were sentenced to the pen’tentiary up in
the Big Horn country. Sort uv an offset fur about a score uv sheep men
that’s been killed by the cow punchers while tendin’ their flocks on
the range. You bet they’ve been mixin’ things up with artil’ry a
heap.”
“I clearly perceive,” said Roderick, “that your sympathies are
with the cattle men.”
Jim Rankin turned quickly and with his piercing black eyes glared at
Roderick as if he would rebuke him for his presumption.
“Young man, don’t be assoomin’. I ain’t got no sympathy fur
neither one uv ‘em. I don’t believe in murder and I don’t believe
very much in the pen’tentiary. ‘Course when I was sheriff, I had
to do some shootin’ but my shootin’ wuz all within the law. No, I
don’t care a cuss one way or ‘tother. There are lots uv good fellers
ridin’ range. Expect yer will be ridin’ before long. Think I can
help yer get a job on the Shields ranch; if I can’t Grant Jones can.
And ther’s lots uv mighty good sheep-herders too. My old pal, Tom Sun,
is the biggest sheep-man in this whole dang-nation country and he’s
square, he is. So you see I ain’t got no preference, ‘tho’ I do
say the hull kit and bilin’ uv ‘em could be improved. Yes, I’m
nootral. Put that in yer pipe and smoke it, fur it goes dangnation
long ways in this man’s country to be nootral, and don’t git to
furgit’n it.”
It was late in the afternoon when they neared the little town of
Encampment. Old Jim Rankin began to cluck to his horses and swing his
whip gently and finally more pronouncedly.
If it is the invariable habit of stage drivers at the point of departure
to start off their horses in a full swinging gallop, it is an equally
inviolable rule, when they approach the point of arrival, that they
come in with a whoop and a hooray. These laws are just as immutable
as ringing the bell or blowing the locomotive whistle when leaving or
nearing a station. So when Jim Rankin cracked his whip, all six horses
leaned forward in their collars, wheeled up the main street in a
swinging gallop, and stopped abruptly in front of the little hotel.
As Roderick climbed down from the driver’s seat he was greeted with a
hearty “Hello, Warfield, welcome to our city.” The speaker was
none other than Grant Jones himself, for his newspaper instincts always
brought him, when in town, to meet the stage.
The two young men shook hands with all the cordiality of old friends.
“If you cannot get a room here at the hotel, you can bunk with me,”
continued Grant. “I have a little shack down towards the smelter.”
Roderick laughed and said: “Suppose, then, we don’t look for a room.
I’ll be mighty pleased to carry my baggage to your shack now.”
“All right, that’s a go,” said Grant; and together they started
down the street.
Grant Jones’ bachelor home consisted of a single room—a hastily
improvised shack, as he had correctly called it, that had cost no very
large sum to build. It was decorated with many trophies of college
life and of the chase. Various college pennants were on the walls,
innumerable pipes, some rusty antiquated firearms, besides a brace
of pistols which Jim Rankin had given to Grant, supposed to be the
identical flint-locks carried by Big Nose George, a desperado of the
early days.
“You see,” explained Grant as he welcomed his guest, “this is my
Encampment residence. I have another shack over at Dillon where I edit
my paper, the Dillon Doublejack. I spend part of my time in one
place and part in the other. My business is in Dillon but social
attractions—Dorothy Shields, you may have already guessed—are over
this way.” And he blushed red as he laughingly made the confession.
“And talking of the Shields, by the way,” resumed Grant. “I want
to tell you I took the liberty of mentioning your name to the old man.
He is badly in need of some more hands on the ranch—young fellows who
can ride and are reliable.”
Roderick was all alert.
“The very thing I’m looking for,” he said eagerly. “Would he
give me a place, do you think?”
“I’m certain of it. In fact I promised to bring you over to the
ranch as soon as you turned up at Encampment.”
“Mighty kind of you, old fellow,” remarked Roderick, gratefully and
with growing familiarity.
“Well, you can take that bed over there,” said the host. “This one
is mine. You’ll excuse the humble stretchers, I know. Then after you
have opened your grip and made yourself a little at home, we’ll take
a stroll. I fancy that a good big porterhouse won’t come amiss after
your long day’s drive. We’ve got some pretty good restaurants in the
town. I suppose you’ve already discovered that a properly cooked juicy
Wyoming steak is hard to beat, eh, you pampered New Yorker?”
Roderick laughed as he threw open his valise and arranged his brushes
and other toilet appurtenances on the small table that stood at the head
of the narrow iron stretcher.
A little later, when night had fallen, the young men went out into the
main street to dine and look over the town. It was right at the edge of
the valley with mountains rising in a semi-circle to south and west, a
typical mountain settlement.
“You see everything is wide open,” said Grant, as he escorted
Roderick along the streets, arm linked in arm. For they had just
discovered that they belonged to the same college fraternity—Kappa
Gamma Delta, so the bonds of friendship had been drawn tighter still.
“You have a great town here,” observed Roderick.
“We have about 1200 to 1500 people and 18 saloons!” laughed the
other. “And every saloon has a gambling lay-out—anything from
roulette to stud-poker. Over yonder is Brig Young’s place. Here is
Southpaw’s Bazaar. The Red Dog is a little farther along; the Golden
Eagle is one of the largest gambling houses in the town. We’ll have
our supper first, and then I’ll take you over to Brig Young’s and
introduce you.”
As they turned across the street they met a man coming toward them. He
was straight and tall, rather handsome, but a gray mustache made him
seem older than his years.
“Hello, here is Mr. Grady. Mr. Grady, I want to introduce you to a
newcomer. This is Mr. Roderick Warfield.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Warfield,” said Grady in a smooth voice and
with an oleaginous smile. To Roderick the face seemed a sinister one;
instinctively he felt a dislike for the man.
“Your town is quite up-to-date, with all its brilliant electric
lights,” he observed with a polite effort at conversation.
“Yes,” replied Grady, “but it is the monthly pay roll of my big
smelting company that supports the whole place.”
There was a pomposity in the remark and the look that accompanied it
which added to Roderick’s feelings of repulsion.
“Oh, I don’t know,” interposed Grant Jones, in a laughing way.
“We have about five hundred prospectors up in the hills who may not
yet be producers, but their monthly expenditures run up into pretty big
figures.”
“Of course, that amounts to something; but think of my pay roll,”
replied Grady, boastingly. “Almost a thousand men on my pay roll.
We have the biggest copper mine in the Rocky Mountain region, Mr.
War-field. Come down some day and see the smelter,” he added as he
extended his hand in farewell greeting, with a leer rather than a smile
on his face. “I’ll give you a pass.”
“Thank you,” said Roderick coldly. And the two friends resumed their
walk toward Brig Young’s saloon.
“I don’t mind telling you,” remarked Grant, “that Grady is the
most pompous, arrogant and all-round hated man in this mining camp.”
“He looks the part,” replied Roderick, and they both laughed.
A minute later they were seated in a cosy little restaurant. Ample
justice was done to the succulent Wyoming porterhouse, and cigars were
lighted over the cups of fragrant coffee that completed the meal. Then
the young men resumed their peregrinations pursuant to the programme of
visiting Brig Young’s place, certified by Grant Jones to be one of the
sights of the town.
The saloon proved to be an immense room with a bar in the corner near
the entrance. Roulette tables, faro lay-outs and a dozen poker tables
surrounded with feverish players were all running full blast, while
half a hundred men were standing around waiting to take the place of any
player who went broke or for any reason dropped out of the game.
“I guess nearly all the gambling is done here, isn’t it?” asked
Roderick.
“Not by a big sight. There are eighteen joints of this kind, and they
are all running wide open and doing business all the time.”
“When do they close?” inquired Roderick.
“They never close,” replied Grant. “Brig Young boasts that he
threw the key away when this place opened, and the door has never been
locked since.”
As they spoke their attention was attracted to one corner of the gaming
room. Seven players were grouped around a table, in the centre of which
was stacked a pile of several thousand dollars in gold pieces. Grant and
Roderick strolled over.
A score of miners and cowboys were standing around watching the game.
One of them said to Grant Jones: “It’s a jack pot and they’re
dealing for openers.”
Finally someone opened the pot for $500. “It’s an all-fired juicy
pot and I wouldn’t think of openin’ it for less.” Tom Lester was
the player’s name, as Grant whispered to Roderick.
“I’ll stay,” said One-Eyed Joe.
“So will I,” said another.
The players were quickly assisted with cards—four refused to come in,
and the other three, having thrown their discards into the deck, sat
facing each other ready for the final struggle in determining
the ownership of the big pot before them. It was a neck and neck
proposition. First one would see and raise and then another would see
and go better. Finally, the showdown came, and it created consternation
when it was discovered that there were five aces in sight.
Instantly Tom Lester jerked his Colt’s revolver from his belt and laid
it carefully down on top of his three aces and said: “Steady, boys,
don’t move a muscle or a hand until I talk.” The onlookers pushed
back and quickly enlarged the circle.
“Sit perfectly still, gentlemen,” said Tom Lester, quietly and in
a low tone of voice, with his cocked revolver in front of him. “I’m
not makin’ any accusations or loud talk—I’m not accusin’
anybody in particular of anything. Keep perfectly cool an’ hear a
cool determined man talk. Far be it from me to accuse anyone of crooked
dealin’ or holdin’ high cards up their sleeves.”
As he spoke he looked at One-Eyed Joe who had both a reputation at card
skin games and a record of several notches on his gun handle.
“I want to say,” Lester continued, “that I recognize in the game
we’re playin’ every man is a perfect gentleman and it’s not Tom
Lester who suspicions any impure motives or crooked work.
“We will now order a new deck of cards,” said Tom while fire was
flashing out of his steel gray eyes. “We will play this game to a
finish, by God, and the honest winner will take the stakes. But I will
say here and now so there may be no misunderstandin’ and without
further notice, that if a fifth ace shows up again around this table,
I’ll shoot his other eye out.” And he looked straight at One-Eyed
Joe, who never quivered or moved a muscle.
“This ends my remarks concernin’ the rules. How d’ye like ‘em,
Joe?”
“Me?” said Joe, looking up in a surprised way with his one eye.
“I’m ‘lowin’ you have made yer position plain—so dangnation
plain that even a blind man kin see the pint.”
The new deck was brought and the game went on in silence. After a few
deals the pot was again opened, and was in due course won by a player
who had taken no part in the previous mix-up, without a word falling
from the lips of either Tom Lester or One-Eyed Joe.
Roderick and Grant moved away.
“Great guns,” exclaimed the former. “But that’s a rare glimpse
of western life.”
“Oh, there are incidents like that every night,” replied Grant,
“and shooting too at times. Have a drink?” he added as they
approached the bar.
“Yes, I will have a great big lemonade.”
“Well,” laughed Grant, “I’ll surprise both you and my stomach by
taking the same.”
As they sipped their drinks, Grant’s face became a little serious as
he said: “I’m mighty glad you have come. You seem to be of my own
kind. Lots of good boys out here, but they are a little rough and
many of them are rather careless. Guess I am getting a little careless
myself. There are just two men in these mountains who have a good
influence over the boys. One is Major Buell Hampton. Everybody trusts
him. By the way, I must introduce you to him. He is one of the grandest
men I have ever met” As Grant said this he brought his fist down
decisively on the bar.
“The other is the Reverend Stephen Grannon,” he went on, “the
travelling horseback preacher—carries saddle bags, and all that. Why,
do you know, the boys are so respectful to Reverend Grannon that they
hire a man to go up and down the street ringing a bell, and they close
up all their places for an hour every time he comes to town. He preaches
mostly in the big tent you perhaps saw further up the street, at other
times in the little church. The boys are mighty respectful to him, and
all because they know he goes about doing good. If anyone falls ill,
Reverend Grannon is the first to offer help. He visits the poor and
cheers them with a spirit of hope. He never leaves town without going
into every saloon and shaking hands with the barkeepers, giving them the
same kind of advice but not in the same way—the same advice that
we used to get when we stood around our mother’s knee before we had
learned the sorrows of the big world.”
For a moment Grant was serious. Then looking up at Roderick, he laughed
and said: “We all have to think of those old days once in a while,
don’t we?”
Roderick nodded gravely.
“Now I come to think of it,” said Grant, “the present moment’s a
very good time. We’ll go down and call on one of Nature’s noblemen.
He is somewhat of an enigma. You cannot tell how old he is by looking at
him. He may have seen fifty years or a hundred and fifty—the Lord
only knows, for nobody in this camp has any idea. But you will meet
a magnificent character. Come along. I’m going to present you to my
friend, Major Buell Hampton, about whom I’ve just been speaking. I
guess we’ll catch him at home.”