MORE WORK IN THE GULCHES.
"They are going to lynch a fellow named Guardley!" ejaculated Earl. "I
wonder if it can be Jasper Guardley."
"It must be; it's not likely there is another Guardley up here--the name
isn't as common as all that," returned Randy. "Shall we go?"
Earl hesitated. There was something appalling in a lynching, to his
mind. Yet he was curious to know more of the crime for which the
prisoner was about to suffer.
"Yes, we might as well--if Fred will watch the camp," he answered.
"I'll watch it as well as I can," answered Fred. The work he had been
doing had tired him more than he would admit, and he was glad enough to
take it easy. He knew Guardley, but took small interest in the man his
father had sent up more than once for petty crimes.
In less than five minutes Earl and Randy were off, stalking over the
hills and along Gold Bottom Creek as rapidly as their tired limbs would
carry them. Smedley's, a settlement of two-score of tents and one board
cabin where a few odds and ends could be bought, was nearly two miles
distance, yet they arrived there in less than half an hour--fast time
when the state of the trails they had travelled was taken into
consideration.
They found that the prisoner had been bound, hands and feet, and placed
in the storeroom of the board cabin, a little shed in the rear, scarcely
eight feet by twelve and hardly high enough for a man to stand in. Two
rough-looking miners were on guard, one with a gun, and the other with
an old-fashioned horse-pistol over a foot long.
"What do you want?" demanded one of the miners of Earl, as the latter
pushed his way forward through the fast-gathering crowd. "This ain't no
place fer a young rooster like you."
"I would like to see the prisoner, please," answered Earl. "I think I
know him."
"You ain't the feller's pard, are ye?" demanded the second guard,
suspiciously.
"No. I am from Maine, and I knew a Guardley up there who came to these
diggings. I wanted to find out if it was the same man."
"Say, is that Earl Portney?" came from within, and both Earl and Randy
recognized Jasper Guardley's voice. "If it is, I'd like to talk to him."
"Yes, Guardley," answered Earl. "What's the trouble?"
[Illustration: "I WOULD LIKE TO SEE THE PRISONER, PLEASE."--_Page 196._]
"Can't you come in and talk to me?"
"I'll come in if the guards will allow it," and Earl looked at the men.
"Go on in; but leave yer gun with me, if yer got one," was the reply,
from the man who had first addressed Earl.
"I haven't any pistol," said the youth, and passed into the shed. Randy
was about to follow, but the guard stopped him. "One's enough, my lad;
you wait outside." And Randy fell back into the crowd, which kept
increasing every minute.
From those around him, Randy learned that Guardley was being held for
the theft of eighty ounces of gold dust, which had been buried by a
miner, named Cozzins, under the flooring of his tent. Cozzins had missed
his gold that morning, and three other miners had testified to seeing
Guardley sneaking around the place, in company with another man,
presumably Tom Roland. Roland and the gold were both gone, and Guardley
had been "collared" just as he was about to leave for Dawson City. The
miners around Smedley's had held a meeting, and it was likely that
Guardley's crime would cost him his life.
"For you see we ain't got no jails here," explained one miner. "An' to
leave sech a measly critter run would be puttin' a premium on crime."
When Earl came out of the shed his face was very pale, and he was on the
point of passing the guards without a word, when they stopped him.
"Well, wot did ye make out?" demanded one, laconically.
"He says he didn't take the gold--that the robbery was planned and
executed by his partner. It is awful to think of taking his life."
"It's his own fault, lad--he should have thunk o' those things afore he
consented to help on the job."
"When will they--they--"
"Perform the ceremony? I reckon some time between now an' sunrise,
onless the crowd changes its mind. They're goin' to talk it over agin ez
soon as Cozzins comes back. He's huntin' fer thet other rascal."
After this Earl joined Randy, who was anxious to hear what Guardley had
had to say. The two walked some distance away.
"I believe Tom Roland stole the gold," began Earl, "but Guardley was
willing he should, and he remained on guard around the tent while Roland
dug it up, so he's just as guilty."
"But to take his life--" shuddered Randy.
"I hope they change their minds about that. And, by the way, we were
right about that money in Boston. Roland got that, and he had that lost
letter, too. Guardley admitted it, although he didn't give me any
particulars. He is trying to lay the blame of everything on Roland."
A shout interrupted the conversation at this point. Cozzins had come
back after an exciting but fruitless chase. At his appearance the scene
took on a new activity, and the would-be lynching party moved to the
front of the so-called store, where half a dozen flaring torches and two
smoking kerosene lamps lit up the weird scene. Here Cozzins told his
story, and then Guardley was brought out, trembling in every limb. He
begged over and over again to be let go, and his earnestness had its
effect even on the man who had been robbed. A talk lasting a quarter of
an hour followed, and then Guardley was given his choice of two
sentences,--the one being that already pronounced, and the other being a
whip-lashing on his bare back, and a drumming out of the camp, with the
warning that if he ever showed up there again, he was to be shot on
sight. With a long sigh of relief he chose the latter punishment, and
was ordered to strip, while Cozzins prepared for his part in the affair,
by hunting up the hardest and strongest rawhide dog-whip to be found.
"I don't want to see the whipping," whispered Randy; "let us go home.
Poor Guardley! I guess Cozzins will make him suffer as he has never
suffered before!"
"I hope it teaches him a lesson to turn over a new leaf," answered Earl.
"But I'm afraid there isn't any reform to Guardley. He hasn't even
enough manliness to shoulder his share of the blame, but tries to put it
all off on Roland. Come on." And they turned away without another word.
Before they were out of hearing distance of the camp, a shriek rent the
air, telling that Guardley's punishment had already begun.
The boys had expected their uncle to come back by Tuesday as told; but
in the afternoon one of the miners, working down Mosquito Hollow,
brought word from Dawson City that Mr. Portney could not get his lumber
for two or three days, and might be absent the remainder of the week in
consequence. So there was nothing to do but to keep on working at the
claims with the hand pans, and this Randy and Earl did, Fred helping
them as far as he was able. The boy who had been so ill-treated and half
starved was growing stronger rapidly, and he showed a willingness to do
even the most disagreeable things which was as astonishing as it was
gratifying.
Friday found the trio working up along a little split in the rocks on
the right bank of the gulch. The split was not over two feet wide by
twelve feet long, and it was filled with gravel and muck, with here and
there the nest of a field mouse among the tundra. Earl had suggested
clearing out the split, and he had gone in first to loosen the gravel
with his pick. About three loads of soil had been removed and carted
down to the gulch stream, and now Earl found the balance of the split
blocked by a huge rock.
"Doesn't seem to amount to much," he said, throwing down his tools to
mop the perspiration from his brow.
"Let me go in there," suggested Fred, and caught up the pick. Swinging
the tool over his shoulder, he brought it down with all force at a spot
where the rock showed a slight crack.
"Look out, or you'll break that pick!" called out Randy, when the front
half of the rock fell away, and Fred had to jump up to avoid having his
feet crushed. As he made the leap, his eyes caught sight of a surface of
yellow half hidden by muck and moss. He struck at it with the pick, and
out came a nugget nearly as big as his fist. He grabbed it up in a
transport of delight.
"Look! look! A nugget! Oh, what a big fellow! How much do you think it's
worth?" he cried; and rubbed the muck off with his coat sleeve. "It
looks as if it was solid!"
"It is almost solid," said Earl, weighing the find in his hand. "It's
worth two or three hundred dollars at least." And then he added, by way
of a caution, "You'll have to remember, Fred, that this is my uncle's
claim."
"Oh, I know that. But it ought to be worth something for finding it,"
said Fred, wistfully.
"Certainly, we'll make it right."
"Of course we will," added Randy. "Let us see if there are any more
nuggets in there. This may be a pocket, like the one I found on Prosper
Gulch." He went forward, but Earl was ahead of him, and was using the
pick with all the speed and skill at his command. As the remainder of
the rock came away, a mass of sand, gravel, and dirt followed.
"Here are four small nuggets," said Randy, picking them up.
"Fifty-dollar finds, every one of them."
Earl said nothing, although he heard the talk. He had espied a gleam of
dull yellow wedged in between the side of the split and a second rock.
He tried to force the second rock out, and as it moved forward the gleam
of yellow became larger and larger, until his hand could not have
covered it. He worked on frantically, hardly daring to breathe. At last
the rock fell and the face of the nugget lay revealed, shaped very much
like the sole and heel of a large man's shoe.
"What have you got?" asked Randy and Fred simultaneously, seeing
something was up; but Earl kept right on, picking away below the find,
and to both sides. It seemed to him the thing would never come out, and
as he realized how large the nugget was, his hands trembled so he could
scarcely hold the pick. "I've struck a fortune!" he muttered, at last,
in a strangely hoarse voice. "See if anybody is looking, Randy." And
then the nugget came loose, and he clutched it in both hands and held it
up,--a dull, dirty, yellowish lump, worth at least three thousand
dollars!