Collins, and his partner, Brill, were at heart as tender as they were
brave.
They reasoned that Mr. Willett should know the news the messenger
brought back from Gold Cave Camp, yet neither felt like conveying it to
the unhappy man.
"Somebody's got to tell him," said Brill, to his partner, "and as you've
got the best gift of gab, Collins, I reckon you're the feller to do it."
"If it comes down whar I've got to speak my mind and tell a sneakin'
feller jest what I think of him," replied Collins, "I ain't slow, and I
find I'm flush of words 'bout that time, but tellin' a man his son's
dead, and that that 'ar paper he sent for to save his own life, ain't
agoin to be perduced, why, that's an entirely different matter, and I'd
a sight rather contract out the job to some chap as don't mind sich
things."
"See har, pard, I've got an idear."
"Let's have it," said Collins, much relieved.
"I think we'd better do this kinder by slow degrees like. What do you
say?"
"Why, I say, Brill, ole feller, I don't catch on to the drift of your
ore bed," said Collins.
"I mean through Hank Tims."
"What about him?"
"We must get him to one side, kinder."
"And what then?"
"Why then we must up and tell him the hull story."
"I see yer pint, Brill."
"And then," continued Brill, "he can give it to Mr. Willett, and that'll
kinder let us out of the scrape."
In token of his approval of this very excellent plan, Collins shook
hands with his partner, and then Hank Tims was called outside of the
dugout.
The partners were still in doubt as to which of them should tell the
story, and noticing that they stood looking at each other Hank asked:
"Is there any fresh trouble up, pards?"
"Wa'al, yes, kinder," said Collins, taking upon himself the painful
duties of spokesman.
"Let's have it," said Hank, stoutly. "Neither me nor Mr. Willett is
skeered to hear the worst."
"Jest so," said Collins, "and so we thought we'd better give you the
news and let you break it to him."
"What news?" asked Hank.
"Why the news that's come from Gold Cave Camp."
"Wa'al, let's have it."
"You know, Hank, we sent a messenger to Gold Cave Camp when we found the
storm was onto us, and Mr. Willett's son hadn't showed up with that
paper."
"Yes, I heard of that, Collins."
"Wa'al, the man's back----"
"And the boy--Sam Willett?" cried Hank.
"Couldn't be found," stammered Collins.
"Why not?"
"He wasn't thar."
"No," added Brill, "he wasn't no whar in sight."
"And the other folks, the black boy, the Chinee and the young Ute, Ulna,
what came here with me an Mr. Willett and went back again when we was
took prizners?"
"No one knows; they wasn't in sight."
"Drownded out!" gasped Hank.
"No, the folks think they tried to git away by swimmin' or making a
raft," said Collins.
"They might as well try to fly. Ah, this is bad news; mighty bad news.
I'd rather die mysel', and I know Mr. Willett would rather die a
thousand times over than to lose that boy. Did you ever see young Sam
Willett, gents?"
The partners shook their heads and said they never had seen young Sam
Willett.
"Wa'al," continued Hank, with a sob in his voice, "he wasn't what you
and me mout think a full-growed man, but never a braver nor a handsomer
lad ever crossed them Sierras off thar to the east. He was a gentleman,
young Sam was, from the ground up; he couldn't think anything mean, much
less do it. Ah, why should men like you, and me, and others be left and
him be took? I don't see how I can bring mysel' to tell his father, for
he was all Mr. Willett had left, and he won't keer any more for life
when he hears this."
"It's mighty tough on the old man," coughed Brill, "not to mention his
other troubles; but as he's got to know it sooner or later, my pard and
me thought you'd better tell him."
"Wa'al, if I must I 'spose I must; but I tell you what, boys, I'd jest
as soon you'd order me out to be shot. In fact I'd a heap sight rather
be shot, if I was only sure that my dyin' would bring back young Sam
Willett to life."
Brushing his sleeve across his eyes, Hank turned away to hide his
feelings, and the partners went silently back to the cluster of tents
and buildings that was known as "the camp."
We have already seen something of the love that existed between Mr.
Willett and his son.
Apart from the affection natural to their relationship, these two were
still more strongly attached to each other by the fact that they were
alone in the world and the exclusive object of each other's most
profound affections.
We shall not attempt to describe the manner in which Hank Tims
communicated the news to the already much afflicted father, but it
should be said that he acquitted himself with a tenderness hardly to be
expected from one of his rough exterior and rude life.
There are blows so crushing to the human heart that they fall without
being followed by a sign of pain or a cry of agony.
The sting of a bee will call out a shout from the strongest man, but the
bullet that taps the fountain of life is received with ashy but silent
lips.
All the color left Mr. Willett's face, and he fell back on the blankets
on which he had been sitting.
He looked as if he were dying, and Hank, to redress the effects of the
blow he had been forced to deal, sprang forward, and putting his arms
about Mr. Willett's shoulder, he said, though he had not the slightest
faith in his own words:
"Thar ain't no doubt in my mind but the boys made a raft. Sam was sharp,
and thar was lots of timber to do it."
"But that would only be going to death," said Mr. Willett faintly and
slowly.
"Oh, not by a long odds. Thar's lots and lots of places lower down whar
they might get out easy. Now, let's jest have patience; thar ain't
nothin' like a good stock of patience. Why, it wouldn't s'prise me not a
bit if I was to see Sam and the hull caboodle of 'em walk into the door
of this dugout this blessed minute," and Hank fixed his eyes steadily on
the opening, as if he were quite prepared for this phenomenon.
Leaving Hank Tims to fan the faint ray of hope he had kindled in the
afflicted father's heart, let us give a few minutes to reporting the
conduct of the two men who were the authors of all this trouble.
There were some very bad men at Hurley's Gulch, as there are bad men in
any gathering the world over, but in justice it should be said that a
majority aimed to do as near right as they knew how.
Men's ideas of right and wrong vary with their training and their
natural abilities to weigh evidence and comprehend truth. But even those
men who are rude in their bearing, or even vicious in their lives, have
their hearts touched by a death that brings great sorrow to some fond,
loving heart.
So when the people at Hurley's Gulch began to think over Mr. Willett's
loss, they forgot for the time the grave offence with which he was
charged, and expressed themselves as very sorry for the death of his
boy.
This change of feeling did not escape the ever wide-awake observation of
Frank Shirley.
He was a pretty good judge of human nature, and so he thought it wiser
not to say anything at this time. Indeed, he played his part so well
that he expressed to the crowd, whom he kept attached to him by frequent
treating, that he was very sorry for young Sam Willett's loss.
"He was a cousin of mine," sighed Shirley, "and not a bit like his
father."
How could the people know that the death of Sam Willett was the one
object that brought Shirley to this land, and how could they know that
the life of the noble youth was the one thing that stood between this
fellow and a large fortune.
"I tell you, Mr. Shirley," said Badger to his employer the day after the
reception of the news from Gold Cave Camp, "you're a keen one. Oh, you
ken play it fine--finer'n any one I ever seed."
"Do you think so, Badger?" said Shirley, flattered by this compliment to
his talent for crime.
"Yes, I do. In a day or two the boys'll forgit all about the death of
young Willett. Then you ken swing in on the murder of Tom Edwards again,
and make them do jest as you please."
"Well, I'll try," replied the jubilant Shirley.