THE MEETING ON THE TRAIL TO TRINITY.
“Vot!” shouted Meyer, almost losing his grip on the seat and tumbling
off into the trail. “Shim Sanders! Der mans ve vos looking for? It
don’d been possible!”
“It is Jim Sanders,” said Prawle, in a tone of conviction.
“Then the country’s safe!” cried Jack and Charlie, with one accord,
shaking hands across seats, and feeling as if they could have jumped
off and turned a dozen handsprings in the excess of their glee.
“Shook mit me, too, you fellers!” cried Meyer, smiling all over his
round face. “I vos so glad, by shinger, I could oxsplode mit interior
combustications!”
Jim Sanders was one of the toughest looking specimens of humanity the
boys had ever laid eyes on.
His garments, of a shade and texture hard to determine, were a sight to
behold.
The majority of his toes protruded through his broken boots.
As to his hat, the less said about that the better.
He was fairly sober, for a wonder; but gave every evidence that he was
just emerging from a long spree.
Sanders blinked at the party on the wagon as he approached. The horse
had been pulled in from a smart trot to a slow walk.
When they came together he turned his animal out of the trail to allow
the rig to pass.
As a matter of course, Gideon Prawle, who was driving, pulled up, and
Sanders, having also stopped, addressed the miserable-looking wreck.
“Hello, Jim Sanders!”
“Howdy, pard!”
“I want to see you, Jim.”
“Wal, I reckon you’re lookin’ at me,” with a silly grin.
“You don’t seem to recollect me, Jim,” said Prawle.
“Dunno as I do. I mought hev seen yer before, an’ then, agin’, I
moughtn’t.”
“My name is Gideon Prawle.”
“Wal, pard, that doesn’t help me ter place yer.”
“No?” answered Gideon, in some surprise.
Jim Sanders shook his head to and fro slowly, while the boys regarded
him blankly.
“So you don’t remember that I paid you $100 on account three weeks ago
for a bit of ground you own down near Beaver Creek, and that I was to
pay you $200 more some time within sixty days?”
At the mention of the money a light seemed to suddenly break in on the
fallow brain of the lonesome-looking rider.
“Are yer ther stranger what owes me that $200 on my old pard’s claim at
the krik?” he asked, with unfeigned eagerness.
“I’m the man, Jim.”
“Wal, now, I wouldn’t hev knowed it,” he replied, with a grin. “When
yer goin’ ter settle up?”
“Now, if you’re ready.”
“Ef I’m ready? Wal, I reckon.”
“Boys,” said Prawle, “we must settle this thing right here now. Got a
pencil and paper?”
“I’ve got a fountain pen, which is better; and I’ll tear a blank page
from my notebook,” said Jack Howard, quickly producing the articles
from his pockets.
“What yer about now?” asked Sanders, regarding these preparations
dubiously.
“I’m writing out a bill of sale for you to sign; then, I’ll hand you
the $200,” said Prawle.
“Wal, I’ll sign it ef I kin; but I hain’t much at drivin’ a pen, pard,”
said the animated scarecrow, slowly and doubtfully, as if he had very
little confidence in his powers of chirography.
“Here you are,” said Prawle, jumping off his seat. “Come around to the
back of the wagon, so you’ll have something to lean on.”
Jim Sanders dismounted from the sorry-looking nag, which looked as
red-eyed and tired as himself, and moved with an uncertain kind of gait
to the rear of the wagon.
Prawle put the bill of sale of the property, with the book under it, on
the open end of their vehicle, and offered the fountain pen to Sanders.
He took it gingerly between his knotty fingers and fumbled with it a
moment.
“Whar’s ther ink, pard?”
“The ink is on the pen.”
“So ’tis. Thet’s funny. I didn’t see yer dip it inter no ink bottle.”
“That’s what we call a fountain pen. The ink is carried in the handle.”
The explanation seemed all Greek to Sanders.
“Some new-fangled idee, eh? Wal, here goes,” leaning over the document.
“Whar do I put it?”
“Write your name here,” said Prawle, indicating the place with the tip
end of his little finger.
Sanders flourished his arm and then stopped.
“By shinger,” ejaculated Meyer, who had been aching to say something
for the last five minutes, “dot rooster vill dook all day mit dose
pizness, ain’d it?”
“Say, pard,” asked Sanders, “how do you make a ‘J’? Et’s s’long sense I
writ my name I’ve clean forgot how ter begin.”
“Better hurry him up, Mr. Prawle,” spoke up Jack. “There’s two men
coming this way at a quick trot.”
Gideon stepped out and looked ahead along the trail.
Jack had spoken the truth.
A couple of horsemen were advancing upon them from the direction of
Trinity at a rapid pace.
Prawle tore another sheet from the notebook and wrote Jim’s name very
legibly.
“There’s a copy for you. Imitate that as closely as you can.”
“Is thet my name?” asked Sanders, looking at the writing with some
curiosity.
“That’s your name.”
“Wal, now, I wouldn’t hev known it.”
Then he began a laborious effort to duplicate the signature.
Needless to say, his attempt was a rank failure, but still, a
handwriting expert might have been able to testify to its genuineness.
“Come down here, Jack,” said Prawle, “and witness his signature. You’d
better come, too, Charlie.”
The boys dismounted in a twinkling and signed their names as witnesses.
As soon as this formula was completed Prawle pulled out a wad of bills,
representing money advanced by Jack Howard and Dr. Fox, counted out
$200, and passed it over to Sanders.
“Count it, Jim, and see that it’s all right.”
“I reckon it’s all right, pard,” replied the scarecrow, stuffing it
into one of his pockets.
“You seem to be going to Rocky Gulch,” said Prawle, as he put the rest
of the money away, and the boys started to remount to their seats.
“Thet’s whar I’m bound,” grinned Sanders, backing toward his horse,
which had meekly stood with his head down and his ears back, the
position in which he had been left by his master.
“Well, be good to yourself. Don’t blow all that money in at once.
Remember there’s $200 in that wad.”
Jim’s red-rimmed eyes seemed to brighten at the mention of the amount.
No doubt he had visions of another long, glorious drunk at Rocky Gulch,
or elsewhere.
To get loaded clean up to the neck, and keep so indefinitely, was
probably Jim’s idea of supreme bliss.
At any rate, that was the accepted opinion of those who knew him best.
As Gideon Prawle put up his foot to mount to the front seat of the
wagon a sudden exclamation from the boys attracted his attention.
He looked ahead, and saw that the two oncoming strangers were almost
upon them.
“Mr. Prawle,” said Jack, in a low, tense tone, “we’ve turned the trick
not a moment too soon. Here come Otis Clymer and Dave Plunkett.”
“The dickens you say!” exclaimed Gideon, as he started up the horse and
looked hard at the two men. “Which is which?”
“Clymer is the smaller of the two.”
“I’ve a great mind to have it out with him right here for trying to do
me up,” said Prawle, with a resolute look and a snap of his eyes.
His hand instinctively sought his hip pocket, where the butt of a heavy
revolver protruded.
Jack caught his arm just as Charlie spoke up:
“What are you doing out here, Otis Clymer?”
A dark scowl was the only response, as the horsemen, who easily
recognized the party on the wagon, pushed their animals around the
vehicle at a respectable distance.
“Well, we’re on to your little game, all right,” added Charlie, with
a triumphant grin. “It won’t do you any good to hunt up Jim Sanders
now. We’ve met him and bought the property; so the best thing you can
do--you and your friend, Plunkett--is to go back whence you came.
You’re out of it for good. And more--I warn you, if we meet you where
the law can lay its hands on you, Clymer, we shall have you arrested
for a certain night’s work in Sackville a week ago.”
The two horsemen were clearly taken aback by Charlie’s words.
Clymer uttered a curse, while Plunkett bit his lips savagely.
Both put their hands to their hip pockets.
“Stop!” thundered Prawle, yanking out his gun so swiftly as to almost
take the boys’ breath away. “Throw up your right hands and move on, or
I’ll drill you both quicker’n greased lightning.”
And he meant it, too.
Both Clymer and Plunkett were subdued, and they obeyed the command.
Then Prawle, keeping his eye on them until out of close range, drove on.