FACING A NEW PERIL
“Sho—Shot!” gasped Elfreda Briggs, as the stranger lay huddled on
the floor where he had fallen. He was breathing heavily, and perhaps
it was this that brought Miss Briggs to herself. After long service
with wounded men in France, she knew what a bullet wound was, and
her first instinct upon recovering from her fright was to give first
aid.
Elfreda had found candles and matches in the cabin, and these she
quickly procured, lighting two candles the better to see her
patient. She peered down at her unexpected guest, a long, lean
figure, his lined, unshaven face ashen from pain and weakness.
Elfreda instantly recognized the symptoms.
“Oh, you poor, poor man!” she cried in a voice full of sympathy, and
placed a folded blanket under his head. Then the Overland girl ran
out to a spring just back of the cabin, returning with a basin of
cold mountain water. First giving the wounded man a drink, she tore
open the faded, worn shirt and bathed his wound, which she knew at
once was a serious one.
This served to rouse the patient a little, and he regarded her with
searching eyes—eyes that were full of pain.
“Tha—ank you. You’re a good girl. What be you doing here?”
“I belong to a party, but was carried down the river from Silver
Creek village when the forest fire reached there. Never mind
that—tell me about yourself.”
“The gang got me—Hawk Murray’s gang. Name’s Sam Petersen, and I’m a
prospector—was a prospector, but I’m done, finished now.”
“Why did they shoot you?”
“For gold, Miss, gold! But I hung on to my horse and got away.
They’ll be here.”
Elfreda begged him not to worry, seeing that the thought of the
Murray gang excited him.
“Promise me, for your own sake, that you will not let them find me
or know that I have been here. If they find out they’ll do the same
by you that they have done by Sam Petersen.”
Miss Briggs caressed the gray head, and moistened his lips with the
cold mountain water. Then, as tenderly as possible, she dragged the
wounded man to the bunk at one corner of the room, where he might be
more comfortable.
“It’s mighty good to have you help me, but tain’t no use. I’ve
staked my last claim and—listen!” Petersen roused himself, and a new
light flashed into his eyes. “I must tell you, and I must do it
quick. Reach in my pocket and take out the diary there. Hide it!
Left hand po—pocket. That’s it.”
Elfreda hesitatingly drew forth a well-worn book, the corners of
which were broken down and the leaves swollen from frequent
thumbing.
“There’s something else there, too. Take that, too; it’s your’n.”
The Overland girl drew forth a small canvas bag, soiled and worn,
and heavy. It was tied at the neck with a buckskin thong, and at his
nod she opened the bag. She saw a handful of nuggets, some worn and
shiny, water-worn as they proved to be, while at the bottom of the
bag was some dust.
“Gold!” murmured Elfreda Briggs. “Is this why they shot you, Mr.
Petersen?”
“Yes, and for what’s in that diary. Mebby you’ve heard of Lost Mine,
a dried-up water course that the Indians say many years ago was
paved with gold.”
Elfreda shook her head.
“Crazy prospectors like Sam Petersen have been hunting for that mine
for more’n twenty-five years. Sam Petersen found it!” The man’s
voice had dropped to a thrilling whisper. A dead silence followed,
broken by the hoot of an owl near the cabin.
Elfreda shivered a little.
“It’s there in the book—all but how to get there. Hawk Murray and
his gang found out that I’d got this bag of dust and nuggets. They
knew I’d been prospecting for just what they’d been trying for a
long time to find, and they believed I’d found it. Hawk and his
bunch trailed me, and we had a shooting match. I downed one of the
gang, but Hawk got me. Lady, I ain’t a bad man—I’m an honest man,
but up here a man’s what he is, and if he ain’t able to shuffle for
himself he’s all set to be shuffled off one day.”
“You are talking too much—exerting too much effort. Be quiet and
rest,” commanded Elfreda.
“I got to talk. I got to talk fast. I ain’t got much more time.
Write down in the book what I got to say. Ready?”
Miss Briggs nodded. “Lost River, north branch, Grandma and the
Children, three peaks dead east—and there’s the bed of Lost River.
In it is gold, shining gold, the promised land and—it’s yours. I
ain’t got no family.”
“I don’t quite understand. Can you make it a little clearer?”
“All yours and—”
“Please don’t talk any more. I want you to rest. You are getting
excited. What is gold compared to a man’s life, Mr. Petersen?”
There was no reply.
Elfreda Briggs glanced at the face, then, leaning over, peered
closer.
“Get rid of the horse—shoot him. They’ll be here soon after daylight
and then—”
That was all. The tired old voice trailed off into nothingness. Sam
Petersen had staked his last claim.
Tears trickled down Elfreda’s cheeks. A thin gray bar of daylight
was now creeping across the cabin floor, and with it came the memory
of the old prospector’s warning: “The Murray gang will be here soon
after daylight”—and then—“Get rid of the horse!”
Realizing that perhaps her own life might hang on following
Petersen’s advice, Miss Briggs sprang up and ran out. Standing a few
yards from the cabin, there was a fine bay mare browsing on the
tender leaves of the hedge. The animal regarded her solemnly, and,
she thought, with a friendly approving look.
“You poor horse! Shoot _you?_ I couldn’t do it, but I am going to
try to hide you,” declared the Overland girl.
Gripping the bridle she led the animal off to the right of the cabin
until she reached a stream. Into this she led the animal for some
distance, and secreted him in a narrow pass that was well hidden.
“I think I will take the saddle and hide that,” reflected Elfreda.
Upon second thought she decided to carry it back and hide it near
the cabin, for she recognized it as a fine Mexican saddle. The
saddle she did secrete in a thick growth of bushes about fifty yards
from the shack.
As she approached the cabin her footsteps became halting.
“What if they should come and find him here? Oh, this is terrible.
Where, where can Stacy be? Why doesn’t he come back?”
It was not a pleasant task that confronted Elfreda Briggs, but she
went to it with lips set, face pale, and heart beating nervously.
She covered the thin old frame of Sam Petersen, and over it laid the
blankets.
“Oh, this is terrible,” moaned the girl, then grew suddenly rigid.
The sound of approaching horses reached her alert ears as she stood
in the middle of the floor, every faculty on the alert.
They galloped up to the shack and halted.
“Hello the cabin!” called a rough voice.
Miss Briggs pinched her cheeks to bring back the color that she knew
had left them, then summoning all her courage she stepped to the
door. That courage almost failed her when she saw before her six of
the roughest looking men she ever had seen. They were mounted on
lean, tough horses; there was a rifle in every saddle boot, and they
wore side arms as well.
“The Murrays!” gasped the girl. “Sam Petersen knew whereof he
spoke.”