Author of “Peace Medicine,” “The Misdeal,” etc.
Solomon Kane’s heart would, if properly broken up, have made a number of
perfectly good arrowheads. His conscience, if properly cut to certain
lengths, would have made any number of perfectly good corkscrews.
Outside of that, Solomon Kane was normal.
Kane had money--plenty of it; but when it came to earning money by the
sweat of his brow, Solomon Kane never even got moderately moist. No, he
was too shrewd to earn anything--except possibly a few curses, which
were exploded behind his broad back.
Kane had come to Micaville several years before this story begins--came
with a working capital of ten dollars and an assaying outfit. Micaville
was young. A big strike had been made. Prospectors were thicker than the
proverbial flea; and great was the need of an assayer. Solomon Kane came
at an opportune time--for Solomon Kane.
It was no trouble for Solomon Kane to determine how much gold a
certain sample of rock contained. Not a bit of trouble. He gazed
within the crucible, computed the approximate weight of what was
contained therein--and subtracted enough to show barely a trace in
his assay certificate.
Thus discouraged, the prospector lost no time in moving on to other
ground. Casual conversation had shown Solomon Kane the exact location
of the aforementioned sample. What could be more simple--except the
prospector? Solomon Kane was thereby able to pick his prospects,
which had been abandoned by the original locator, and waxed fat from
his shrewdness.
He owned an unpretentious assay office on the main street of Micaville;
still plying his trade. He had sold most of his properties, at a fair
profit, you may be sure; but there still remained one piece of property,
which Solomon in all his wisdom had not been able to acquire.
It has been said that every man has his price; but Solomon never
looked at a price tag. Whether old Cale Winters wanted a hundred or a
half-million, it made no difference to Solomon.
Old Cale Winters had no assays made. In the first place, he did not
trust Solomon; in the second place, he knew that the ledge in his
short tunnel would not run over three dollars per ton in free milling
gold. Old Cale Winters knew this; he also knew, from a chance remark,
that Solomon Kane wanted the property.
Bush Cleveland, Solomon’s right-hand man, had unconsciously dropped a
remark, which caused old Cale Winters to go back to his cabin and talk
seriously to his family; which consisted of his wife and daughter. They
were just about ready to vacate their two claims and move to some other
spot.
Solomon Kane looked with great favor upon Jennie Winters, who, with her
blue eyes and black hair, and a figure seldom found in mountain girls,
was not at all hard to look upon.
Jennie looked upon Solomon Kane and saw a middle-aged, gross, pig-jowled
human being, with colorless eyes, no eyebrows, fingers like cucumbers
and feet which turned out at an awkward angle when he walked. Solomon
Kane was not good to look upon.
Jennie’s indifference toward him seemed to only cause Solomon to double
his desire to acquire old Cale’s property--for nothing. Micaville, which
was still in a half-civilized state, gave no heed to such esthetic
things as love.
Whether Jennie Winters married Solomon Kane or not would make no
difference to the mineral output of the district, the price of beans,
the opening of a new honkatonk or the secret plans to organize a
vigilance committee. Micaville was neutral on anything except sudden
wealth or sudden death.
The two claims, which caused Solomon Kane to break the Tenth
Commandment, were located about two miles from town. Old Cale Winters
and his family lived in a two-room log-cabin on a bit of level
benchland, just above a deep cañon. About two hundred yards from this
cabin was the mouth of Winters’ tunnel. The claims were registered
under the name of The Jennie and Joe Mining and Milling Company.
Jennie and Joe were twins at birth; but Joe failed to “make the grade,”
as they say in Micaville. His only claim to posterity was a name in the
family Bible and on a worn location notice.
Jennie and her mother had no faith in the Jennie and Joe, and did
not conceal the fact that it was better than an even bet that they
would starve to death before Cale Winters ever found anything except
indications of mighty hard work.
Cale Winters had felt the same about it, until he knew that Solomon Kane
wanted the property. If it was desired of Solomon Kane it must be better
than a three-dollar-a-ton proposition.
Bush Cleveland was an emaciated, keen-eyed, slouchy individual, who
always rolled a fresh cigaret while his present smoke was still
burning. In this way he saved considerable on the price of matches.
One light would suffice him for the day.
Bush Cleveland, for all of his physical and mental deficiencies, had
a nose for gold. He was a human divining-rod. Solomon Kane kept Bush
supplied with liquor, tobacco and three square meals a day. This
increased Solomon’s overhead expenses greatly. Bush’s salary amounted
to an extra dollar or two per month--Solomon using the dollar to get
Bush completely inebriated, after which he would get Bush to sign an
affidavit that he had received his thirty dollars that month. These
monthly debauches were blanks to Bush Cleveland, and he never did
know what became of his salary--nor cared. Solomon Kane was a good
man to work for.
Bush knew where the real vein could be found on the Jennie and Joe. He
had showed it to Solomon, and together they had tested, estimated and
traced it until Solomon Kane dreamed nightly of the wealth, which old
Cale Winters was keeping from him.
It grew to be an obsession with Solomon. Bush Cleveland smoked his
innumerable cigarets, signed for the salary he never received, and
Micaville went on in its own dumb way; while old Cale Winters and his
family grew very poor and very discouraged.
Old Cale was crabbed and mistrustful of the rest of the world. He wore
a holstered Colt on his hip and swore to perforate any one who meddled
with his property. This did not react in his favor in the eyes of
Micaville. It meant that some day old Cale would mistake some innocent
man for a trespasser and fill him so full of lead that he would have
to be shipped to a smelter before being attended by the undertaker. No
man likes to be shot by mistake.
Solomon Kane knew old Cale’s mental attitude, and respected it. Solomon
was not the kind to seek oblivion at the point of a pistol. No, Solomon
was wary of powder smoke.
* * * * *
He met Mrs. Winters at the general store and was very polite to her.
He even carried the groceries out to her rickety old cart and untied
the old wabble-legged cayuse for her. For this kindness he received
the information that she and Jennie were sick unto misery over their
property, and would leave Micaville at a minute’s notice--if old Cale
would go with them.
Old Cale was the fly in the axle-grease. Solomon took this under
advisement. He told Bush Cleveland about it. Bush inhaled three more
cigarets and propounded a plan, which savored of downright meanness.
In fact it was something which drove the color from Solomon Kane’s
face--and that took some shock. He put one of his ham-like hands over
Bush’s mouth, looking fearfully around at his crucibles and furnace.
Walls have ears; so why not furnaces and crucibles?
Bush’s cigaret burned a neat little blister on Solomon’s palm, and
necessitated the squandering of a match on the next smoke, which was
already under construction.
“My ----!” gasped Solomon. “You speak of such a thing?”
Bush did not deny it, and Solomon’s question was superfluous. He knew
what Bush had suggested. Solomon got very busy without knowing just
what he was doing, and Bush laid out plans for his next cigaret.
After an interval of perhaps five minutes, Solomon turned to Bush.
“You--uh--I am surprized, Bush. Never have I stooped to such things.”
Bush had nothing to say. There was no argument in favor of his
suggestion; so why worry about it. Solomon continued to clean up his
work-room; but his mind was not on his work, which was attested by the
fact that he unconsciously drew the cork from a nitric acid bottle and
sniffed at the contents. It is not pleasant.
After a sufficient length of time Solomon sat down close to Bush, and
yawned. It was a stage yawn. Bush lighted a fresh cigaret.
“Who,” said Solomon softly, “who would do this?”
“Eh?” Bush looked quizzically at him for a moment. “Oh, yeah.”
Bush grew very thoughtful. He had almost forgotten what he had mentioned
to Solomon. He forgot things easily; which was why Solomon valued him so
highly.
“Oh, some gun-fighter, Sol.”
“Sure--some gun-fighter!” spat Solomon disgustedly. “Just any
gun-fighter, I suppose.”
“For about a thousand dollars,” nodded Bush.
Solomon took this under advisement. A thousand is a lot of dollars. Bush
broke into his unhappy reveries.
“Mebbe you’ll have to pungle up five thousand--I dunno.”
“I betcha you dunno!” gasped Solomon, “You think too much in big money,
Bush.”
“Ex-cuse me,” grunted Bush, and began manufacturing another paper smoke.
“That Jennie and Joe is a gamble,” observed Solomon softly. “Mebbe I’ll
lose money on such a deal.”
“Mebbe,” admitted Bush dreamily.
Solomon squirmed in his seat. He was cautious. Bush was not responsible
for anything, when drunk. If Bush talked he might talk secrets.
“You know any gun-fighters, Bush?” softly.
“Not pers’nally.” Bush shook his head slowly. “I know one by reputation.
He’s a bad _hombre_, Sol. That man would shoot his own grandfather for
five thousand dollars.”
“Five thousand dollars! Why emphasize one gunman? I am not a good
shooter; but I’d----”
Solomon wiped his brow with the palm of his hand.
“And he’d keep his mouth shut,” stated Bush.
“I should think he would,” agreed Solomon sourly.
“Cinch,” agreed Bush, who did not take Solomon’s tone of voice into
consideration. “It could be worked like this----”
Solomon listened closely to Bush’s scheme. Solomon had a flinty heart
and a crooked soul; but he did not like the scheme. It was very, very
bad. Five thousand was a lot of money. That was the objectionable part
of the scheme. The rest was fine. Maybe this gunman would meet him
half-way.
Bush agreed that he might; but reminded Solomon that a professional
gunman is nobody to argue with.
“We get him here first and then we talk prices,” stated Solomon
wisely. “You help me make him understand that we don’t want to buy him
outright--just use him for a little while. Rent is cheaper than a cash
buy.”
Bush nodded over an unfinished cigaret.
* * * * *
The Piegan Kid wasn’t going anywhere in particular. He expected
ultimately to connect up with some cow-outfit. He had a fairly good
horse, a beautiful saddle and a very good gun. The Piegan Kid was
neither of heroic proportions nor Adonis-like of feature.
His face was peaked under the shade of his wide sombrero, and a pair
of inquiring gray eyes looked out upon the world unafraid. His flannel
shirt, well-worn chaps and boots run over at the heel proclaimed him a
son of the dim trails.
Suddenly a streak of gray fur seemed to glide out of a clump of
mesquite. An instant later it whirled and raced on its back track. The
Piegan Kid’s spurs had already been socked home and his rope untied.
The Kid craved excitement, and there is plenty of excitement in a race
across the hills in the wake of a frightened coyote.
The horse ran low to the ground, with the Kid standing high in his
stirrups, the wide coil of rope whirling in his hand.
Suddenly something went wrong with man and beast. Old Man Badger had
builded his domicile right in the line of march, and the running bronco
had dropped one fast moving front foot into Mr. Badger’s front door.
Came a kaleidoscopic movement of man and beast, and the man landed in a
heap in a patch of mesquite and Spanish dagger. The horse tried to get
to its feet; but fell back.
The Piegan Kid got to his feet and untangled himself and rope from the
brush. Barring a few scratches and gouges from the Spanish dagger-plant
he was as good as new. He limped back to the horse and looked it over.
“Coyotes,” muttered the Kid to himself. “Coyotes is hoodoos.” He drew
his gun, slowly cocked it; while a pair of buzzards circled high
overhead. It is hard to deceive a buzzard as to the true state of
affairs. The Kid glanced up at them and wondered if they were in
cahoots with the coyote. Anyway, there was only one thing to do,
under the circumstances. The Kid holstered his smoking gun and looked
down upon his fancy saddle. It was no ordinary hull. He had won it
from a rodeo-following Mexican. Its silver rosettes, fancy stamping
and general air of money-worth appealed to the Kid. He looked all
around. He had no way of knowing how far it was to the next town or
cattle-ranch; but he was not going to give up that saddle and bridle
and fancy Navaho blanket.
He was about twelve miles from Micaville; but he did not know it.
Micaville would have meant nothing to the Kid, except that it might
be a place where he could secure a new horse.
The Kid was no pedestrian. As far back as he could remember he had
always bestrode a horse when going any distance; which made it
imperative that he secure a horse as soon as possible. He was like a
born sailor, wading around in the ocean.
The big saddle weighed very heavy, and the Navaho blanket seemed to
invite the rays of the sun. The bridle reins had a nasty habit of
tangling in his feet and throwing him. Taking it all in all, the
Piegan Kid was not enjoying the middle of the day.
Suddenly, he stopped. Coming up the gentle slope toward him was a man on
a pinto horse. A closer view showed that the man was riding bareback. He
did not look like the type of a man who would make a practise of riding
a skinny pinto bareback. This man wore two holstered guns. He was a
rather greasy-looking person, a trifle taller than the Kid; and not at
all pleasant of feature.
The Kid waited for him to come up. They looked closely at each other.
The Kid dropped his outfit to the sand and took the makings of a cigaret
from his pocket. The other man slid off his pinto and also produced the
makings. During this particular operation there was no word spoken. The
Kid offered a light from his match, which the other accepted.
“Badger hole,” explained the Kid.
The other man nodded and puffed slowly on his cigaret. Finally he said:
“Bronc pulled away at a water-hole yesterday. When I found him he’d
rolled the saddle off.”
The Kid looked longingly at the pinto. It wasn’t so much of a pinto
either; but it was something to hang the saddle on to, and it had four
good legs. The other man looked at the ornate saddle. He was very tired
of riding bareback, and the saddle appealed to him in more ways than
one.
Their glances met. The stranger waved a hand to encompass the horse and
saddle.
“We’re kinda in the same fix, pardner. How about gamblin’ t’ see who
rides proper?”
“My saddle against yore bronc?” queried the Kid.
“As is,” nodded the stranger. “One hand of draw-poker.”
“Yo’re on,” said the Kid.
He spread his gaudy blanket in the shade of a mesquite, while the
stranger dug deep into his chaps-pocket and produced a greasy deck
of cards. The Kid glanced at the cards, which were badly soiled and
dogeared from many games, and felt that this stranger was probably
very familiar with that certain deck of cards. He had a rippling,
free-handed shuffle, which bespoke familiarity with that old deck.
The Kid noticed that this stranger did not offer to cut for deal; but
took it for granted that he was to pass out the cards. The Kid said
nothing; which was a peculiarity of the Piegan Kid. He knelt on the
edge of the blanket and watched the man shuffle the cards.
This stranger squatted on his heels, with both feet on the edge of the
blanket. The Kid also noted this. Then came the deal--five cards apiece.
The Kid’s hand showed two aces, a nine, a trey and a jack. He tossed the
last three cards aside. The stranger discarded three.
Without a word the stranger dealt him three cards. As the Kid picked
up his cards the stranger dealt himself three. It was an even draw.
The Kid’s hands were on the blanket, grasping his three cards. The
other placed the remainder of the deck on the blanket beside him.
Then the Kid grasped the blanket, together with the three cards, threw
himself backwards and stood the stranger on the back of his neck.
The man spun on his shoulder, threw himself to a sitting position--and
gazed into the muzzle of the Piegan Kid’s heavy Colt pistol.
“The top of the deck is the place to deal from,” said the Kid slowly.
“Unbuckle yore belt.”
There was nothing for the stranger to do but obey. The Kid took the two
guns and threw them far away into the brush. Then he cinched his saddle
to the stranger’s horse and swung into the saddle.
“_Adios_,” nodded the Kid.
The stranger said nothing. After the Kid faded out over the crest of a
hill, the stranger went on a hunt for his pistols.
A few miles further on the Piegan Kid struck the main road to Micaville,
and in due time he arrived at the town. This was about two weeks after
Solomon Kane and Bush Cleveland had deliberated deeply.
The Kid swung down at a hitch-rack; but the eagle-eye of Bush Cleveland
had spied him before he reached the rack, and the Kid turned to look
into the bland face of Solomon’s hired man. Bush was rolling a cigaret.
“This is the place,” announced Bush.
The Piegan Kid looked from Bush to the street and back to Bush. The Kid
mentally classed Bush as being loco, and turned to tie his horse. Bush
moved in closer and whispered:
“Follow me, but don’t act like yuh was,” and turned away across the
street.
The Kid watched him cross the street and enter a building, on which was
the faded sign--