“You worth anythin’ to him--dead?”
Old Cale’s hand dropped to his pistol butt and he took a half-step
toward the Kid; but the Kid did not seem to mind his attitude.
“What do you mean?” asked Jennie wonderingly.
“I dunno,” admitted the Kid, “I just ask, thasall.”
“He wants these claims,” growled old Cale. “That’s what he wants.”
“Val’able?”
Old Cale sighed and looked toward the yawning mouth of his tunnel.
“Valuable? I dunno. I ain’t never got very rich. Vein is about three
dollars a ton.”
“Mebbe,” suggested the Kid. “Mebbe there’s another vein.”
Old Cale nodded. He had long suspected that there was, and that Solomon
Kane, in some way, had discovered it. Jennie looked anxiously toward
the Kid, who blushed under her direct gaze. He was not used to having a
pretty girl look at him.
“What do you know about another vein?” asked old Cale.
“Nothin’. I’m strange around here. If you was dead, I don’t reckon yore
wife and daughter would stay here very long.”
“What you drivin’ at?” snapped old Cale.
“Ain’t that a fact?”
The Kid’s question was directed at Jennie, who smiled.
“I think I know what you mean. No, I don’t think we would stay long.”
The Kid smiled and got to his feet.
“Much obliged. Well, I reckon I’ll be goin’. Kinda hot, ain’t it.”
“Wait!” snapped old Cale. “I want yuh to explain a few things, feller.”
The Kid swung into his saddle and smiled at the old man.
“Pardner, I can’t explain nothin’--yet. Don’t know much m’self.
_Adios._”
He rode around the foot of the bluff, heading back toward Micaville.
The sun had gone down, and the long shadows of the West range had
almost reached the little shack. Old Cale shook his head and put his
hand on his daughter’s shoulder.
“Jen, I don’t _sabe_ that feller a-tall. He don’t talk sense, don’t yuh
know it?”
“At least he didn’t waste a lot of words,” smiled Jennie. “I think he
will come back again.”
“He ain’t scared to,” smiled the old man. “Danged if I believe he can be
bluffed.”
* * * * *
Buck Helm, the two-gun man, was slightly disgusted with the state of
affairs. When the Kid had outsmarted him in the poker-game, it had
rather amused Buck. The loss of the pinto meant little to him; but it
gave him something to look forward to. He would most surely make the
Kid dance when they met again.
But walking was very unpleasant. He had no idea where Micaville was,
nor the road to Micaville; so he managed just to miss the road all
that twelve miles to town, and was in a vile temper when he arrived.
A few scoops of cactus-juice restored his spirits and he cast about
for the party or parties who had engaged him for a certain piece of
business. He was to come to the assay office. The letter, which Bush
had sent him, unsigned, had been destroyed, according to instructions;
but there was no question but that he could prove his identity.
It was very easy to find the assay office. Buck sauntered inside and
leaned on the narrow counter. Bush and Solomon were in the back room,
gloating over the best of a sample from old Cale Winters’ property,
when they heard the thump of Buck’s heels on the thin floor. Solomon
covered the crucible and went out to meet another victim of misplaced
confidence.
Solomon squinted at Buck Helm and placed both big hands on the counter.
“Something you want?” he asked.
Buck grinned slightly. The cactus-juice had permeated his innermost
being, and he felt kindly disposed toward all men. He leaned closer
to Solomon.
“Well, pardner, what was the job yuh wanted done?”
Solomon stared at him. He did not know this man. A frown gathered on
Solomon’s forehead and he caressed his generous nose with a thumb and
finger.
“I want no job done, stranger.”
“Yuh don’t?”
Buck’s smile moved away. He looked around the place and back at Solomon.
“More’n one assay office in this here town?”
“Nossir. I have exclusive in Micaville.”
“Funny,” grunted Buck. “That letter said for me to come to the assay
office.”
Solomon shifted his big feet. Somehow the soles of his feet had suddenly
grown hot. Premonitions always seemed to heat his pedal extremities. He
grew nervous.
“A letter? What letter, stranger?”
Bush Cleveland sauntered to the doorway and gazed upon Buck. Solomon
glanced at Bush.
“I got a letter,” stated Buck slowly. “It said for me to tear it up
right away, and----”
“What?” gasped Bush, leaning away from the wall. “You got a lul-letter?
You?”
He goggled at Buck and his wide eyes shifted to Solomon, who was
clutching the counter with both hands.
“I got a letter,” nodded Buck. “It said----”
“Pinto?” gasped Solomon. “A pinto horse?”
“Uh-huh,” nodded Buck smiling. “I lost it----”
Solomon croaked like a giant frog and hurled himself away from the
counter and into Bush Cleveland. Together they crashed to the floor,
half-in and half-out of the connecting doorway.
“Huh-help!” squealed Bush.
Buck swung across the counter, grasped Solomon by the neck and tore
him away from his victim. Bush, choking and wheezing, rolled into the
back room, while Solomon clawed desperately at Buck’s legs, cursing in
a language which was strange to Buck.
The Piegan Kid had noticed that there was a rear door to Solomon’s
back room, which opened into a very dirty back-yard. He did not wish
to go into the main entrance this time; so he rode in at the rear,
got off his horse and came to this rear door just in time to hear
Bush’s cry for help.
Micaville houses were not exactly soundproof structures, and by leaning
close to the ill-fitting door, the Kid was able to hear what was going
on inside.
Bush got to his feet and tried with both hands to iron out his wrinkled
vocal cords. Solomon’s grip had caused them to sag considerable. Also
he had half-swallowed a well-lighted cigaret, which did not tend to
increase his comfort.
Buck let Solomon get to his feet; but brushed away the pawing hands.
“Aw, talk sense!” snapped Buck. “What’s all this yowlin’ about, anyway?”
Solomon motioned for Buck to enter the back room. He was unable to
speak. Buck went in, keeping one eye on Solomon and the other on Bush.
Solomon closed the door and glared at Bush, who was still suffering.
“You do this!” wailed Solomon, shaking both hands at Bush. “Pig head!
You think of everything awful, except this!”
“What’s all the fuss about?” queried Buck. Solomon swallowed hard and
choked over his flow of words.
“You come now! Five thousand dollars I give to a man on a pinto horse!
Where are you? Where is he? ---- of my fathers, I am ruined! Five
thousand----”
He dived for Bush; but Bush tripped over a box and fell out of the way.
Solomon crashed into the wall and fairly bounced away, mouthing curses,
brokenly.
Buck grinned. It was as good as a play. He did not _sabe_ the plot; but
the action was very good. Solomon waved his arms weakly and collapsed
into a chair.
“If yore spring is run down, mebbe yuh can talk sense,” suggested Buck.
“Talk about that five thousand.”
“O-o-o-oh!” wailed Solomon. “Talk sense? Did you ever lose five
thousand? Could you talk sense if you did?”
“Lemme tell him,” suggested Bush painfully.
“You--oh--” Solomon nodded weakly.
“Yes--sure. You tell ’im, Bush. After you finish telling about it, I’m
going to kill you, I think.”
Bush had long ago decided that Solomon’s threats of death were on a par
with his promises--never kept; so he proceeded to regale Buck Helm with
the story of their great mistake. Buck was interested. Five thousand
dollars was a lot of money. There was not the slightest doubt but that
the Piegan Kid had laid up a lot of real trouble for himself. What Buck
would do to him would be a scandal, even in the eyes of the buzzards.
Buck got more information than the Piegan Kid did. Buck found out about
the rich ore vein. Solomon was too sick to object to Bush’s description
of the exact spot where the true vein cropped out of the ground. Buck
was not a miner and had no interest in this; but the Piegan Kid, just
outside the rear door, chuckled to himself.
“Yuh say he went out toward this here shack?” asked Buck.
“Yes,” nodded Bush.
Buck considered this deeply. He knew that he was going to kill the
Piegan Kid--if the Kid was still within reach. Perhaps the Kid had
cached the money, and the killing would only satisfy his revenge. He
turned to Solomon.
“Yeah, I can probably do this here job for yuh; but we ain’t talked
prices yet, pardner.”
“Prices?” Solomon’s voice was barely above a whisper and he stared
blankly at Buck. “I paid five----”
“Not to me,” grinned Buck. “I ain’t seen no money.”
“I--” Solomon was stuck for words.
“Might as well take a chance,” said Bush. “Maybe this time it will
be----”
“Maybe?” shrieked Solomon. “You ‘maybe’ me again and I kill you dead!
Pig head!”
“If this mine is so danged valuable--” began Buck.
“Maybe he’ll take it on commission,” grinned Bush.
“More ‘maybe!’” groaned Solomon. “Always like that. I tell you what I
do; I give you a thousand dollars for this job. You get back that five
thousand from that crook and I let you have four thousand of it. Five
thousand is my top-price, mister.” Solomon’s voice creaked to a stop.
“Gimme the thousand,” grunted Buck. “I can’t do nothin’ tonight; but
I’ll do the job up right in the mornin’. You gimme the directions and
quit worryin’. _Sabe?_”
“You will let him pick a fight with you?” asked Solomon eagerly. “This
old Winters?”
“He’ll shoot,” warned Bush.
“Pick ----!” grunted Buck. “I play cinches.”
“Sure, sure,” nodded Solomon. “That’s business.”
Solomon’s heart went out with that added thousand and the walls of his
chest shrank visibly when Buck placed the money in his pocket, and went
out of the front door.
Bush was slowly rolling a cigaret when Solomon came back and sat down.
The atmosphere was funeral-like in its density.
“Well,” said Bush slowly, “that’s settled, I hope.”
“You hope, do you,” weakly. “Always maybe and hope. Six thousand
dollars! ---- of my fathers! I wish I was a good shooter.”
“Use a shotgun and pull the trigger with yore toe,” advised Bush. “Yuh
can’t miss.”
“Fool! How could I shoot anybody----”
* * * * *
The rear door creaked open and the Piegan Kid stepped in, gun in hand.
Solomon’s voice failed him; but his mouth remained at full aperture.
Bush’s cigaret fell to his lap, where it smoldered in the wrinkles of
his pants.
But Solomon’s cunning did not completely desert him. He forced a
smile, which he intended for a pleasantry; but it was the smile of a
patient on an operating table, when the surgeon has informed him not
to be surprized if he never recovers from the anesthetic.
“So soon,” murmured Solomon, his jaws almost locked.
“Uh-huh,” admitted the Kid, with a slight grin, keeping the gun pointed
at the two men.
“Don’t do that,” begged Solomon. “Why should there be a gun between
friends. I don’t pay you to shoot me.”
“Didja do the job already?” asked Bush, trying to extinguish the burning
spot in his lap.
“Both of yuh get up,” ordered the Kid. “Stand up.”
There was nothing to do but obey. Solomon braced his flat feet and tried
to stand erect; but his knees were very weak.
“Come on,” ordered the Kid, throwing the door open.
“Why--why--” faltered Solomon, but the menace of the cocked pistol left
the question unanswered.
He went out slowly and behind him went Bush Cleveland.
Luckily there was a moon; otherwise Solomon Kane would have been hard
put to find a trail for his out-turned feet. The Kid led the pinto
and herded Solomon and Bush ahead of him. It was a long two miles to
Solomon and Bush, because they knew not what was in store for them.
They knew where they were going. Solomon planted his feet carefully on
the narrow trail and swore deep in his throat. He was not a good
walker, and Bush seemed to take delight in stepping on his heels, which
extended considerably to the rear. Bush did not mean to hurt his boss;
but he knew that a pistol muzzle was fairly close to his vertebrae, and
the blamed thing might be easy on the trigger.
Just to be on the safe side, the Kid yelled to Winters as they came near
the cabin, and the old man came to the door, with a lamp in his hand. He
stared with undisguised amazement at Solomon and Bush. Both of them were
perspiring freely and breathing heavily.
“Yuh mind if I herd ’em inside?” asked the Kid.
“No-o-o,” drawled old Cale. “Bring ’em in.”
Jennie and her mother stared at the Kid and his prisoners. Solomon
slumped into a chair and stared at the floor. Bush sat down and began
to roll a cigaret. He was not worrying about anything except his
nerves.
“What does this mean?” asked old Cale, squinting at the Kid, who leaned
against the doorway and grinned.
“These two _hombres_ was kinda interested in yuh, old-timer; so I
thought I’d bring ’em over to see yuh.”
“They was, eh?” Old Cale glared at Solomon, but that worthy only settled
lower into his chair.
“We dunno nothin’,” declared Bush. “This ---- crook drawed a gun
and----”
“Hold on!” grunted the Kid. “Nobody asked you to buy into this game,”
and then he turned to old Cale.
“These two gents are goin’ to tell yuh where the rich ore is located on
yore property.”
“That’s a lie!” exploded Solomon, waving his fat hands. “How should we
know where it is? How--what makes you think we know where it is? Bah!”
“I was at the back door,” said the Kid softly. “You fellers talked kinda
loud.”
“Don’t you believe him,” begged Solomon. “He don’t hear nothin’. He’s a
badman--a crook.”
“I kinda thought yuh knowed where that vein was, Solomon,” said old
Cale. “Mind tellin’ me where it is?”
Solomon shut his lips tightly. It seemed that he was playing a losing
game; but he was game enough to keep his hole-card covered. The Kid
smiled around at the others and walked to Bush. The tobacco and papers
were lying on his knee and the Kid took them.
“Whatcha mean?” grunted Bush, making a reach for the smoking material;
but the Kid put them in his hip pocket.
“Ask me for a smoke next time,” grinned the Kid. Bush’s cigaret was
almost gone and he looked curiously at it. Suddenly it struck him that
the Kid was going to keep him from smoking. He tried to knock the fire
from the cigaret, thinking to save it, in case the Kid refused to supply
more; but the paper unwrapped and the tobacco sifted to the floor.
A clock on a shelf tick-tocked loudly. It was nine o’clock. The Kid
looked at Jennie and her mother.
“You folks might as well go to bed. I’m goin’ to set up with these
whippoorwills.”
“You goin’ to keep us here all night?” Solomon was properly indignant at
such a thing.
“You try goin’ before I tell yuh good-by,” dared the Kid.
“I don’t _sabe_ it,” said old Cale, “but I’m backin’ this boy’s play,
y’betcha. I’ll set up with you, young feller.”
“Mind lettin’ me have a smoke?” asked Bush.
The Kid shook his head.
“No, I don’t mind; but yuh got to tell where that rich vein is first.”
“You go to ----!” roared Solomon.
Bush frowned at Solomon and licked his lips.
“Who’s goin’ to smoke this cigaret, Sol?”
“Goin’ to tell?” asked the Kid.
Bush swallowed with difficulty and rubbed the back of his hand across
his lips.
“No! I dunno where it is.”
“Use yore own judgment,” grinned the Kid.
Midnight came. The four men were very silent. Bush had not asked for a
cigaret; but the Kid could see that his nerves were growing tighter
each minute. His eyes flashed to the clock and back to the Kid. Solomon
sat deep in his chair, his head slumped between his shoulders. Once in
a while his pig-like eyes would open and gaze with malevolence upon the
Piegan Kid. No doubt, Solomon would have taken the chances of arrest or
of being shot, if he could get back that five thousand dollars.
Old Cale Winters asked no questions. He knew that things were going to
come his way; but just how, he was unable to see. The Kid occasionally
rolled and smoked a cigaret, with evident satisfaction. Bush turned his
head the other way and appeared to try and sleep; but the Kid knew that
sleep was far from his mind.
The first lights of dawn seemed to touch the peaks. It would be an
hour yet before it would be daylight. The Kid edged over to a front
window and glued his face to the pane. He could see the dim outlines
of the hills. As it grew lighter he could see a spot where the trail
to Micaville wound in sight. The Kid watched this closely, and within
fifteen minutes he was rewarded.
A man came around this point in the trail and disappeared, coming
toward the cabin. The Kid grinned. He had made a good guess. Buck Helm
was going to bushwhack old Cale Winters. About a hundred yards from the
cabin was an outcropping of granite, brush covered, which stood about
ten or twelve feet higher than the rest of the slope.
The Kid watched closely for quite a while. Suddenly he glimpsed Buck
Helm as his body blocked out an open spot on the short sky-line. Buck
was almost to his destination.
The Kid turned slowly and looked at old Cale.
“Got an extra gun, old-timer?”
The old man got to his feet and walked over to the corner, where he
picked up a Winchester rifle. Without a word he handed the Kid his
pistol and sat down again with the rifle across his lap. The Kid
grinned and motioned the old man to follow him to the back of the
room. Solomon roused up and glared at them, while Bush Cleveland’s
nerves twitched visibly.
“I’m goin’ out the back winder,” whispered the Kid. “You watch the
clock, will yuh? In five minutes you tell Solomon Kane he can go.”
“What’s the idea?” Old Cale did not relish the idea of releasing them
until he knew about that true vein.
“Idea’s all right,” said the Kid. “Let Bush go, too, if he wants to.
He’s harmless now.”
“Yo’re the doctor,” muttered the old man resignedly as he let the Kid
out of the rear window, keeping one eye on his prisoners.
The Kid circled the cabin and crept silently into a patch of mesquite.
He had not been named Piegan for nothing. Silently but swiftly he made
his way in a wide circle, coming in behind the rocky outcropping, where
he knew the two-gun man waited for old Cale Winters.
He slipped off his boots, as an added precaution, and crept silently
through the brush. Not a twig broke under his feet, nor a twig scraped
his clothing. The light had increased until the details of the cabin
were plain from that distance.
Clear out to the edge of the outcropping crept the Kid. He knew that he
must be within a few feet of the gunman, although he could not see him.
He slid softly to the very edge and peered down.
Just below him, almost in reach of his hand, was the gunman, kneeling
in a tangle of brush. The Kid could see the top of his sombrero, part
of his shoulders and the hand which held the gun.
To get closer would be almost impossible, as any noise would apprise the
man of his danger. Suddenly the man lifted his gun, and the Kid glanced
toward the house. The door had opened and Solomon Kane came out. The Kid
knew it was Solomon Kane, but the gunman did not. He had never seen old
Cale Winters; so he guessed that this hulk of a man, coming out of the
door, must be the man he was after.
A second later he fired. The Kid had figured to use Solomon Kane to
attract the gunman’s attention, but he did not think the gunman would
shoot so quickly.
At the crash of the gun the Kid launched himself over the ledge, while
Solomon Kane, shocked by the bullet, reeled against the house. The Kid
had his jump timed just right, but he did not allow for the loose piece
of ledge, which broke with him as he jumped; and instead of landing on
the broad back of Buck Helm he landed several feet short and his gun
flew out of his hand.
Helm whirled on the Kid, shooting blindly. The bullet whined off a
rock. Again he shot, but the bullet struck low, filling the Kid’s eyes
with sand. The Kid was diving forward by this time and his groping arms
circled Helm’s knees. Helm fired again--fired as he reeled backward and
the bullet went wild again.
The battle looked unequal. Helm was a much larger man than the Kid.
They crashed down into the bushes and both got to their feet. Helm
tried to draw his other gun; but the Kid went into him, smashing him
flat in the mouth. The Kid reached for his gun, but did not draw it.
Helm yanked at his gun again and the Kid tore into him, smashing with
both hands, forcing Helm to let go his gun.
Old Cale Winters was yelling from down by the cabin, but the Kid did not
know what he was saying. Helm tore into him, striking and kicking. He
threw the Kid back against the cliff and tried again to draw his gun;
but the Kid came right back, grinning wickedly, and cut Helm’s face with
right and left hooks.
Helm mouthed curses and spat broken teeth, while he strove desperately
to get that gun loose. The Kid bored into him, slashing like a panther,
blinding Helm with a cross-fire of cutting blows to the face. Suddenly
Helm lashed out with his foot.
Like a flash the Kid grabbed the foot in both hands, threw himself
sidewise, and upset Helm, just as Helm managed to get his gun free. The
Kid saw that the gun was loose and launched himself headlong into Helm,
as the gun flashed almost in his face and powder burned the back of his
neck.
They crashed together. The Kid rolled free with his vision filled with
shooting stars. He thought that Helm had hit him on the head with the
pistol; but a moment later he realized that his head had come in contact
with Helm’s jaw, and that Helm was knocked out cold.
He staggered over, tossed Helm’s guns away and leaned against the rock.
Suddenly he realized that Jennie and her father were beside him. He
heard old Cale saying:
“Buck Helm, or I’m a liar! I know three sheriffs what hankers for his
hide.”
The Kid shook his head to clear his vision, and grinned at Jennie. Bush
Cleveland staggered into the scene, looking longingly at the Kid.
“I told him,” chattered Bush, pointing at the old man. “I told him where
that ---- vein was. Gimme a smoke!”
Cale Winters nodded.
“Yeah, he told me. Solomon Kane’s got a bullet in his shoulder.”
The old man looked down at Buck Helm, who was not recovering any too
fast, and said:
“Young feller, I reckon there’s a sizable reward fer that critter. I
don’t _sabe_ how yuh whipped him, cause he’s a humdinger in a fight. Why
didn’t yuh shoot him? Gosha’mighty, yuh sure took a lot of chances.”
“Costs money to shoot,” grinned the Kid. “You take this here bad-man
and collect on him. Mebbe it will give yuh somethin’ to start minin’
on. I don’t want it.”
Jennie stepped in close to the Kid and held out her hand.
“I don’t know how you did it all; but I want to thank you.”
The Kid took her hand, bashfully, but dropped it immediately. He had
never shaken hands with a girl before.
“Yo’re wu-welcome, ma’am,” and then he turned to her father. “You’ll
take care of the rest of it, will yuh?”
“You ain’t leavin’ us, be yuh?”
“Yeah, I reckon I’ll be driftin’. I don’t stay long in any one place.
Hope yuh all have luck with yore mine.”
“But that is no way to do,” complained Jennie. “You have done so much
for us that we’d like to have you stay a while with us. Stay and get
acquainted, won’t you?”
The Piegan Kid shook his head slowly.
“No’m, I don’t reckon so. I ain’t much of a hand to get acquainted with
folks. It don’t always pay to know me too well.”
“Isn’t there anything we can do for you?”
“Well,” the Kid looked at her for a moment. “Well, I reckon there’s
one thing yuh can do for me, ma’am--give me one of them there things
yuh hold yore hair together with, will yuh?”
Jennie removed a hairpin from her hair, looked at it curiously and
handed it to him. The Kid put it in his pocket.
“Well, I reckon I’ll just say _adios_, folks. Pleased to meetcha. Goin’
to be kinda hot today.”
And without another word he turned, limped down to the cabin, where he
mounted his pinto and rode away.
Old Cale Winters looked down at Helm, who was beginning to show signs of
life. Helm was worth several dollars to the man who turned him over to
the law. Bush Cleveland was rolling his inevitable cigaret and trying to
absorb enough smoke to make up for what he had been denied. The fate of
Solomon Kane--the punishment for their ill-fated scheme--had no interest
for Bush.
Jennie Winters, likewise, had little interest in anything except her
own musings, as she gazed off across the hills, where a man and a pinto
horse was fast fading into the landscape.
Like a knight of old, who had gallantly ridden away, with only a lady’s
glove or kerchief, the Kid had asked less than they. He had saved her
father’s life at the risk of his own; very likely gave them the key to
a vast wealth, yet all he asked----
“Dad,” said Jennie, turning to her father, with misty eyes. “Dad, wasn’t
that a queer thing to ask for--a hairpin?”
“Yeah,” admitted the old man, “it was queer. Young fellers has queer
ideas, Jen. Likely wanted it to remember yuh by.”
Jennie sighed and looked back across the hills. There had been little
romance in her life. This knight of the dim trails had ridden into her
life, performed a wonderful service, and ridden away. He gave much and
asked little.
* * * * *
Far out in the mesquite-covered hills the Piegan Kid reined in the
pinto and looked back. From his pocket he took the hairpin, which he
straightened out and bent into a small hook.
Then he took his pistol from its holster, inserted the hook into the
muzzle, and, after a few ineffectual snags, drew out the tightly rolled
thousand dollar bills.
He threw the hairpin away, put the bills inside his shirt and holstered
his gun.
“This ---- bankin’ business almost got me killed,” he grunted,
unromantically, and headed into the dawn of the desert hills.
Romance is what you leave behind.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 10, 1923 issue of
Adventure magazine.]