THE STRANGER’S QUEST
“What’s yer name? Whar ye from? What’re you a-doin’ here?”
The Lizard’s preliminary inspection of the stranger and his camp might
or might not have been prompted by a habit of caution. When it was
finished he called a loose-mouthed “Howdy” and, without waiting for a
response to his greeting, spurred his mount, slipping and sliding with
rolling stones and a cloud of dust, down to the edge of the creek.
Dismounting and throwing the bridle rein over his horse’s head, he
slouched forward--a vapid grin on his sallow, weasel-like face.
“I seed yer smoke an’ ’lowed as how I’d drop along an’ take a look at
who’s here; bein’ as I war aimin’ t’ ride t’ Oracle sometime t’-day
anyhow. Not as I’ve got anythin’ perticler t’ go thar fer nuther, ’cept
t’ jist set in front of th’ store a spell an’ gas with th’ fellers.
Thar’s allus a bunch hangin’ ’round of a Sunday.”
He looked curiously at the stranger’s outfit and, ignoring the fact that
the camper had not spoken, seated himself with the air of one taking his
welcome for granted.
The stranger smiled. The fear that had so shaken him a few moments
before was gone, and there was relief in his voice as he bade his
visitor a quite unnecessary welcome.
“Ye’r a-footin’ hit, be ye?” the Lizard continued with garrulous ease.
“Wal, that’s one way of goin’; but I’ll take a good hoss fer mine. A
feller’ll jist naterally wear out quick ernough no matter how keerful
he’d be. Never ’lowed I had ary call t’ take an’ plumb _walk_ myse’f t’
death on purpose. Them’s good blankets you’ve got thar. Need ’em, too,
these nights, if ’tis spring. That thar coffeepot ain’t no ’count,
though--not fer me, that is--wouldn’t hold half what I’d take three
times a day, reg’lar.” He laughed loudly as if a good joke were hidden
somewhere in his remarks if only the other were clever enough to find
it.
“You live in this neighborhood, do you?” the stranger asked.
“What, me? Oh shore. My name’s Bill Janson--live down th’ cañon a piece,
jist below whar th’ road comes in. Paw an’ maw an’ me live thar
t’gether. We drifted in from Arkansaw eight year ago come this fall.
What’s yer name? Whar ye from? What’re you a-doin’ here?”
The stranger hesitated before he answered slowly:
“My name is--Edwards--Hugh Edwards. I came here from Tucson. I want to
prospect--look for gold, you know. I heard there were some--ah--placers,
I think you call them, in this cañon.”
The Lizard grinned, a wide-mouthed grin of superior knowledge. “Hit’s
plumb easy t’ see y’ know all about prospectin’. Y’r some edicated, I
jedge. Ben t’ school an’ them thar college places a right smart lot,
ain’t y’ now?”
The other replied with some sharpness:
“I suppose it is not impossible for one to learn how to dig for gold,
even if one has learned to read and write, is it?”
The Lizard responded heartily, but with tolerant superiority:
“Larn--shore--ain’t nothin’ t’ pannin’ gold ’cept a lot of hard work an’
mighty pore pay. Anybody’ll larn ye. Take the Pardners up yonder--old
Bob Hill an’ Thad Grove--they’d--“ he checked himself suddenly and
slapped a lean thigh. “By Glory! I’ll bet a pretty you’ve done come t’
find that thar old lost Mine with th’ Iron Door, heh? Ain’t ye now?” He
leered at the stranger with shifty, close-set eyes, his long head with
its narrow sloping brow cocked sidewise with what was meant to be a very
knowing, “I-have-you-now-sir” sort of air.
The man who had given his name as Hugh Edwards laughed.
“Really I can’t say that I would object to finding any old mine if it
was a good one, would you?”
The Lizard shook his head solemnly and with a voice and manner that was
nicely calculated to invite confidence, replied:
“Thar’s been a lot of people, one time an’ another, a-huntin’ this Mine
with th’ Iron Door. Thar was one bunch that come clean from Spain; an’
they had a map an’ everythin’. You ain’t got no map ner writin’ of any
sort, now, have you?”
“No,” returned the stranger. “But I suppose it is true that there is
gold to be found here?”
The Lizard was plainly disappointed but evidently deemed it unwise to
press his inquiry.
“Oh, shore, thar’s gold here--some--fer them what likes t’ work fer hit.
They’ve allus been a-diggin’ in this here cañon an’ in these here
mountains, as ye kin see by their old prospect holes everywhar. But
nobody ain’t never made no big strikes yet. Thar’s one feller a-livin’
in these hills what don’t dig no gold though; an’ they do say, too, as
how he knows more ’bout th’ ol’ lost mine than ary other man a-livin’.
Some says he even knows whar hits at.” The Lizard shook his head
solemnly. “You shore want t’ watch out fer _him_, too. He’s plumb
bad--that’s what I’m a-tellin’ you.”
“Yes?” said Hugh Edwards, encouragingly.
“Uh-huh, he ain’t no white man neither. He’s Injun--calls hisse’f
Natachee, whatever that is. He’s one of these here school Injuns gone
wild agin--lives all ’lone way in the upper part of th’ cañon somewhar,
whar hits so blamed rough a goat couldn’t get ’round; an’ togs hisse’f
up with th’ sort of things them old-time Injuns used to wear--won’t even
use a gun, jist packs a bow an’ arrers. I ain’t got no use fer an Injun
nohow. This here’s a white man’s country, I say, an’ this here Natachee
he’s the worst I ever did see. He’d plunk one of them thar arrers of
hisn inter you, er slit yer throat any old time if he dast. I can’t say
fer shore whether he knows about this Mine with th’ Iron Door er not,
but hit’s certain shore you got t’ watch him. Hit’s all right fer that
thar Saint Jimmy an’ them old Pardners t’ be friends with him if they
like hit, but I know what I know.”
Hugh Edwards did not overlook this opportunity to learn something of the
people who lived in the Cañon of Gold; and the Lizard was more than
willing to tell all he knew, perhaps even to add something for good
measure. When at last the Lizard arose reluctantly, the stranger had
heard every current version of the history and relationship of the two
old prospectors and their partnership daughter, with copious comments on
their characters, sidelights on their personal affairs, their
intercourse with their neighbors, their business, and every possible
theory explaining them.
“Not that thar’s anybody what really knows anythin’,”--the Lizard was
careful to make this clear--“’cept of course that old story ’bout them
a-findin’ th’ gal somewhars when she warn’t much more’n a baby; which,
as I say, ain’t no way nateral enough fer anybody t’ believe--’cause
babies like her ain’t jist found--picked up anywhar, as you may say,
without no paw ner maw ner nothin’. An’ if thar warn’t somethin’ wrong
about hit, what would them two old devils be so close-mouthed fer? Why,
sir, one time when I asked ’em about hit--jist sort of interested an’
neighborly like--they ris up like they was a-fixin’ t’ climb all over
me. Yes, they did--ye kin see yerself hit ain’t all straight, whatever
’tis. Even a feller like you can’t help puttin’ two an’ two together if
he’s got any sense a-tall.
“Wal,” he concluded regretfully, “I shore got t’ be gittin’ on t’ Oracle
er hit won’t be no use fer me t’ go, nohow.” He moved slowly toward his
horse. “Better come along,” he added. “This here trail t’ Oracle goes
right past the Pardners’ place, an’ Saint Jimmy’s an’ George Wheeler’s.
Best come along an’ see th’ country an’ git acquainted.”
“Thanks,” said Edwards, “but really I can’t go to-day. I want to get
settled somewhere before I take much time for purely social matters, you
see.”
“Huh,” grunted the Lizard, “gettin’ settled ain’t nothin’; hit’s all day
’til t’morrer ain’t hit?” Then, as if suddenly inspired with the
possibilities of having a friend at the very source of so much
interesting, if speculative, information, the Lizard added: “I’ll tell
ye what ye do, you come along with me as fer as th’ Pardners’ place.
They’ll he’p ye t’ get located. They’re all right that a-way, an’ there
ain’t nothin’ them two old-timers don’t know about th’ prospectin’ game.
An’ right up th’ cañon, not more’n a half a quarter from them, is an old
cabin you could take. Hit war built by some prospector long time ago.
George Wheeler, he told me. Seems th’ feller lived thar fer two er three
year an’ then went away an’ didn’t never come back. You might have t’
fix th’ shack up a bit, but that wouldn’t be no work; an’ thar’s allus
some gold t’ be found up an’ down th’ creek. Th’ Pardners they’ll larn
ye how, an’ mebby _you_ kin larn somethin’ ’bout them an’ that thar gal
of theirn.”
“Thank you,” returned Edwards, “but I really can’t go now. I am not
packed yet, you see.”
But the Lizard was not to be deprived of the advantage of his
opportunity. “Aw, shucks--what’s th’ matter with ye? Grab yer stuff an’
come along. Ye can’t be stand-offish with me.”
Because there seemed to be no way of refusing the invitation, the
stranger hastily threw his things together and, with his pack on his
back, set out up the cañon in company with the Lizard.
On the steep side of the mountain above, Natachee, creeping like a dark
shadow among the rocks and bushes, followed the two men.
* * * * *
Saint Jimmy, that Sunday morning, was sitting with a book by the window.
But Mother Burton, looking through the door from their tiny kitchen
where she was busy with her household work, could see that her son was
not reading. Jimmy’s book was open, but his eyes were fixed upon the far
distant horizon where the desert, with its dreamy maze of colors,
becomes a faint blue shadow against the sky. And Jimmy’s mother knew
that his thoughts were as far from the printed page as that shadowy
sky-line was distant from the window where he sat.
Often she had seen him in those moods--sitting so still that the spirit
seemed to have gone out from its temporary dwelling place to visit for
a little those places which lie so far beyond the horizon of all fleshly
vision and earthly hopes and aspirations. Of what was he thinking, she
wondered, if indeed it could be said at such times that he was thinking
at all. What was he seeing, with that far-away look in his eyes, as of
one whose vision had been trained in the schools of suffering, of
disappointments, and failures, and disillusions, to a more than physical
strength. Was he communing with some one over there in that world beyond
the sky-line of material things? Was he merely dreaming of what might
have been? Or was he living in what might be? Wise Mother Burton, to
know that there were certain rooms in her son’s being that even her
mother love could not unlock. Wise Mother Burton, to understand, to
know, when to speak and when to be still.
Saint Jimmy was aroused at last by the clatter of iron-shod hoofs on the
cañon trail. An instant later, Nugget, running with glorious strength
and ease, dashed into view, and Marta’s joyous self came between the man
at the window and the distant sky-line. Another moment and the girl
stood in the open doorway.