PAY DIRT
In September there was a killing in the Good Luck Pool Room, the murder
of a stranger whose friends made such an investigation, backed by the
real law-and-order element of Hereford, that the exposure brought about
forfeiture of all licenses and a strict shutting down on gambling and
illicit liquor. Plimsoll left Hereford for his horse ranch, deprived of
the sheriff's official countenance, and Jordan began to worry about
election.
One evening in early October a little body of riders came to the Three
Star, all strangers to the county, men whose faces were grim, who
cracked no jokes, whose greetings were barely more than civil. They were
well armed and they acted like men of a single purpose.
"This is the Three Star, ain't it?" asked the leader of a cowboy, who
nodded silently, taking in the appearance of the visitors.
"Bourke, Peters and Manning?"
"One and all," answered the Three Star rider. "Find 'em at chuck, I
reckon. You-all are jest in time. If you aim to stay overnight I'll tend
yore hawsses an' put 'em in the corral."
"You seem hospitable here."
The tone was half sarcastic.
"Rule of the ranch," replied Buck. "Folks arrivin' after sun-down, the
same bein' strangers, is expected to pass the night, if they're in no
hurry."
Sandy personally backed the invitation a moment later and steaks were
being pan-fried as the men dismounted and lounged on the porch, awaiting
their meal. The leader introduced himself by the name of Bill Brandon,
claiming previous knowledge, without actual acquaintance, of Sandy,
Mormon and Sam in Texas. Sizing each other up, man-fashion, eye to eye,
appraising a score of tiny things that aggregated sufficiently to tip
the mental scale, the crowd grew more familiar and welded with supper,
exchanged anecdotes with digestion, to get confidential over the
tobacco.
"We're out after a man who's been collectin' hawsses too primiscuous,"
said Brandon finally. "We know you gents by past reputation an' by what
they say of you in Herefo'd. Also, by that last reckonin', I ain't
figgerin' you as any speshul pal of the man we're tryin' to round up. I
reckon you know who we mean. Jim Plimsoll, who owns what he calls the
Waterline Hawss Ranch, sixteen miles east of you, more or less; an' who
gits more fancy breeds out of the mangy cayuses he shows his breedin'
mares an' stallions, than there is different fish in the sea. From all I
can figger most of his mares must have fo' foals a year.
"Some of us are from this state--Mojave County--two of us from Nevada.
Me, I'm from California. We've all been losin' hawsses off an' on an'
we've final' got together an' compared notes. Seems most of the missin'
stock sorter drifted across the Arizony line somewheres between Mojave
City an' Topock. Most of 'em have been sold or passed on. All of 'em
have been faked an' doctored more or less. Talk points to Plimsoll, so
do some facts, but not enough. An' this Plimsoll has got some mighty
close friends where they do the most good. You'd have to prove a damn
sight more than we got to even sight a blank warrant."
"You been over to his ranch?" asked Sandy.
"Jest come from there. He's slick an' cool, is Plimsoll. We was supposed
to be lookin' over hawsses for buyin', but he's careful who he sells to.
We saw some. An' we recognized some. But you know how it is, Bourke, it
ain't hard to change a hawss. Dock its foretop, do a little doctorin',
an' how you goin' to prove it? I'll say this for the man, he's the
finest brand-faker I've met up with. He suspicioned what we was after
an' we didn't see all he had. But we're goin' to git him yet an', when
we do, there won't be any more hawss-stealin' an' fakin' in Coconino
County, Arizona. Hawss-stealin' was a hangin' matter when I first come
west an' I reckon there's some feels the same way now. Speshully when
the courts back up a man like Plimsoll. Lead's cheaper than rope, but
somehow it ain't so convincin'."
Brandon changed the subject after he had spoken, but it was plain that
he and his companions had not given up the matter; clear also that they
were sure of Plimsoll's guilt and laying plans to trap him. They stayed
until the next morning and departed.
"That man Brandon's got some trick up his sleeve to trap Plimsoll," said
Sam, watching them ride off. "He ain't quite got it fixed up yet to suit
himself but it's a good un."
"He's got brains," commented Sandy, rubbing Grit's ears. The collie had
picked up since Sandy's return, sensing some connection with his
mistress closer than that of Mormon and Sam. He would feed only from
Sandy's hand and attached himself to the latter almost as permanently as
his shadow. "So has Jim Plimsoll. I ain't hankerin' fo' another man to
clean him up befo' I get my own chance. But that bunch sure mean
business."
The incident was forgotten as the round-up days grew near, with frosty
mornings when the mountains looked as flat as if they had been profiled
from cardboard and stuck up along the horizon--until the lifting sun
modeled them with shadows--with sweltering noons tapering slowly off to
cool nights while horses raced after the flying cattle, driving and
cutting out, and so to the corral brandings, where the three partners
found their increase better than they had anticipated.
Molly was not to come home at Christmas after all. She formed a
friendship, the first close one she had made, and Barbara Redding
advised that the invitation extended by this new acquaintance to spend
the holidays be accepted. There had been plans of a Christmas tree and
a celebration, but the gifts were boxed and sent off. Others arrived
from the East in exchange, a collar for Grit, a cigarette case for
Sandy, a necktie for Mormon and a three-decked harmonica for Sam. There
was a picture too, not so much of a girl but a young woman, a somewhat
wistful look in her eyes, but a firm-lipped, resolute-chinned young
woman for all that, who smiled out at them frankly and confidently. It
was signed
A Merry Christmas and a Prosperous New Year
from the Mascotte of the * * *
MOLLY.
"I dunno about the merry Christmas," said Mormon. "We're prosperous
enough, short of bein' profiteers. Molly's gettin' to be a good-looker,
ain't she? Goin' to git it framed, Sandy?"
Snows fell, the temperature ranged down far below zero at times, winter
gave reluctant place to spring until the last moment when it turned and
fled and, far into the desert, myriads of flower-blooms sprang up
overnight while everywhere the cactus gleamed in silken blooms in yellow
and crimson.
One April night the Bailey flivver came charging up to Three Star,
smothering itself in a cloud of dust that had not settled before there
sprang out of it Miranda Bailey and the lanky Ed, temporarily charged
with a tremendous activity. The cause of young Ed's galvanism was so
strong that he actually won from his aunt as bearer of the news.
"Gold!" he cried. "They've struck pay dirt at Dynamite! Chunks of
sylvanite that sweat gold in the fire. Assay thirty thousand dollars a
ton. Whole streaks of it. Vein's twelve foot wide. The whole town's
stampedin' by way of White Cliff Canyon. I'm goin'. Got a pick an' shovel
in the car. Aunt Mirandy, she was bound we'd come this way. Mebbe we can
pack you all in. But you got to hurry or they'll swarm over Dynamite
like flies on a chunk o' liver!"
"It's true," backed Miss Bailey. "Folks over to Hereford have gone
crazy. I caught a word or two that Plimsoll's to the bottom of the rush.
Ed heard he got hold of some samples them easterners took an' had 'em
sent away an' assayed. They turned out to be the big stuff. 'Course you
can't depend on gossip, when folks are talkin' mines but, if it's so,
Plimsoll's burned the wind to git first pick. An' he'll grab those
claims of Molly's first thing. That's one reason I made Ed come this
way. Thought you might like to come erlong, on'y he took the words out
of my mouth."
"You goin'?" asked Mormon. There were two red splotches in Miranda's
cheeks, a glitter in her eyes that suggested she had not escaped the
gold fever.
"Sure am," she answered. "Ed Bailey Senior, he 'lows there's no sense in
chasin' gold underground. Says he likes to see his prospects growin' up
under his own eyes an' gazin' on his own land. I'm the adventurous one
of the Bailey fam'ly, though you mightn't guess it to look at me," she
said with a twitch of her lips. "Me an' young Ed here. He takes after
me. Got the gamblin' germ in our systems. Want to git somethin' fo'
nothin'," she went on with grim humor. "I reckon Ed's right but,
land-sake, doin' the same thing, day in an' out--gits mighty monotonous.
Bein' a woman, you're more tied than a man. I tried to work my extry
energy out in politics but it all come my way too easy.
"Plimsoll ain't got much love for me. He figgers I lost him his license
an' his brother-in-law sheriff his badge. He's right. I did. I figgered
you'd not be anxious to let him have his own way about Molly's claims
an' I 'lowed I'd like to be along an' see the excitement. Me an' Ed
here'll stake off suthin' for ourselves. I'd jest as soon git some easy
money as the rest of 'em. If I do I'll buy another car. This thing"--she
surveyed the panting flivver contemptuously--"is nigh worn out and it's
jest a tin kittle on wheels. Biles if you leave it out in the sun."
Sandy, after a swift word of apology, turned away toward the bunk-house.
Mormon, with a sweeping salute from his bald head to his knees, voiced
his opinion.
"Marm," he said, "you're a dyed-in-the-wool sport an' I'd admire to
trail with you. But that kittle, as you call it, 'll sure bu'st its
cinches with we-all ridin' it. I'm no jockeyweight, fo' one."
"It'll stand up. We've got to make time. I was wonderin' if we c'ud
make it by the old road, where you found Molly? It's shorter than White
Cliff Canyon an' we've lost time comin' out here."
Sam shook his head.
"No'm, c'udn't be done. There ain't no road. Las' winter 'ud finish what
was left of it an' there was spots this side of where we found Casey
where a wagon c'udn't have passed. We just made it with the buckbo'd.
Ask Sandy."
Sandy, coming up, endorsed Sam.
"We'll have to go the long way," he said. "How are you off fo' grub?
It'll be sca'ce an' high in Dynamite. Some of us may have to stay an'
hang on to claims until they're recorded an' the new camp settles down.
An' one of us sh'ud stay an' run the ranch," he added. At which his
partners balked resolutely.
"We've got some food," said Miranda. "You might fetch along some canned
stuff if you've any handy. Ed, you sure you got plenty ile, gas an'
water? Better look her all over."
With orders to Buck, with some provisions, ammunition and a few tools,
the hurried start was made. Mormon clambered to the front seat beside
young Ed, Miranda Bailey sat between Sandy and Sam. Whatever lack of
energy the lank Ed Junior displayed on his feet, he eliminated as a
driver. The springs creaked, chirpings arose from various parts of the
car as it ran, but he coaxed the engine, performed miracles at bad
places in the road, nursed the insufficient radiator surface and kept
the "kittle" at a simmer.
He judged grades, rushed them, conquered them, sometimes at a crawl,
slid and skipped and jumped down slopes, negotiated curves on two wheels
and brought them triumphantly through White Cliff Canyon, over the
malpais belt, up and across a mesa and so to the far brink of it an hour
before dawn without puncture, without a broken leaf in the springs, with
shock absorbers still on duty and the cylinders performing full service.
Cold and raw as it was, the engine was hot and they halted to cool it.
They could see a light or two glimmering at the foot of the mesa,
something that had not shown in the deserted mining camp for many years.
Miranda Bailey shivered as she got stiffly from the car.
"I've got some powdered coffee an' some solid alcohol," she announced.
"We can all have somethin' hot to drink anyway. It won't take but a
minute. Here's some cold biscuits we can warm up on that radiator. It's
nigh as good as a stove."
The trio watched interestedly the capable way in which she got together
the meal, adding sugar and evaporated milk to her coffee. Sam picked up
the tin of solid alcohol after it had cooled off.
"It's too bad they can't fix up the real stuff that way," he said. "It
'ud sure make a hit. Canned Tom-and-Jerry, all ready for heatin'."
"And you called Soda-Water Sam," said Miranda Bailey.
"That title was give me in derision," replied Sam. "Me, I don't
hesitate to say I like my licker. Likewise I can do 'thout it. They
claim that I used to leave nothin' but the sody-water inter a saloon
once I'd entered it. Which same is a calummy. Gittin' light in the east,
ain't it, folks?"
Coffee-comforted, they made the down-road as the sun rose above the rim
of the eastern range, so jagged it seemed trying to claw back the
mounting sun. Ever in view below them lay the intermountain valley in
which the camp had been located. Its floor was jumbled with hard-cored
hills. There was little greenery. A few cottonwoods, fewer willows along
the deep bed of a scanty stream. Under the sunrise the whole scene was
theatrical with vivid light and shade. The crumpled ground, the
deep-ridged hills, all seemed unreal, made up of papier-mache, crudely
modeled and painted, garish, unfinished. The effect was enhanced by the
appearance of the one main street of the camp and the few scattering
cabins on the hills, the ancient dumps in front of the lateral shafts
where the weathered timbers sagged.
There were a few tents, some wagons and picketed horses, and there were
a great many machines parked at will. But, from the height, it all
looked like the miniature scene of a panoramic model, the houses
cardboard, the horses and wagons toys of tin. The horses were the only
moving objects, no smoke curled yet from the chimneys.
Here and there unbroken glass in the windows flung back the sun. A door
opened and a midget in shirtsleeves came out, stretching arms, palpably
yawning. Suddenly smoke jetted from a tumbled chimney, other puffs
followed and steady vapors mounted. Ant-like men emerged from every
house, gathered in little knots, busied themselves with the horses,
hurried back to breakfasts. Faint sounds came up to the travelers.
"W'udn't think that place had been dead as a cemetery fo' years?"
commented Sandy. "Stahted up overnight like an old engine. That's the
hotel, with the high front. Furniture all in it an' in the cabins. Most
of the fixtures left in the saloons, an' there was a plenty of them. Two
hotels, five restyronts, seven gamblin' houses, twenty-two saloons an'
the rest sleepin' cabins. That was Dynamite. When they git it dusted off
and started up it'll run ortermatic."
"Cuttin' out the saloons," said Miranda.
"I'm not so sure of that," said Mormon, turning in his seat. "You-all
want to remember, ma'am, that this is an unco'porated town an' that's
there's allus a shortage of law an' order for a whiles wherever there's
a strike, gold, oil or whatever 'tis. Eighty per cent. of the rush is a
hard-shelled lot an' erlong with 'em is a smaller bunch that thrives
best when things is run haphazard. There'll be licker down there, an'
it'll sure be quickfire licker at that. If you warn't the kind you are,"
added Mormon, "I'd tell you that down there ain't no place fo' a woman?"
"Meanin'?" snapped Miranda Bailey. But there was a gleam in her eye that
showed of a compliment accepted.
"Meanin'," said Mormon "that, ef you'll take it 'thout offense, you-all
air plumb up-to-date. When wimmen took up the ballot I figger they
wasn't on'y ready fo' equal rights, they knew how to git 'em. 'Side from
the shootin' end of it, I'd say you was as well equipped as any man to
look out fo' yore own interests."
"Thanks," replied Miranda. "I suppose you mean that as a compliment.
Also I know one end of a gun from another an' I can hit a barn if it
ain't flyin'. Ed, what you stoppin' fer?"
"Blamed if they ain't a puncture," said Ed as he put on the brakes. "We
got a spare tire but 'twon't do to spile this 'un. We got to git back
some time. Might not be able to buy a spare round here. I got to fix
this."
"Fix it when you git down," said his aunt. "Put on the spare. I'm kinder
nervous to git my claim staked. There's a sight of folks here. Look at
'em runnin' around like so many crazy chickens. Put on the spare, Ed,
while we pile out. An' hurry."
The spare was soon adjusted and they rolled down to the valley and over
the dusty road to the camp. Before they reached the main street a car
passed them from behind with a rush, driver and passengers reckless,
whooping as they rode, one man waving a bottle, another firing his gun
into the air.
"That's the kind that'll figger to run Dynamite fo' a while," said
Sandy. "I'll bet there ain't twenty old-timers in the camp--real miners,
I mean."
The street was alive with changing groups, merging, breaking up to
listen to some fresh report of a strike, or opinion as to the prospects.
There were no women in sight. The men were of all sorts, from cowboys in
their chaps, who had left the range for the chance of sudden wealth, to
storekeepers from Hereford and other towns. Excitement reigned, no one
was normal. Bottles passed freely. Among the crowd moved shifty-eyed men
who had come to speculate. There were gamblers, plain bullies,
swaggerers, with here and there a bearded miner, gray of hair and faded
blue of eye, either moving steadily through the throng or held up by a
little crowd to whom he declaimed with the right of experience. Some, it
seemed certain, must be on their claims, but the bulk of the men who
filled the street of the resurrected town, were those who prey upon the
work and luck of others, camp-followers of the Army of Good Fortune.
Mormon's pronouncement that the town, after its long desertion, had
automatically refunctioned, was not far wrong. Rudely lettered signs
proclaimed where meals could be bought and boldly announced gambling.
KENO--CHUCKALUCK AND STUD
CRAPS AND DRAW POKER
THE OLD RELIABLE FARO BANK
J. PLIMSOLL, PROP.
read Sandy.
"He's here, lookin' fo' easy money, both ends an' the middle," he
drawled. "W'udn't wonder but what we'd rub up ag'in' him 'fo' we leave."
"You'll want to go right through to Molly's claims, I suppose," said
Miranda Bailey. "Do you know where they are?"
"I can soon find the location," replied Sandy. "But there ain't any
extry hurry. They've been recorded. They'll keep. We'll git us some real
hot grub at one of these restyronts an' listen a bit to the news. Find
out where is the most likely place fo' you an' yore nevvy to locate."
"Ain't you afraid Plimsoll or some one'll have jumped those claims?"
asked the spinster.
"W'udn't be surprised. But there's allus two ways to jump, Miss Mirandy.
In an' _out_. Let's try Cal Simpson's Place. I knew him when he was
runnin' a chuck-wagon. He's sure some cook if it's him."
They pressed through the crowded street to the sign. Next door to the
cabin that Simpson had preempted on the first-come-first-served order
that prevailed, was one of the olden saloons. Through door and window
they could see the crowded bar with bottles and tin mugs upon the
ancient slab of wood. Over the door the inscription:
ROCKY MOUNTAIN GRAPEJUICE
MULE BRAND
TWO KICKS FOR ONE BUCK
Some looked curiously at Miranda Bailey, but the sight of her escort
checked any familiarity. Covered with dust from their ride, guns on
hip, the three musketeers did not encourage persiflage at the expense of
their outfit and they passed unchallenged into the eating-house where a
stubby man with a big paunch shouted greetings at Sandy.
"You ornery son of a gun! _An'_ Mormon. This yore last, Mormon. No? I
beg yore pardon, marm. I c'ud have wished Mormon 'ud struck somethin'
sensible an' satisfactory at last. It's his loss more'n your'n. What'll
you have, folks? I've got steak an' po'k an' beans. Drove over some
beef. More comin' ter-morrer. I'll have a real mennoo by the end of the
week. Steak? Seguro! Biscuits an' coffee."
He shouted orders to a helper and hurried off to pan-broil the steaks.
To the order he added some fried potatoes.
"They ain't on the bill-of-fare," he said. "Try 'em, marm. Hope you
strike it lucky, Sandy. Damn few--beggin' yore pahdon, miss--damn few of
this crowd ever had a blister on their hands. It ain't like the old days
when the sourdoughs made a strike. They worked their own shafts. This
bunch specklates on 'em. A claim'll change hands twenty times between
now an' ter-morrer night.
"Rush is over fo' the mornin'. I'll sit in with you, if you don't mind.
I got my steak in that pan."
"What's the indications?" asked Sandy, after Simpson had rejoined them.
"Big. Look here. White gold!" He pulled out a piece of tin white mineral
with a brilliant metallic luster, sparkling with curious crystals.
"Sylvanite--twenty-five per cent, gold an' twelve an' a half silver.
Veined in the porphyry. There's a young assayer come in last night. He
'lows it's sylvanite, same as they have over to Boulder County in
Colorado. He comes from the Boulder School of Mines. He's a kid, but I
w'udn't wonder but he knows what he's talkin' about. Some calls it
telluride. But it's gold, all right, an' there's a big vein of it close
to the surface on the knoll east side of Flivver Crick."
They passed the heavy mineral from hand to hand, examining it with eager
curiosity. Simpson rambled on.
"Over five hundred in camp an' more comin' all the time. The rush ain't
started yet. Goin' to be an old-time boom, sure. Bound to make money ef
you don't hold on too long. Peg you out a claim or two 'long that east
bank, Sandy. Don't matter 'ef she's located or not, you can sell it fo'
mo'n you'll ever git out of it by workin' it.
"This man Plimsoll aims to make him a fortune," he continued. "He's got
a gang of bullies with him who're stakin' out the best claims an'
jumpin' others. He's runnin' a game wild. He's here to clean up. I tell
you, Sandy, the sheriff ought to be on the job on the start of a rush
like this. But he's t'other end of the county, they tell me, an' likely
he won't hear of it for three-four days. And by that time she may have
blew up ag'in," he closed pessimistically. "Blew up once, did Dynamite.
This may be jest a flash in the pan, a grass-root outcrop. That's the
way she started when old man Casey drifted in an' his burro kicked up
pay-ore. Damn--dern--few of this crowd'll ever stop to run shaft or
tunnel. Though this young assayin' feller talks big about folds an'
uplifts, synclines an' anticlines. Claims the po'phyry is syncline. You
got to catch it where the fold is shaller or else dig half-way to China.
You still in the cow business, Sandy?"
So he chatted until fresh customers came in and claimed his skill and
steaks. Miranda Bailey and her companions finished the meal and started
out.
The Casey claims were on the east side of the creek, Sandy knew. The old
prospector's lore, or instinct, had been unfailing. It remained to see
if his marks and monuments had been respected. Molly had said that the
assessment work had been done, and she had so described the place in a
narrow terrace of the hill that Sandy felt sure of finding them without
trouble.
He pointed out a sign over the door of a shack ahead, white lettered on
black oil cloth:
CLAY WESTLAKE.
ASSAYER--SURVEYOR AND
MINING ENGINEER.
A knot of men were milling about the place.
"Doin' a trade already," said Sam. "Must have brung that sign erlong
with him. Smart, fo' a youngster. Simpson said he was a kid. How 'bout
seein' him befo' Miss Bailey an' Ed here stake their claims? I'm aimin'
to mark out one fo' me, same time."
"Also me," said Mormon.
Guffaws suddenly rose from the little crowd by the assayer's sign. A
deep voice boomed out in bullying tone, followed by silence, then more
laughs. Sandy leaned to Mormon.
"You keep her an' young Ed back," he said. "Trouble here, I figger."
Mormon nodded, stepping ahead, blocking Miranda's progress in apparently
aimless and clumsy fashion while Sandy, his hands dropping to his gun
butts, lifting the weapons slightly and, releasing them into the
holsters once again, lengthened his stride, walking cat-footed, on the
soles of his feet, as he always did when he scented trouble. Sam, easing
his own gun, lightly touched his lips with the tip of his tongue and
followed Sandy with eyes that widened and brightened.
"Bullyin' the kid, I reckon," he said to Sandy as they went. Sandy did
not need to nod before they reached the half-ring that had formed about
a young chap in khaki shirt, riding breeches and puttees, whose fair
hair was curly above a face tanned, and resolute enough. Yet he was
clearly nervous at the jibes of the crowd and the actions of the man who
faced him, heavy of body, long of arm, heavy of jowl; a deep-chested,
broad-shouldered individual whose head, cropped close, tapering in a
rounded cone from his bushy eyebrows, helped largely to give him the
aspect of a professional wrestler, or a heavyweight prizefighter. He
carried a big blued Colt revolver, and the way he spun the weapon on the
trigger guard showed familiarity with the weapon.
The young assayer had no holster to his belt, seemingly no gun. His
clean shaven jaws were clamped tight so that the muscles lumped here and
there, and he fronted the unsympathetic crowd and the jeering bully with
a courage that was partly born of desperation.
"Mining engineer!" read the bully. "Smart, ain't he, for a curly-headed
kid! Engineer? Peanut butcher 'ud suit better. Looks like a movie
pitcher actor, don't he? Mebbe he's a vodeville performer. I'll bet he
is, at that. What's yore speshulty, kid? Singin' or dancin'. Or both."
He flung a shot from the gun into the ground between the young man's
feet.
"Show us a few steps, you powder-faced dood! Mebbe we'll let you stay in
camp if you amuse us."
Sandy and Sam had elbowed their way lightly through the ring and the
former turned to the man beside whom he happened to stand.
"What's the idea?" he asked.
"The young 'un good as told Roarin' Russell he didn't know what he was
talkin' about. Chap asked the kid's opinion on a bit of ore an' he give
it. It didn't suit Russell."
"It didn't, eh? Now, that's too bad," drawled Sandy. The other looked at
him curiously. Sandy's drawl was often provocative. Russell's gun
barked again.
"Dance, damn ye! An' sing at the same time; blast you for a buttin' in
tenderfoot! Won't, eh?"
The victim, game but despairing, flung a look of appeal about him. To
give in meant to become the laughing-stock of the camp, to have its
ribaldry follow him, to be laughed out of the camp, branded as a coward.
Yet to resist was a challenge to death. The bully had been drinking, the
gleam in his eyes was that of the killer, a man half insane from
alcohol.
"Up with yore hands! Up with 'em, or I'll shoot the knuckles off of 'em!
I'll make a jumpin'-jack of you or I'll shoot yore...."
The first syllable of the intended volley of foulness was barely out
when Sandy, stepping forward, touched the bully on the shoulder. Russell
whirled as a bear whirls, gun lifting.
"Lady back here in the crowd," said Sandy quietly.
For a second Russell gasped and stared and, as he stared, the cold hard
look in Sandy's eyes told him the manner of man who had interrupted him.
But this man's guns were in the holsters, Russell's weapon was in hand
though its muzzle was tilted skyward. The crowd, thickening, waited his
next move. He had been stopped in his baiting. He saw no woman back of
the big bulk of Mormon, keeping Miranda well away, not seeing what was
going forward.
"To hell with the lady!" shouted Russell. At his back was only the
unarmed assayer. This lean cold-eyed interferer was a hardy fool who
needed a lesson. He swept down his gun, thumb to hammer. Two guns grew
like magic in Sandy's hands. Russell read a message in Sandy's glance,
he heard the gasp of the crowd. With his own gun first in the open the
stranger had beaten him to the drop and fire. He felt the fan of the
wing of death on his brow. His gun flew out of his fingers, wrenched
away by the force of impact from Sandy's bullet on its muzzle, low down,
near the cylinder. Dazed, he watched it spinning away, his hand numb.
"Back up to that door, you! Back up!" Sandy's voice was almost
conversational but it was profoundly convincing. The bully obeyed him,
standing at the door in the place of the assayer, who stepped aside,
feeling a little sick at the stomach, Sam bracing him in friendly
fashion by one elbow.
"I won't shoot _yore_ knuckles off," said Sandy, "pervidin' you keep
yore fingers wide apaht, an' don't wiggle 'em. Spread 'em out against
the wood, bully man!"
His face whitening from the ebb of blood to his cowardly heart, Roarin'
Russell opened his fingers wide, judging implicit obedience his greatest
safety. Sandy did not move position, he hardly seemed to move wrist or
finger as his guns spat fire, left and right, eight shots blending,
eight bullets smashing their way through the door between the "V's" of
the bully's fingers while the crowd held their breath for the
exhibition.
Sandy quickly reloaded, quickly but without obvious haste. He did not
return the guns to their holsters and he paid no attention to the
admiring comments of the crowd.
"Who is he? Two-gun man! They say his name's Sandy Bourke."
"You-all interfered with a friend of mine," said Sandy. "It ain't a
healthy trick. An' you ain't apologized to the lady. I don't know how
Westlake feels about it, but you've sure got to apologize to the lady."
The assayer, bewildered at Sandy's assumption of friendship, waved his
hand deprecatingly. Russell's eyes rolled from side to side toward his
still elevated hands.
"You can lower 'em if you can't talk with 'em up," said Sandy. "I'm
waitin' fo' that apology, but I'm in a bit of a hurry."
"I didn't see no woman," mumbled the bully, crestfallen.
"I told you there _was_ one," said Sandy. "I don't lie, even to
strangers. You're sorry you swore, ain't you?"
"You're quicker'n I am on the draw with yore two guns," retorted the
goaded Russell. "I c'ud lick you one-handed 'thout guns--or any man in
this crowd," he blustered in an attempt to halt his departing prestige.
"You-all had a gun in yore hand when we stahted in," said Sandy equably.
"You're sorry you swore--_ain't_ you?"
The repeated words, backed by the cold gaze, the ready guns, were
merciless as probes.
"I apologizes to the lady," growled Russell.
"Now, that's fine," said Sandy. "Fine! Westlake, will you come erlong
with me fo' a spell?"
He made his way through the opening group. Sam followed with the assayer
who now began to realize that Sandy's interference had established a
friendship that would continue protective. They met Mormon, almost
purple in the face from suppressed feelings. Young Ed Bailey eyed Sandy
with awe and new respect. Miranda Bailey's attempt to learn exactly what
had happened was thwarted by Sandy's presentation of Westlake. During
the introduction Mormon slipped away. Roaring Russell was endeavoring to
readjust his swagger when the stout cowboy met him.
"I was with the lady," said Mormon. "Consequent I c'udn't git here
sooner. You said you c'ud lick any one in the camp one-handed, guns
barred. Now I don't like the way you apologized, sabe? It warn't willin'
enough, nor elegant enough, nor spontaneous enough. Ter-night, after I
git through showin' the lady around the diggin's, I'll meet you where
you say for fun, money or marbles, an' argy with you barehanded.
Thisaway."
He slapped Russell on the cheek. The bully roared and the crowd stepped
back. Mormon, with the surprising alertness he showed in action, for all
his bulk and weight, sprang back, poised for strike or clutch. Miranda
Bailey came with a rush and stepped between the two men. Russell
foresaw a laugh at his expense and curbed himself, the sooner for his
new-found consideration for Sandy's gunplay.
"You ought to be ashamed of yoreselves, both of you," exclaimed the
spinster. "I'll have no one fightin' over me. I can take care of
myself."
"Yes, m'm, I reckon you can. I reckon we are ashamed," said Mormon
meekly, as the crowd roared in laughter that died away before the evenly
swung gaze of Sandy, backed by Sam. Russell slipped off and the men
dispersed. Miranda addressed Mormon.
"I'll not have you fighting with that hulkin' brute on my account," she
said. "Do you understand?"
Mormon gulped. He seemed summoning his courage, gripping it with both
hands.
"Marm," he said desperately, "you can't stop me."
The spinster gasped, met his eyes, flushed and turned away. Sam nudged
Mormon with elbow to ribs.
"You dog-gone ol' desperado," he said in a whisper. "I didn't think you
had it in you. That the way you treated the first three?"
"No, it ain't," said Mormon, mopping his forehead. "And she ain't the
same kind they was, neither. Come on, or we'll lose 'em."