WHITE GOLD
"It was mighty decent of you to take me under your protection," said the
young engineer to Sandy. He made hard going of the last word but shot it
out with a snap that left his jaw advanced. Sandy told himself that he
liked the clean-cut, well-set-up Westlake.
"Shucks," he answered, "I reckon you w'udn't have much trubble
protectin' yo'self, providin' terms was any way nigh even. That Roarin'
Russell throwed down on you, figgerin' you packed no gun, seein' there
was none in sight.
"I sabe that kind of hombre. Since he was knee-high he's always had an
aidge on most folks, 'count of his size an' weight. But that ain't
enough, he's got to have somethin' on the other man 'fo' he tackles him.
He plays all his games with an ace in a hold-out. Which shows him fo' a
man who figgers he ain't equal to tacklin' another 'thout he knows he's
got the best of it. He thinks he's one hell of a wrastler an'
rough-an'-tumble man but, if he ever mixes with Mormon, it's goin' to be
a bull an' b'ar affair--an' Mormon'll do the tossin'."
Westlake looked somewhat dubiously at Mormon's girth.
"Don't jedge a man by the size of his waistband," said Sandy. "Mormon's
fooled mo'n one. He's hog fat, to look at, but if you was to skin him
you'd find mighty li'l' fat an' a heap of muscle. Got flesh like an
Injunrubber ball, has Mormon. Minute Roarin' Russell finds he ain't got
a walkover he'll begin to quit. That sort does, ninety-nine out of a
hundred. The yaller jest natcher'ly oozes out of 'em. How'd your fuss
come to staht?"
"A man was showing Russell and some others a piece of quartz picked up
round here. It had nothing in it but some mica and galena, but Russell
had given it as his opinion that it was the gold-bearing rock of the
region. I told them I thought they would find that in the porphyry and
Russell asked me what the hell I knew about it? That's how it started. I
don't know how it would have finished if you hadn't taken a hand and
said I was a friend of yours. That saved my face. I came to the strike
because I thought there would be a chance of getting in on the ground
floor in new diggings and I hated to be driven out of it by having to
dance for a bully and a bully's crowd. I don't know that I _would_ have
danced. It's hard to weigh the odds when a gun has been fired at you,
but I figured he wouldn't shoot to kill."
"Might have crippled you," said Sandy. "If I'd been you I'd have
danced."
"You would?"
"I sure would. No sense in argy'in' with a gun an' a boozy bluffer at
the other end of it. He'd put up his bluff an', feelin' sure you c'udn't
hurt him, he'd have carried it through. Any time a man has the drop on
me I raise my hands--or my feet, 'cordin' to orders. I've spent a deal
of time practisin' so it's hahd to beat me to the draw. Trouble was, ef
you-all don't mind my sayin' so, you horned in. You give out information
gratis. You had yore sign up fo' minin' engineer. Chahge fo' what you
know, son, an' yo' customers'll be grateful. Give 'em a slug o' gold
free an' they'll chuck it at a perairie dawg befo' they've gone fifty
yards."
"Do you know anything about mining, Mr. Bourke?"
"Sandy is my name to my friends. A cowman with a mister to the front of
his name seems to me like a hawss with an extry bridle. No, sir, I
don't. Do you?"
Sandy's eyes twinkled as he put the quiz. Westlake laughed.
"I hope so. I think so. Mining is bound to be more or less of a gamble.
A first-class mining engineer could tell you where you ought to find the
gold in a certain region, but he couldn't guarantee that there would be
any. Experience counts a lot, of course, but I do know something about
sylvanite, or white gold. I've seen its big field over in Boulder and
Teller Counties, Colorado. They call it graphic gold, sometimes, because
the crystals are very frequently set up in twins and branch off so that
they look like written characters. The crystals are monoclinic and occur
in porphyry almost exclusively. It is a mixture of gold and silver
telluride and it's also called tellurium. Named after Transylvania where
it was first found. There's some in Australia."
"I'm much obliged," said Sandy. "I've learned a heap."
Westlake looked at him suspiciously, but Sandy's face was grave as that
of the sphinx.
"The porphyry dykes here are in syncline," the engineer went on. "They
dip toward each other from both sides of the valley and form loops or
folds. If you imagine an onion sliced in half you catch the idea. Call
every other layer porphyry, with rock and other dirt between. The bottom
of a loop may be deep down or it may be missing altogether, ground away
when the valley was gouged out by a glacier. There may be other loops
beneath it. Some portions of the loops come to the surface on the
hillside and you can guess at their dip. But--the gamble lies in this.
The ones that are exposed may or may not carry the gold-bearing veins.
You might hit it at grass roots and find a lot of it. Or you might go
down deep sinking through the hard porphyry for nothing. Science says
that the tellurium crystals are in the porphyry dykes and that these
dykes lie in syncline, perhaps two or three, nested one under the
other."
"Gosh," ejaculated Miranda Bailey. "It sure sounds like a lottery to me.
I wonder c'ud we hire you to p'int out a likely place for us to
locate?" They had left the one street by this time and were making their
way slowly along the western slope of the valley. Men worked at creaky
and shaky old windlasses or appeared and disappeared at the mouths of
lateral shafts, repairing the ancient timbers, wheeling out rubbish.
Once or twice they heard the dull boom of a shot where dynamite was
trying to split the rock and uncover a lead. On several of the claims
were groups, the members of which made no pretense at mining, but lolled
about, playing cards or pitching dollars at a mark. These were
speculators, holding to sell. Stakes with papers in clefts, piles of
stones at the corners, showed the boundaries of the claims.
"If you think my judgment is any good," said Westlake, "you're welcome
to it. I could be more certain of helping you when it comes to assaying
or developing a mine. Are you-all taking up claims? Do you want to align
them, or do you want to pool interests and locate here and there where
the chances look good?"
"Miss Bailey an' her nephew are goin' to take a chance," said Sandy. "Me
an' my two partners are lookin' for claims located by the man who first
discovered the camp. They can't get away an' we'll see Miss Mirandy
settled first."
"Me, I aim to take up a claim," said Mormon. "So does Sam."
"Who's goin' to work it?" asked Sandy. "You-all forget that we agreed
when we went into the ranchin' business together not to go into
speculations on the side 'thout mutual consent. From what I can make
out from Westlake's talk speculation is a mild term fo' lookin' fo'
gold. I don't consent, by a long shot. We got Molly's claims to look
after with our interest in 'em, an' I've a hunch that's goin' to occupy
all our time we got to spare. What does Roarin' Russell do in the camp,"
he asked Westlake, seemingly irrelevantly, "or ain't he shown yet?"
"He is a sort of bouncer, or capper for that gambling joint run by
Plimsoll."
Sandy nodded. "I ain't surprised. Plimsoll's figgerin' that he'll get a
big chunk of whatever's dug out, 'thout takin' any chances on diggin'.
W'udn't wonder but what he figgers to run the camp, mo' ways than one,
with a few bullies like Roarin' Russell to help him."
"This Casey," said Westlake, "who made the original strike, did he take
out much?"
"As I understand it," replied Sandy, "he hits the porphyry where it's
shaller, or worn off, like you said. An' he finds rich pay stuff right
away, enough to start the camp. Quite a few works on that outcrop an'
then it peters out. Casey sabed a bit about synclines, I reckon, fo' he
kept faith in the camp, on'y he realized it 'ud take a heap of money to
develop, meanin' to dig through the porphyry, I suppose. Now they've
found some mo' of that float ore that the first crowd overlooked. Reckon
that'll peter out too, after a while. But capital may come in on this
second staht. Some eastern folk were lookin' over the place a while
back. Took samples an' Plimsoll got wise to what they amounted to."
"And he hasn't taken up any claims?" said Westlake. "Despite his
gambling investment, I should have thought he would."
"He's got an interest in one or two, I fancy, or thinks he has," said
Sandy dryly.
Westlake halted and took a small steel hammer from his pocket with which
he struck off a fragment of rock protruding from the ground. The
cleavage showed purple. He walked slowly along for some fifty feet,
kicking the soil with his foot, breaking off other samples to which he
put his tongue.
"Taste good?" asked Sam.
"Not bad, if you're looking for mineral. They've got a distinct flavor
all their own, but I wetted them to show the color up more plainly. Here
is the outcrop of a syncline reef. It may carry gold and it may not, but
it's wide enough, it's near the surface and it's as good a place as any.
It dips deeper lower down, but I imagine you'll find it floating out
again on the other side of the valley. Runs like the ribs of a ship,
with the valley the hull. And the ship's rail, the gunwale in the
rim-rock that outlines the auriferous deposit."
Sandy, glancing across the valley to where the engineer pointed, nodded
his head. "Your judgment goes with Casey's," he said. "Right across from
here is where he located his claims, I take it. How about it, Mormon?
Fits the description to a T."
"Sure does," assented Mormon. "Thar's the notched boulder half-way up
the hill, the three-forked dead pine on the ridge. If you locate here,
marm," he said to Miranda, "an' we-all make a strike, we'll be on the
same vein, I reckon."
"It's all Greek to me," said the spinster. "How do we locate? I've come
this far, an' I'll see the thing through to some sort of finish. Me an'
young Ed'll camp here. I figger we can git the car up. It's gone through
worse places. There's water down there in the crick. We've got grub.
When it's gone we can buy more. How many claims can we take up an'
what's the size of 'em, Mr. Westlake?"
The three partners left Miranda and the engineer measuring off and
setting up their monuments at the corners of the claim. Young Bailey
started for the faithful flivver. They started directly down the
sidehill, making for the valley, in silence, like men with business
ahead of them that called for action rather than words.
"Figger that tent is on them claims of Molly's and our'n?" asked Sam, as
they paused before they tackled the eastern slope. "Looked like it was
to me."
"Me too," said Mormon.
"I wouldn't wonder," agreed Sandy. "Here's the situation, as I sabe it.
Plimsoll met up with Pat Casey from time to time. Molly said so. There's
other witnesses to that. Plimsoll'll use some of them to swear that he
grubstaked Casey. They'll be some of his own crowd. No doubt Plimsoll
got the location of the claims from the old records an' these buckaroo
pals of his, who are roostin' on said location, knew jest where to go
an' stahted out well in front with their outfit. I don't reckon we'll
find Plimsoll up there, though we ain't seen him so far this mo'nin',
but I'll bet our best bull ag'in' a chunk of dogmeat that they're on his
pay-roll."
"Shucks, it don't make no difference whose pay-roll they're on," said
Mormon. "They're claim-jumpers an', like you said, Sandy, a jump can be
made two ways. Let's go look 'em over."
The tent was pitched on the hillside where the grade was too steep to
permit of level ground enough for more than the actual floor space. The
brown duck erection strained at the guy ropes of its upper side where
the stakes had been driven deep into the soil. The chimney of a small
stove came through the top of the cloth, guarded by a metal ring.
Outside were boxes, saddles, an ax, kettles and pans, a portable grill
and other camping equipment. The tent flaps were open and showed cots on
which blankets and clothing were roughly spread. On two of these beds
men sprawled asleep. Five others were seated on boxes about a boulder
that looked like porphyry outcrop. Its surface was flat enough to serve
as a table. The five were playing poker. One was bearded and seemed the
old-time miner. All boasted stubble on their chins, two wore mustaches.
One was bald. Their clothes varied, from the miner's faded blue
overalls, high boots and flannel shirt, to soiled khaki and laced
prospector's footwear. One thing they all had in common, cartridge
belts and guns, in plain view. Taken together they were not a
prepossessing lot, playing their game in silence, looking up with a
scowl and movements toward gun butts at the visitors. Two burros cropped
at the scanty herbage above the tent. A demijohn stood between two of
the box seats.
"I've seen that tent afore," whispered Sam to Sandy. The latter nodded.
"Campin' out, gents?" he asked amiably.
"No, we ain't. These claims are preempted. Trespassers ain't welcome.
You're invited to move on."
"That's a new name fo' it," said Sandy pleasantly. "New to me.
Preempted."
"What in hell are you driving at?" asked the other. "This is private
property."
"Property of Jim Plimsoll?"
"None of yore damned business."
There was a movement in the tent. One of the men got up from his cot and
stood yawning in the entrance, one hand on the pole. The other snored
on. Sandy, with Mormon and Sam, stood just above the group on the narrow
bench that furnished the floor for the tent. They had little doubt that
the jumpers knew who they were, though they recognized none of them by
sight. There was a hesitancy toward action that might have been born out
of respect to Sandy's two guns or a foreknowledge of his reputation in
handling them, aside from the armament of his partners. Sandy's hands
rested lightly on his hips, his thumbs hooked in his belt, fingers
grazing the butts of his guns. There was a smile on his lips but none in
his eyes. His tone and manner were easy.
"Saw his stencil on the tent," he said. "J. P. in a diamond. Same brand
he uses fo' his hawsses. Or mebbe you found it."
His drawling voice held a taunt that brought angry flushes of color to
the faces of the men opposing him, yet they made no definite movement
toward attack. It seemed patent that Sandy Bourke was testing them.
Trouble was in the air, two kinds of it: on the one side hesitant
belligerency; on the other--cool nonchalance. Sandy, with his smiling
lips and unsmiling eyes, stood lightly poised as a dancing master.
Mormon and Sam were tenser, crouched a little from the hips, elbows away
from their sides, hands with fingers apart, ready to close on gun butts,
standing as boxers stand or distance-runners set on their marks.
The man who stood in the tent door kicked at his sleeping companion and
roused him to sit on the side of his cot and stare sleepily out,
gradually taking in the situation. There were seven against three but,
when the odds are so big and the minority faces them with a readiness
and an assurance that shows in their eyes, on their lips, vibrates from
their compacted alliance, the measure is one of will, rather than
physical and merely numerical superiority, and the balance beam quivers
undecidedly. The bearded miner, with the rest, looked shiftily toward
the man who had done the speaking, the bald-headed one, whose khaki and
nail-studded boots were belied by the softness and puffiness of his
flesh, the sags and wrinkles beneath his eyes and under his double
chins. He had little gray-green orbs that glittered uneasily.
"I'm giving you men two minutes to clear out of here," he said. "No
two-gunned cow-puncher can throw any bluff round here, if that's what
you're trying to do."
Sandy laughed joyously. The smile was in his eyes now.
"If I figger a man's throwin' a bluff," he said, "I usually figger to
call him, not to chew about it. Me, I pack two guns fo' a reason. Once
in a while I shoot off all the ca'tridges from one an' then I don't have
to reload. Now, _I'm_ talkin'. These claims are duly registered in the
name of Patrick Casey, his heirs an' assigns. Here's the papers. The
assessment work is all done. Pat's daughter owns 'em now. We're
representin' her. An' I'm servin' you notice to quit. We'll take the
same two minutes you was talkin' of. They must be nigh up now, though I
didn't see you lookin' at yo' watch. I'm lookin' at my Ingersoll an' I
give it sixty seconds mo'. Then staht yore li'l' demonstration, gents,
providin' I don't beat you to it." He started to roll a cigarette with
hands skilful and steady. Back of him Sam and Mormon stood like dogs on
point, watchful, unmoving, but instinct with suppressed motion.
"The girl may be his heir," said the bald-headed man, "but Plimsoll is
assignee. Plimsoll staked him an' these claims are half his. The girl
can put in her share to the title later, if they amount to anything. She
ain't of age."
"So J. P. was hirin' you to do his dirty work," said Sandy, his voice
cold with contempt. "You go back to him, the whole lousy pack of you,
an' tell him from me he's a yellow-spined liar. Git! Take yore stuff
with you or send back fo' it. Now, git off this property."
If a man can make movements with his hands so swiftly that they are
covered in less than a tenth of a second, ordinary human sight can not
register them. He has achieved the magician's slogan--_the quickness of
the hand deceives the eye_. It takes natural aptitude and long practise,
whether one is juggling gilded balls or blued-steel revolvers. Sandy
could, with a circling movement of his wrists, draw his guns from their
holsters and bring them to bear directly upon the target to which his
eyes shifted. Glance, twist of wrist, arrest of motion, pressure of
finger, all coordinated. One moment his hands were empty, his glance
carelessly contemptuous, the veriest movement of a split-second
stop-watch and the gun in his right hand spat fire, the gun in his left
swung in an arc that menaced the five card players.
The other two were struggling beneath the crumpled folds of a collapsed
tent, wriggling frantically like the stage hands who simulate waves by
crawling beneath painted canvas. Sandy had shattered the pegs that held
up the upper corners of the tent on the slope, had cut the cords of the
remaining guys on that side and the structure had swayed and collapsed.
Sam and Mormon had lined up now with Sandy. There was no mistaking their
intention to use their guns. But the exhibition had been quite
sufficient. With one accord the five raised their hands shoulder high
and began to shuffle down the hill, regardless of their equipment,
which, having been paid for by Plimsoll, they regarded as of much less
value than the necessity for departure.
"Come out of that," commanded Sandy to the two wrigglers. "Git a move
on."
The faces that appeared were ludicrous in their expressions of dismay
and appeal. Their owners came out like dogs from a kennel who expect to
be kicked as they emerge. One of them had taken off his boots for better
sleeping and he hobbled uneasily in his socks.
"Take along yore booze," said Sandy.
The bootless one looked furtively at the demijohn, still like a wary cur
who snatches at and bolts with a stray bone. Then the pair set off at a
jog trot after the rest.
"I wonder," said Sam, "if that was good whisky?"
Sandy looked at him reproachfully. "Sody-Water," he said, "I'm plumb
disappointed in you an' yore cravin'. Smell it an' see."
His gun exploded. The man with the demijohn gave a curious hop, skip and
jump. The demijohn jerked in his hand but seemed intact. The bullet,
smashing through the wickerwork, had shattered the container but the
tough willow twigs preserved the shape. Two more shots and there was a
tinkle of broken glass. The last bullet had clipped the neck. It was too
close shooting for the sockless one and the whisky was dripping fast
through the weave, bringing a reek of crude liquor to Sam's twitching
nostrils. The claim-jumper dropped what was left of his burden and went
hopping on, acquiring stone bruises with every leap.
"Scattered like a bunch of coyotes," said Sam.
"Sure did," agreed Sandy. "Minute they stahted talkin', 'stead of
shootin', I knew they was ready to stampede. They'll beat it to Plimsoll
an' we'll see jest how much sand he's got in his craw."
"Not enough to keep him from skiddin' on a downgrade," said Mormon.
"Sandy, that's cruelty to animals, sendin' that hombre off 'thout his
boots after you took away his licker. I've got tender feet myse'f as
well as a soft heart. Help me with this tent a minute, Sam."
Together they raised the fallen canvas enough to discover the boots,
which Mormon hurled down-hill after the limping one, who was far in the
rear of his companions. He turned at Mormon's shout and he stopped,
fearful at the act of kindness, crawled up the slope and retrieved his
footwear, pulled them on and scurried off.
A distant shout reached them from the other side of the gulch. By
position, rather than actual recognition, Sandy guessed the figure that
of Westlake. The firing must have sounded only a little louder than
cork poppings, but evidently the engineer had sized up the retreating
men and the collapsed tent. Sandy waved to him in assurance that all was
well and the other waved back in understanding.
"Think Plim'll show?" asked Sam.
"Got to--or quit," said Sandy. "That bunch of jumpers he got together'll
spill the beans unless he makes some play. It's plumb evident he wants
these partickler claims. I don't believe he's hirin' men just to make us
peevish. 'Sides, he didn't know fo' sure we were comin'. Might have
figgered we'd trail the news of the rush, but I'll bet a sack of Durham
against a pinch o' dirt that he's fairly sure that old man Patrick Casey
picked him some first-class locations. We got one card that'll upset him
considerable, my bein' the legal guardeen of Molly."
"A heap he cares fo' legal or not legal," said Sam.
"That's jest what he _will_ do, now he ain't standin' in with the crowd
that hands out the law, Sam. He might try to make it a show-down right
here an' drive us out of the camp or leave us tucked away stiff in some
prospect hole. But there's a lot of decent material drifted in an' it
w'udn't be hard to beat him to that play an' organize a camp committee
fo' the regulation of law an' order till such time as the camp proves
itself an' is established. Once big capital gits stahted in here the
law'll be workin' right along hand in hand with the development. Let's
take a pasear an' look at Casey's workings."
Patrick Casey had run in a tunnel from the face of his discovery.
Weathered porphyry float showed on the dump whose size suggested greater
depth to the tunnel than they had expected. Its mouth had been closed by
timbers fitting closely into the frame of the horizontal shaft, forming,
not so much a door, as a barricade, that had been firmly spiked to heavy
timbers. This had been recently dismantled and then replaced, as recent
marks on the weathered lumber showed. Sandy looked at these places
closely, frowning as he gave his verdict.
"Some one monkeyin' with this inside of the last month," he announced.
"The nails ain't rusted like the old ones an' the chips are fresh. Like
as not it was that bunch of easterners. They'd figger the camp was
abandoned an' consider themselves justified as philanthropists into
bu'stin' open anything that looked good--like this tunnel. A man w'udn't
go to the trouble of timberin' up if he didn't think he had somethin'
inside that was goin' to turn up high cahd some day. 'Course the
capitalist, if he found somethin' that looked good, 'ud hunt up the
owner in the registry an' make him an offer. But it w'udn't be a half
interest in the mine. He'd say he was thinkin' of developin' half a mile
away an', if he bought cheap enough, he might make an offer. Yes, sir,"
Sandy went on, warming to his own theory, "it w'udn't surprise me if
this warn't the mine they sampled which Plimsoll finds out is the real
stuff an' clamps on."
"Well," said Mormon, "we'll have a chance to ask him in a minute. He's
comin' up with that crowd of his rangin' erlong an' their ha'r liftin'.
Thar's that ungrateful skunk I chucked the boots at. Plim don't look
over an' above pleased the way things are breakin'. Looks as amiable as
a timber wolf with his tail in a b'ar trap."
The three partners met the jumpers, now headed by Plimsoll, on the
border of the claims. The gambler's face was livid. He had boasted and
lashed himself into a bullying confidence that he knew was inadequate to
meet the situation he could not avoid. Hatred of the men who had balked
him more than once served him better.
"You four-flushers get off this ground," he blustered. "You're claiming
to represent Molly Casey's rights after you've kidnaped the girl and
sent her out of the state. It won't get you anywhere or anything. I've
got a half interest in these claims and I've plenty of witnesses to
prove it."
"I don't believe yore witnesses are half as vallyble as they might have
been before politics shifted in Herefo'd County," said Sandy. "You ain't
got a written contract an' it w'udn't do you a mite of good if you had,
fur as I'm concerned. Because I've been duly an' legally app'inted
guardeen to Casey's daughter Molly an' I'm here to represent her
interests, likewise mine. I've got my guardianship papers right with
me."
"A hell of a lot of good they'll do you in this camp," sneered Plimsoll.
"Representin' _her_ interests. I'll say you are, an' your own along with
'em." A laugh from his followers heartened him. "If the camp ever hears
the yarn of your running off with the girl and now, with her tucked
away, coming back to clean up, I've a notion they'd show you
four-flushers where you've sat in to the wrong game. Why...."
Something in Sandy's face stopped him. It became suddenly devoid of all
expression, became a thing of stone out of which blazed two gray eyes
and a voice issued from lips that barely moved.
"I've got a notion, too, Plimsoll. A notion that it 'ud be a good day's
work to shoot you fo' a foul-mouthed, lyin', stealin' crook! You sure
ain't worth bein' arrested fo', an' there ain't no open season fo'
two-laigged coyotes of yore sort, so I'll give you yore chance. You've
called me a fo'-flusher twice, an' the on'y way to prove a fo'-flush is
to call fo' a show-down. I'm doin' it."
The words came cold and even, backed by a grim earnestness that
imprinted itself on the lesser manhood of the jumpers as a finger leaves
its print in clay. They shifted back a little from Plimsoll, circling
out as they might have moved away from a man marked by pestilence. He
stood trying to outface Sandy, to keep his eyes steady. His lips were
tight closed, still he could not help but open his mouth to a quickened
breathing, to touch the lips with a furtive tongue that found the skin
peeling in tiny feverish strips.
"You pack yore gun under yore coat flap," said Sandy. "I don't know how
quick you can draw but I aim to find out."
He handed one of his own guns to Mormon, announcing his action lest
Plimsoll might mistake it.
"Now then," he went on, "I once told you I looked to you to stop any
gossip about Molly Casey. Same time Butch Parsons an' Sim Hahn got huht.
You don't seem able to sabe plain talk an' I'm tired of talkin' to you,
Jim Plimsoll. Me, I'm goin' to roll me a cigareet. Any time you want to
you can draw. I'm givin' you the aidge on me. If you don't take that
aidge, Jim Plimsoll, I'm givin' you till sun-up ter-morrer mornin' to
git plumb out of camp. An' to keep driftin'."
Deliberately Sandy took tobacco sack and papers from the pocket of his
shirt, his fingers functioning automatically, precisely, his eyes never
shifting from Plimsoll's face, measuring by feel the amount of tobacco
shaken into the little trough of brown paper. While he rolled the
cigarette the sack swung from his teeth by its string.
The group gazed at him fascinated. Plimsoll's face beaded with tiny
drops of sweat, his hands moved slowly upward toward his coat lapels,
touched them as Sandy twisted the end of the cigarette, stayed there,
shaking slightly with what might have been eagerness--or paralysis. For
the look in the steel gray eyes of Sandy Bourke, half mocking, all
confident, spurred the doubts that surged through the gambler's
chance-calculating mind, while he knew that every atom of hesitation
lessened his chances.
His own hands were close to his chest. His right had but a few inches
to dart, to drag the automatic from its smooth holster. Sandy's hands
were high above his belt, rolling the cigarette. They had four times as
far to go. But Plimsoll knew that if anything went wrong with his
performance, if he failed to kill outright, that nothing would go wrong
with Sandy's shooting. The mention of Butch and Sim Hahn did not compose
him. He had had the stage all set that time and Butch had been shot
down, Sim Hahn's capacities as a crooked dealer had been spoiled for
ever. But--if he did not take his chance and, failing it, did not leave
camp....
He felt cold. The temperature of his own conceit, the mercury of the
regard of his bullies, was falling steadily. The nervous sweat was no
longer confined to his face. The palms of his hands were moist,
slippery....
"Gimme a match, Sam." Sandy's voice came to Plimsoll across a gulf that
could never be bridged. He watched the flame, pale in the sunshine,
watched it lift to the cigarette and then a puff of smoke came into his
face as Sandy flung away the burnt stick and turned on his heel. Murder
stirred dully in Plimsoll's brain at the sneers he surmised rather than
read on the faces of his followers. His defeat was also theirs. But the
moment had gone. He knew he lacked the nerve. Sandy knew it and had
turned his back on him.
His prestige was gone. His boon companions would talk about it. Mormon
gave Sandy back his second gun and Sandy slid it into the holster. He
exhaled the last puff of his cigarette before he spoke again to
Plimsoll.
"Sun-up, ter-morrer. You can send fo' yore stuff here any time you've a
mind to. Fo' a gamblin' man, Plimsoll, you're a damned pore judge of a
hand."
Plimsoll strode off down the hill alone. The men who had come with him
hesitated and then crossed the gulch. They had severed connections with
the J. P. brand for the time, at least. The three partners walked back
toward the tunnel.
"I saw the carkiss of a steer one time," said Sam, "that had been lyin'
on a sidehill fo' quite a spell. The coyotes an' the buzzards had been
at it, an' the wind an' weather had finished the job till there warn't
much mo'n hide an' some scattered bones. Mebbe a li'l' hair. But that
carkiss sure held mo' guts than Jim Plimsoll packs."
"He ain't through," said Mormon. "You didn't ought to give him till
sun-up, Sandy. Sun-down 'ud have been better. He's a mangy coyote, but
he's got brains an' he'll addle 'em figgerin' out some way to git even."
"I w'udn't wonder," answered Sandy. "Me, I'm goin' to do a li'l'
figgerin' too."
"We got to stay on the claims," said Sam. "If they happened to think of
it they might heave a stick of dynamite in our midst afteh it's good an'
dahk. A flyin' chunk of dynamite is a nasty thing to dodge, at that."
He spoke as dispassionately as if he had been discussing a display of
harmless fireworks. Sandy answered in the same tone.
"I don't think it likely, Sam. Camp knows, or will know, what's been
happenin'. If dynamite was thrown they'd sabe who did it an' I don't
believe the crowd 'ud stand for it. Jest the same it 'ud sure surprise
me if we didn't git some sort of a shivaree pahty afteh nightfall. I
w'udn't wonder if Jim Plimsoll forgets to send fo' that tent an' stuff
of his. Hope he does."
"What do we want with it?" demanded Mormon.
"Nothin', with the stuff. We'll set it out beyond the lines come dusk.
But the tent'll come in handy. We didn't bring one erlong."
Sam and Mormon both looked at him curiously, but Sandy's face was
sphinx-like and they refrained from useless questioning.
"Here comes young Ed," announced Sandy as they gained the tunnel. "He's
totin' somethin' that looks to me as if it might be grub."
"Won't offend me none ef it is," said Mormon. "I'm hungrier'n a spring
b'ar an' all our stuff's oveh with Mirandy Bailey."
"She's sure one thoughtful lady," said Sam. "What you got, Ed?" he
queried as the gangling youth came up.
"Beans, camp-bread an' coffee. Aunt Mirandy, she 'lowed you-all might
not want to leave the claim so she sent this over to bide you through.
You been havin' some trouble, ain't you?" he asked, his eyes gleaming
with interest. "We heard somethin' that sounded like shots an' Mr.
Westlake saw the first bunch go away. He said you waved to him it was
all right. Aunt, she 'lowed you c'ud look out fo' yourselves. Then the
second bunch come erlong."
"Jest wishin' us luck, son," said Sandy. "How's everything with you?"
"I bet it warn't good luck they was wishin'," grinned Ed, squatting down
on his haunches and rolling a cigarette. "We're gettin' on fine. Got
some dandy claims, I reckon. One for maw an' one fo' father, right
alongside Aunt Mirandy's an' mine. It 'ud be great if we sh'ud all
strike it rich, to once, w'udn't it?"
"Great!" agreed Sandy, munching beans with gusto. "Don't you think you
ought to be gettin' back, 'case some one might take a notion to them
claims of yores? 'Pears to me it's up to you, Ed, to protect yore aunt.
Westlake can't stick around with you all the time. He's got his business
to attend to."
Young Ed straightened.
"I'll look out for her all right," he said. "But you don't know Aunt
Mirandy over well or you'd know she can do her own protectin'. You bet
she can. 'Sides, the men who've got claims nigh us come over an' told
her they'd see she wasn't interfered with none. Said they'd heard some
bully had sworn at her an' the real miners in camp warn't goin' to stand
anything like that. Nor no claim-jumpin'. They're goin' to organize,
they say. Git up a Vigilance Committee."
"Good!" said Sandy. "That means the decent element aims to run things.
We'll help 'em. It'll be easier with Plimsoll out of camp."
"Figger he'll go?" asked Sam.
"I w'udn't be surprised if he listened to the small voice of reason,"
answered Sandy. "You tell yore aunt we're much obliged fo' the grub, Ed.
One of us'll be over afteh a bit an' tote our things across. We'll camp
here fo' a bit an' sit tight. I'd do the same, if I was you, Ed, spite
of yore friends. I don't doubt fo' a minute but what yore aunt is plumb
capable of lookin' out for herself, but you see, she's a woman an' yo're
a man, an' it's you folks'll be lookin' to."
The lad flushed with pride under the hand that Sandy set in chummy
fashion on his shoulder.
"I'll do that," he said, and, picking up the emptied utensils he had
brought he started off down and across the gulch.
"No sense in encouragin' him to hang around us," said Sandy. "There's
apt to be fireworks round here most any time between now an' ter-morrer
mo'nin'. Plimsoll'll shack erlong about sun-up--providin' he ain't able
to call the tuhn on us befo'. Mormon, if you'll go git our blankets an'
outfit, Sam an' me'll fix up those bu'sted guy ropes an' shift the
tent."
"You don't aim fo' us to sleep in it, do you?" asked Mormon.
"Don't believe we'd rest well if we tackled it. But it mightn't be a bad
scheme if we give the gen'ral idee that we _are_ sleepin' in it. I put a
lantern in the car when we stahted. Fetch that erlong too, will you,
Mormon?"
It was late afternoon before Mormon reappeared, bearing a camp outfit,
part of which was carried by Westlake. Sandy and Sam had repitched the
tent on fairly level ground of the valley bottom. The claim boundaries
ran to within fifty yards of the little creek named Flivver and the
tent-pins were set almost on the border-line. The ground was sparsely
covered with scrub grass, shrubs and willows, the space about the tent
clear of anything higher than clumps of bushes and sage.
Mormon's eye brows went up at the location with which Sandy and Sam,
seated cross-legged on the ground, one smoking, the other draining low
harmonies through his mouth organ, appeared perfectly satisfied.
"Why on the flat?" asked Mormon. "There's a heap of cover round here
where they might snake up afteh dahk an' sling anythin' they minded to
at us, from lead to giant powdeh!"
"Wal," drawled Sandy, flicking the ash from his cigarette, "it's handy
to watch, fo' one thing, an' yore right about that coveh, Mormon. That's
why we chose it. Sam an' me had a heap of trouble pickin' out this
place. Finally we found jest what we wanted, didn't we, Sam?"
"Sure did."
Mormon set down his load and took off his hat to scratch his head
perplexedly. Then his face lightened as he looked up-hill.
"You figger on settin' the lantern in here afteh dahk," he said. "An'
watchin' the fun from the tunnel."
"Pritty close, Mormon. Come inside, you an' Westlake, an' I'll show you
suthin'."
They followed him into the tent and came out again laughing.
"No matteh what happens," said Sandy, "an' I'm hopin' fo' the worst, it
ain't our tent. You been up to the main street this afternoon,
Westlake?"
"Yes. There's a lot of talk loose about the trouble between you and
Plimsoll's crowd. Factions for both sides and a lot of onlookers who are
neutral and just waiting for the excitement. I saw Roaring Russell but
he passed me up. He might not have known me. He was pretty well drunk.
He's talking big about taking you apart, Mr. Peters. He claims to have
been a champion wrestler at one time."
"You don't say so," said Mormon. "Me, I was the champeen wrastler of the
Cow Belt, one time. Had the belt to prove it till I lost it at draw
poker. I've got hawg fat sence then, but I don't believe I've softened
any. An' the booze he's tuckin' away is mighty pore stuff fo' trainin'.
But I ain't long on walkin'," he added. "B'lieve I'll sit me down a
spell. I'll make fire an' git supper if you want to take Westlake up to
the tunnel."
Westlake carefully inspected the tunnel, the float and the contents of
the dump.
"I wouldn't wonder if Casey was running this as a drift to follow a good
lead," he pronounced. "It looks better to me than any part of the camp
I've inspected. I'll assay these samples for you, if you've no
objection. I've got a lot of orders back at my shack already. My
customers told me that they'd put a flea in Russell's ear that the camp
assayer was not to be interfered with, so there is some value in an
education, you see."
Sandy nodded. "You pack a gun?" he asked.
"No. I've got one, but I don't carry it. My practise with firearms has
been with larger calibers."
"War?" asked Sandy.
"Yes. I was in the artillery. Is there anything else I can do? Get you
some supplies? I'm coming back to have supper with Miss Bailey and her
nephew."
"Not a thing," said Sandy. "Much obliged." He watched the engineer swing
away.
"There's a good man for you," he said to Sam. "Well set up and able to
handle himself. I like his ways first-rate."
"Me, too," said Sam. "He'd make a good match fo' Molly, when she comes
back with her eddication, w'udn't he?"
Sandy stopped in his stride suddenly, so that Sam halted and regarded
him curiously.
"Twist yo' foot?" he asked. "High heels is all right fo' stirrups but
they're tough on hill climbin'."
"No. I was jest thinkin'. Nothin' that amounts to shucks. Gettin' dahk.
We better git outside of our supper an' sneak up to the tunnel soon's it
gits dusk enough to light the lantern."