SCIPIO BORROWS A HORSE
Scipio found an almost deserted camp after floundering his way over
the intricate paths amongst the refuse-heaps.
The miners had departed to their claims with a punctuality that
suggested Trades Union principles. Such was their existence. They ate
to live; they lived to work, ever tracking the elusive metal to the
earth's most secret places. The camp claimed them only when their
day's work was done; for the rest, it supported only their most urgent
needs.
Sunny Oak, lounging on a rough bench in the shadiest part of the
veranda facing Minky's store, raised a pair of heavy eyelids, to
behold a dejected figure emerge from amidst the "dumps." The figure
was bearing towards the store in a dusty cloud which his trailing feet
raised at every step. His eyes opened wider, and interested thought
stirred in his somnolent brain. He recognized the figure and wondered.
Scipio should have been out on his claim by this time, like the rest.
The lean long figure of the lounger propped itself upon its elbow.
Curiously enough, lazy as he was, the smallest matter interested him.
Had he suddenly discovered a beetle moving on the veranda he would
have found food for reflection in its doings. Such was his mind. A
smile stole into his indolent eyes, a lazy smile which spoke of
tolerant good-humor. He turned so that his voice might carry in
through the window which was just behind him.
"Say, Bill," he cried, "here's Zip comin' down the trail."
As though his announcement were sufficient to rouse an equal interest
in those inside the store, he returned again to his contemplation of
the approaching figure.
"What's he doin' around camp this hour?" inquired a harsh voice from
beyond the window.
"Guess I ain't a lightnin' calc'lator," observed Sunny, without
withdrawing his gaze.
"Nope," came the prompt retort from the invisible speaker; "guess it
'ud keep you busy trackin' a fun'ral."
"Which don't need contradiction! I'm kind o' makin' holiday these
times. Guess you ain't never heerd tell o' the 'rest cure'?"
A rough laugh broke on the drowsy atmosphere.
"Sunny's overworked just now," said another voice, amidst the rattle
of poker chips.
"Wher' you bin workin', Sunny?" inquired the harsh voice of the man
addressed as Bill.
"Workin'!" cried the loafer, with good-natured scorn. "Say, I don't
never let a hobby interfere with the bizness of life."
A half-smothered laugh answered him. Even the exigencies of a poker
hand could not quite crush out the natural humor of these men, who
always followed on the golden trail of the pioneers.
"Say, what's your bizness?" demanded another voice presently.
"Restin'!" the man on the veranda answered easily.
The shuffle of cards and rattle of chips came with a snigger. And the
answering lazy smile of Sunny Oak was good to see. It lit his unshaven
face from his unwashed brow to his chin. And to an onlooker it might
well have appeared a pity that an intense bodily indolence should so
dominate his personality. He looked vastly capable, both mentally and
physically.
But his eyes never left the on-coming Scipio. The little man moved
with bowed head and trailing footsteps. The utter dispiritedness of
his gait stirred even the self-centered watcher. But Scipio saw
nothing of Sunny Oak. He saw nothing of anything but the despairing
picture in his own mind. The ramshackle shanties which lined one side
of the trail were passed unheeded. The yapping of the camp dogs at the
unusual sight of so deplorable a figure at this hour of the day was
quite unnoticed by him. The shelving rise of attenuated grassland
which blocked the view of Suffering Creek on his left never for a
moment came into his focus. His eyes were on the trail ahead of him,
and never more than a few feet from where he trod. And those eyes were
hot and staring, aching with their concentration upon the hideous
picture which filled his brain.
As Scipio drew near Sunny Oak further bestirred himself, which was a
concession not often yielded by that individual to anyone. He sat up,
and his smile broadened. Then it faded out as he beheld the usually
mild expression of the yellow-haired prospector now so set and
troubled.
"Gee!" he murmured in an undertone. Then, with an evident effort, he
offered a greeting.
"Ho, you, Zip! Drawn a blank way up ther' on your mudbank?"
Scipio looked up in a dazed fashion. Then he halted and seemed to pull
himself together. Finally he spoke.
"Howdy?" he said in a mechanical sort of way.
"Guess I'm a heap better," responded Sunny, with twinkling eyes.
Scipio gazed up at the store in a bewildered way. He saw the great
letters in which Minky's name and occupation were inscribed on its
pretentious front, and it seemed to bring back his purpose to his
distracted mind. Instantly the other's words became intelligible to
him, and his native kindliness prompted him.
"You been sick?" he demanded.
"Wal, not rightly sick, but--ailin'." Sunny's smile broadened till a
mouthful of fairly decent teeth showed through the fringe of his
ragged mustache.
"Ailin'?"
"Yep. Guess I bin overdoin' it."
"It don't do, working too hard in the heat," said Scipio absently.
"Sure," replied Sunny. "It's been a hard job avoidin' it. Ther's allus
folk ready to set me workin'. That's just the way o' things. What I
need is rest. Say, you ain't workin'?"
Scipio started.
"No. I'm looking for Wild Bill."
Sunny Oak jerked his head backwards in the direction of the window.
"Guess he's at work--in ther'."
"Thanks."
Scipio mounted the veranda and passed along to the door of the store.
Sunny's eyes followed him, but he displayed no other interest. With
ears and brain alert, however, he waited. He knew that all he required
to know would reach him through a channel that was quite effortless to
himself. Again he stretched himself out on the bench, and his
twinkling eyes closed luxuriously.
Minky's store was very little different from other places of its kind.
He sold everything that could possibly be needed in a newly started
mining camp. He did not confine himself to hardware and clothing and
canned goods, but carried a supply of drugs, stationery and general
dry goods, besides liquor in ample quantities, if of limited quality.
There was rye whisky, there was gin, and there was some sort of French
brandy. The two latter were in the smallest quantities. Rye was the
staple drink of the place.
The walls of the store were lined with shelves on every side, and the
shelves were full, even overflowing to a piled-up confusion of goods
which were stacked around on the floor. In the somewhat limited
floor-space there were tables and benches which could be used for the
dual purpose of drink and cards. But wherein Minky's store was
slightly out of the usual was the fact that he was not a Jew, and
adopted no Jewish methods of trading. He was scrupulously honest with
his customers, and fairly moderate in his charges, relying on this
uncommon integrity and temperateness of disposition to make personal
liking the basis of his commercial success.
It was perhaps a much further-sighted policy than one would suppose.
Several men had endeavored to start in the store business in
opposition to him, but in each case their enterprise had proved an
utter failure. Not a man in the place would trade elsewhere. Minky was
just "Minky," whom they liked and trusted. And, what was much more to
the point, who was ever ready to "trust" them.
Wild Bill was at the poker table with Minky, Sandy Joyce and Toby
Jenks when Scipio entered the place. He was a gambler out and out. It
was his profession. He was known as Wild Bill of Abilene, a man whose
past was never inquired into by even the most youthful newcomer,
whose present was a thing that none ever saw sufficient reason to
question, and whose future suggested nothing so much as the general
uncertainty of things human. He was a man of harsh exterior and,
apparently, harsh purpose. His eyes were steely and his tongue
ironical; he possessed muscles of iron and a knowledge of poker and
all its subtleties that had never yet failed him. He was a dead
shot with a pistol, and, in consequence, fear and respect were laid
at his feet by his fellow-townsmen. He was also Minky's most
treasured friend.
Sandy Joyce had to his credit a married past, which somehow gave him a
certain authority in the place. He was expected to possess a fund of
wisdom in matters worldly, and he did his best to live up to this
demand. He was also, by the way, an ex-cowpuncher suffering from gold
fever, and between whiles played poker with Wild Bill until he had
lost the result of his more regular labors. He was a slight, tall,
bright-eyed man of thirty, with an elaborate flow of picturesque
language. He was afraid of no man, but all women.
Toby Jenks was as short and squat as his friends were long and thin.
He was good-tempered, and spent large remittances which reached him at
regular intervals in the lulls which occurred in his desultory search
for gold.
Minky, a plain, large man of blunt speech and gruff manners, looked up
swiftly as Scipio entered, and a moment later three more pairs of eyes
were fixed inquiringly upon the newcomer.
"Struck color?" inquired Minky, with his gruffest cordiality.
"No."
Scipio's entire attitude had distinctly undergone a change since Sunny
Oak's lazy eyes first discovered his approach. Where before the
hopelessness of despair had looked out from every line of his mild
face, now his mouth was set obstinately, and a decided thrust to his
usually retiring chin became remarkable. Even his wispy hair had an
aggression in the manner in which it obtruded from under the brim of
his slouch hat. His eyes were nearly defiant, yet there was pleading
in them, too. It was as if he were sure of the rightness of his
purpose, but needed encouragement in its execution.
For the moment the poker game was stopped, a fact which was wholly due
to the interest of the steely eyes of Wild Bill.
"Layin' off?" inquired the gambler, without a moment's softening.
"Guess you're passin' on that mud lay-out of yours," suggested Sandy,
with a laugh.
Scipio shook his head, and his lips tightened.
"No. I want to borrow a good horse from Bill here."
The gambler set down the cards he had been shuffling. The statement
seemed to warrant his action. He sat back in his chair and bit a chew
of tobacco off a black plug. Minky and the others sat round and stared
at the little man with unfeigned interest.
"You're needin' a hoss?" demanded Bill, without attempting to disguise
his surprise. "What for?"
Scipio drew a hand across his brow; a beady sweat had broken out upon
it.
"Oh, nothing to bother folk with," he said, with a painful attempt at
indifference. "I've got to hunt around and find that feller, 'Lord'
James."
A swift glance flashed round the table from eye to eye. Then Sunny
Oak's voice reached them from beyond the window--
"Guess you've a goodish ways to travel."
"Time enough," said Scipio doggedly.
"What you need to find him for?" demanded Wild Bill, and there was a
change in the glitter of his fierce eyes. It was not that they
softened, only now they had the suggestion of an ironical smile,
which, in him, implied curiosity.
Scipio shifted his feet uneasily. His pale eyes wandered to the sunlit
window. One hand was thrust in his jacket pocket, and the fingers of
it fidgeted with the rusty metal of the gun that bulged its sides.
This pressure of interrogation was upsetting the restraint he was
putting on himself. All his grief and anger were surging uppermost
again. With a big effort, which was not lost upon his shrewd audience,
he choked down his rising emotion.
"Oh, I--I'd like to pay him a 'party call,'" he blurted out.
Minky was about to speak, but Wild Bill kept him silent with a sharp
glance. An audible snigger came from beyond the window.
"Guess you know jest wher' you'll locate him?" inquired the gambler.
"No, but I'm going to find him, sure," replied Scipio doggedly. Then
he added, with his eyes averted, "Guess I shan't let up till I do."
There was a weak sparkle in the little man's eyes.
"What's your game?" rasped Bill curiously.
"Oh, just nothin'."
The reply caused a brief embarrassed pause. Then the gambler broke it
with characteristic force.
"An' fer that reason you're--carryin' a gun," he said, pointing at the
man's bulging pocket.
Sandy Joyce ceased stacking his "chips"; Toby squared his broad
shoulders and drained an already empty glass. Minky blinked his
astonishment, while Wild Bill thrust his long legs out and aggressively
pushed his hat back on his head. It was at that moment that curiosity
overcame Sunny Oak's habitual indolence, and his face appeared over
the window-sill.
"He's stole from me," said Scipio in a low tone.
"What's he stole?" demanded the gambler savagely.
"My wife."
The stillness of the room remained unbroken for some moments. Actions
came far easier to these men than mere words. Scipio's words had a
paralyzing effect upon their powers of speech, and each was busy with
thoughts which they were powerless to interpret into words. "Lord"
James was a name they had reason to hate. It was a name synonymous
with theft, and even worse--to them. He had stolen from their
community, which was unforgivable, but this--this was something new to
them, something which did not readily come into their focus. Wild Bill
was the first to recover himself.
"How d'you know?" he asked.
"She wrote telling me."
"She went 'cos she notioned it?" inquired Sandy.
"He's stole her--he's stole my Jessie," said Scipio sullenly.
"An' you're goin' to fetch her back?" Bill's question whipped the
still air.
"Sure--she's mine."
Scipio's simplicity and single-mindedness brought forth a sigh of
intense feeling from his hearers.
"How?" Wild Bill's method of interrogation had a driving effect.
"She's mine, an'--I'm going to get her back." There was pity at the
man's obstinate assertion in every eye except Wild Bill's.
"Say, Zip, he'll kill you," said the gambler, after a pause.
"She's my wife. She's mine," retorted Scipio intensely. "An' I'll
shoot him dead if he refuses to hand her over."
"Say," the gambler went on, ignoring the man's protest--the idea of
Scipio shooting a man like James was too ludicrous--"you're up agin a
bad proposition, sure. James has stole your--wife. He's stole more.
He's a stage-robber."
"A cattle-thief," broke in Sandy.
"A 'bad man' of the worst," nodded Minky.
"He's all these, an' more," went on Bill, scowling. "He's a low-down
skunk, he's a pestilence, he's a murderer. You're goin' to hunt him
back ther' to his own shack in the foothills with his gang of toughs
around him, an' you're goin' to make him hand back your wife. Say,
you're sure crazy. He'll kill you. He'll blow your carkis to hell, an'
charge the devil freightage for doin' it."
There was a look of agreement in the eyes that watched Scipio's mild
face. There was more: there was sympathy and pity for him, feelings
in these men for which there was no other means of expression.
But Scipio was unmoved from his purpose. His underlip protruded
obstinately. His pale eyes were alight with purpose and misery.
"He's stole my--Jessie," he cried, "an' I want her back." Then, in a
moment, his whole manner changed, and his words came with an
irresistible pleading. Hard as was the gambler, the pathos of it
struck a chord in him the existence of which, perhaps, even he was
unaware.
"You'll lend me a horse, Bill?" the little man cried. "You will, sure?
I got fifty dollars saved for the kiddies' clothes. Here it is," he
hurried on, pulling out a packet of bills from his hip pocket. "You
take 'em and keep 'em against the horse. It ain't sufficient, but it's
all I got. I'll pay the rest when I've made it, if your horse gets
hurted. I will, sure. Say," he added, with a happy inspiration, "I'll
give you a note on my claim--ha'f of it. You'll do it? You--"
Bill's face went suddenly scarlet. Something made him lower his
eyelids. It was as though he could not look on that eager face unmoved
any longer. Somehow he felt in a vague sort of way that poor Scipio's
spirit was altogether too big for his body. Bigger by far than that of
those sitting there ready to deride his purpose, and crush it to a
weak yielding such as, in their minds, was the only possible thing for
a man of his like.
"You set them bills right back in your dip," he cried, with a
savageness that was only a mask to his real feelings; "I don't need
'em. You ken get right out to the barn an' have your pick o' my plugs,
an' anythin' you need else. Guess you best take the black mare. She'll
carry you all day for a week, sure, an' then laff at you. Get right
on, an'--an'--good luck!"
There are actions performed in every man's life for which he can
never account, even to himself. Such was the act Wild Bill performed
at that moment. Gambling was his living, but his horses were a passion
with him. He possessed, perhaps, some of the finest in the country,
and he worshiped them. He had never been known to lend a horse to his
best friend, and no one but himself had ever been allowed to feed or
groom them. He was prouder of them than a father might be of his
firstborn son, and as careful of them as any doting mother. Therefore
his assent to Scipio's request was quite staggering to his companions.
Nor did he know why he did it, and a furious anger followed
immediately upon this unusual outburst of good-nature.
Scipio was profuse in his thanks. But he was cut short with a violence
that seemed quite unnecessary. For the moment, at least, Bill hated
the little man almost as much as he hated this "Lord" James he was
setting out in search of.
After that no word passed until Scipio had left the store for the
barn. Bill sat wrapt in moody thought, his fierce eyes lowered in
contemplation of his well-shod feet. His cards were forgotten, the men
around him were forgotten. Sandy and the storekeeper were watching his
harsh face in wonder, while Toby's head was turned in the direction of
the departing man. It was Sunny Oak from his post at the window who
finally broke the silence.
"Guess you gone plumb 'bug,' Bill," he said, with an amiable grin.
Then, as only a flicker of a smile from the others answered him, and
Bill ignored his charge altogether, he hurried on, "You're helpin'
that misguided feller to a dose of lead he'll never have time to
digest. If ever Zip runs foul of James, he'll blow him to hell as
sure--as ther's allus work for those as don't need it. An', wot's
more, you'll never set eyes on your black mare agin, 'less it's under
James' saddle. You're sure 'bug.' You oughter be seen to."
It was only Sunny Oak who would have dared to say so much to the
gambler. But then, for some unstated reason, Sunny was a privileged
person on Suffering Creek. Nobody paid much attention to the manner in
which he allowed his tongue to run on, and, besides, he was too lazy
to be afraid of anybody.
Bill looked round.
"You're side-tracked," he observed contemptuously. "James won't shoot
Jessie's husband. Maybe he'll kick him out, maybe he'll roast him bad,
and tongue-lash him. Anyways, every man's got to play his own hand.
An'--it's good to see him playin' hard, win or lose. But Zip'll git
back, sure. An' he'll bring my mare with him. Go to sleep, Sunny; your
thinkin'-pan's nigh hatched out."
"I don't guess he'll ever get alongside James," observed Minky
thoughtfully. "We've all looked for him a piece. We know he's got a
shanty back in the foothills, but I don't seem to remember hearin' of
anybody findin' it. I don't guess Zip's wise to where it is."
Bill's eyes lit with a curious fire.
"Guess Zip'll find him," he said quietly. "Maybe it'll take him
time--"
"An'," cried Sunny, "how's them pore kiddies to live meanwhiles?"
The loafer fired his little bomb with the desired effect. The men had
no answer for some moments. And gradually all eyes fixed themselves
upon Bill's face, as though acknowledging his leadership. He answered
the challenge in characteristic fashion.
"Guess we'll turn Sunny loose to wet-nurse 'em."
An announcement which set Sunny plunging headlong to his own defense.
"Say, ain't ther' no sort o' peace for a feller as needs rest? You're
all mighty smart settin' folks to work. But this is your game, Bill,
an' it's up to you to put it thro'. I 'low you'd make an elegant
wet-nurse--so soft and motherish."
But Bill had had enough, and turned upon the face at the window in his
most savage manner.
"See here," he cried, with fierce irony, "we've all know'd you since
Sufferin' Creek was Sufferin' Creek, an' nobody ain't never kicked.
But it's kind o' ne'ssary for every feller around these parts to
justify 'emselves. Get me? You need 'justifyin'.' Wal, I guess you'll
see to them kiddies till Zip comes back. It's going to be your work
seein' they don't get fixed into any sort o' trouble, an' when Zip
gets back you'll hand 'em over clean an' fixed right. Get that? I'm
payin' for their board, an' I'm payin' you a wage. An' you're goin' to
do it, or light right out o' here so quick your own dust'll choke
you."
"Here, here!" cried Toby, with a delighted laugh.
Sandy grinned into the loafer's angry face, while Minky nodded an
unsmiling approval.
"Gee, you beat hell for nerve!" cried Sunny.
"Guess I ken do better. I ken beat you," retorted Bill contemptuously.
"You'll do it, or--you ken start gettin' out now," he added.
Sunny realized his position by the expression of the other men's
faces, and, quickly resuming his good-humored plaint, he acquiesced
with a grumble.
"Gee! but it's a tough world," he complained, dropping back on to his
bench hurriedly, lest fresh demands should be made upon him, and just
in time to witness Scipio leading a beautiful black mare up to the
tying-post.
The men in the store turned out at the sound of horse's hoofs, and
stood gathered on the veranda. Bill's keen eyes were fixed regretfully
on the shining sides of his favorite animal. She was a picture of lean
muscle and bone, with a beautiful small head, and ears that looked
little larger than well-polished mussel-shells. She stood pawing the
ground impatiently while Scipio tied her to the post, and she nuzzled
his ribs playfully with her twitching lips in the most friendly
spirit. But Bill's eyes were suddenly arrested by the manner in which
she was saddled and bridled. Poor Scipio had blundered in a hopeless
fashion.
Other eyes, too, had seen the blunder, and Sandy Joyce suddenly
pointed.
"Mackinaw! Jest get that," he cried.
"By Gee!" laughed Sunny.
But Wild Bill cut them all short in a surprising manner.
"Say, guess you fellers ain't never made no sort o' mistakes--any o'
you. You're laffin' a heap. Quit it, or--" His eyes flashed
dangerously. Then, as the men became silent, he darted across to where
Scipio was still fumbling with the neck rope.
The little man's attempt at saddling, under any other circumstances,
would have brought forth Bill's most scathing contempt. The saddle was
set awry upon an ill-folded blanket. It was so far back from the
mare's withers that the twisted double cinchas were somewhere under
her belly, instead of her girth. Then the bit was reversed in her
mouth, and the curb-strap was hanging loose.
Bill came to his rescue in his own peculiar way.
"Say, Zip," he cried in a voice that nothing could soften, "I don't
guess you altered them stirrups to fit you. I'll jest fix 'em." And
the little man stood humbly by while he set to work. He quickly
unfastened the cinchas, and set the blanket straight. Then he shifted
the saddle, and refastened the cinchas. Then he altered the stirrups,
and passed on to the mare's bridle--Scipio watching him all the while
without a word. But when the gambler had finished he glanced up into
his lean face with an almost dog-like gratitude.
"Thanks, Bill," he said. "I never done it before."
"So I guessed." And the gambler's words, though wholly harsh, had no
other meaning in them. Then he went on, as Scipio scrambled into the
saddle, "You don't need to worry any 'bout things here. Your
kiddies'll be seen to proper till you get back, if you're on the trail
a month."
Scipio was startled. He had forgotten his twins.
"Say--you--"
But Bill wanted no thanks or explanations.
"We're seein' to them things--us, an' that all-fired lazy slob, Sunny
Oak. Ther' won't be no harm--" He flicked the restive mare, which
bounded off with the spring of a gazelle. "Ease your hand to her," he
called out, so as to drown Scipio's further protestations of
gratitude, "ease your hand, you blamed little fule. That's it. Now let
her go."
And the mare raced off in a cloud of dust.