ON THE ROAD
Wild Bill had many things to think of on his way back to Suffering
Creek. He was a tremendously alert-minded man at all times, so
alert-minded that at no time was he given to vain imaginings, and to
be alone for long together chafed and irritated him to a degree. His
life was something more than practicality; it was vigor in an extreme
sense. He must be doing; he must be going ahead. And it mattered very
little to him whether he was using vigor of mind or body. Just now he
was using the former to a purpose. Possibilities and scheming flashed
through his head in such swift succession as to be enough to dazzle a
man of lesser mental caliber.
The expressed object of his visit to Spawn City was only one of
several purposes he had in hand. And though he turned up at the
principal hotel at the psychological moment when he could drop into
the big game of poker he had promised himself, and though at that game
he helped himself, with all the calm amiability in the world, to
several thousand dollars of the "rich guys'" money, the rest of his
visit to the silver city was spent in moving about amongst the lower
haunts where congregated the human jackals which hunt on the outskirts
of such places.
And in these places he met many friends and acquaintances with whom he
fraternized for the time being. And his sojourn cost him a good many
dollars, dollars which he shed unstintingly, even without counting.
Nor was he the man to part with his money in this casual manner
without obtaining adequate return, and yet all he had to show as a
result of his expedition was a word of information here and there, a
suggestion or two which would scarcely have revealed to the outsider
the interest which they held for him. Yet he seemed satisfied. He
seemed very well satisfied indeed, and his reckless spirit warmed as
he progressed in his peregrinations.
Then, too, he "dined" the sheriff of the county at the only restaurant
worth while. He spent more than two hours in this man's company, and
his wine bill was in due proportion to the hardy official's almost
unlimited capacity for liquid refreshment. Yet even to the most
interested his purpose would have needed much explanation. He asked so
few questions. He seemed to lead the conversation in no particular
direction. He simply allowed talk to drift whither it would. And
somehow it always seemed to drift whither he most desired it.
Yes, his movements were quite curious during his visit, and yet they
were commonplace enough to suggest nothing of the depth of subtlety
which really actuated them. There was even an absurd moment which
found him in a candy-store purchasing several pounds of the most
sickly candy he could buy in so rough a place as the new silver town.
However, the time came for him at last to get out on the road again
for home. And, having prepared his team for the journey, he hitched
them up to his spring-cart himself, paid his bill, and, with a
flourish of his whip, and a swagger which only a team of six such
magnificent horses as he possessed could give him, left the hotel at a
gallop, the steely muscles of his arms controlling his fiery children
as easily as the harsh voice of a northern half-breed controls a
racing dog-train.
And on the journey home his thoughts were never idle for a moment. So
busy were they that the delicious calm of the night, the wonders of
the following dawn, the glory of a magnificent sunrise over a green
world of mountain, valley and plain, were quite lost to his unpoetic
soul. The only things which seemed able to distract his concentrated
thoughts were the fiercely buzzing mosquitoes, and these he cursed
with whole-hearted enthusiasm which embraced a perfect vocabulary of
lurid blasphemy.
Twice on the journey he halted and unhitched his horses for feed and
drink and a roll. But the delays were short, and his vigorous methods
gave them but short respite. He cared for his equine friends with all
his might, and he drove them in a similar manner. This was the man. A
life on a bed of roses would not have been too good for his horses,
but if he so needed it they would have to repay him by driving over a
red-hot trail.
Now the home stretch lay before him, some twenty miles through a
wonderful broken country, all spruce and pine forests, crag and
valley, threaded by a white hard trail which wound its way amidst
Nature's chaos in a manner similar to that in which a mountain stream
cuts its course, percolating along the path of the least resistance.
Through this splendid country the untiring team traveled, hauling
their feather-weight burden as though there was nothing more joyous in
life. In spite of the length of the journey the gambler had to keep a
tight pressure on the reins, or the willing beasts would, at any
moment, have broken into a headlong gallop. Their barn lay ahead of
them, and their master sat behind them. What more could they want?
Up a sharp incline, and the race down the corresponding decline. The
wide stretch of valley bottom, and again a steep ascent. There was no
slackening of gait, scarcely a hard breath. Only the gush of eager
nostrils in the bright morning air of the mountains. Now along a
forest-bounded stretch of level trail, winding, and full of protruding
tree-stumps and roots. There was no stumbling. The surefooted
thoroughbreds cleared each obstruction with mechanical precision, and
only the spring-cart bore the burden of impact.
On, up out of the darkened valley to a higher level above, where the
high hills sloped away upwards, admitting the dazzling daylight so
that the whole scene was lit to a perfect radiance, and the nip of
mountain air filled the lungs with an invigorating tonic.
At last the traveler dropped down into the wide valley, in the midst
of which he first came into touch with the higher reaches of Suffering
Creek. Here it flowed a sluggish, turgid stream, so sullen, so heavy.
It was narrow, and at points curiously black in tone. There was none
of the freshness, the rushing, tumultuous flow of a mountain torrent
about it here. Its banks were marshy with a wide spread of oozy soil,
and miry reeds grew in abundance. The trail cut well away from the bed
of the creek, mounting the higher land where the soil, in curious
contrast, was sandy, and the surface deep in a silvery dust. To an
observer the curiosity of the contrast must have been striking, but
Wild Bill was not in an observant mood. He was busy with his
horses--and his thoughts.
He was traveling now in a cloud of dust. And it was this, no doubt,
which accounted for the fact that he did not see a buckboard drawn by
an aged mule until he heard a shout, and his horses swung off the
trail of their own accord. Quick as lightning he drew them up with a
violent curse.
"What in hell--!" he roared. But he broke off suddenly as the dust
began to clear, and he saw the yellow-headed figure of Scipio seated
in the buckboard, with Vada beside him, just abreast of him.
"Mackinaw!" he cried. "What you doin' out here?"
So startled was the gambler at the unexpected vision that he made no
attempt to even guess at Scipio's purpose. He put his question without
another thought behind it.
Scipio, whose mule had jumped at the opportunity of discontinuing its
laborious effort, and was already reaching out at the grass lining the
trail, passed a hand across his brow before answering. It was as
though he were trying to fix in his mind the reason of his own
presence there.
"Why," he said hesitatingly, "why, I'm out after a--a prospect I heard
of. Want to get a peek at it."
The latter was said with more assurance, and he smiled vaguely into
his friend's face.
But Bill had gathered his scattered wits, and had had time to think.
He nodded at little Vada, who was interestedly staring at the satin
coats of his horses.
"An' you takin' her out to help you locate it?" he inquired, with a
raising of his shaggy brows.
"Not just that," Scipio responded uncomfortably. He found it curiously
difficult to lie with Bill's steady eyes fixed on him. "Y'see--Say, am
I near ten miles out from the camp?"
"Not by three miles." Bill was watching him intently. He saw the pale
eyes turn away and glance half fearfully along the trail. Then they
suddenly came back, and Scipio gazed at the child beside him. He
sighed and lifted his reins.
"Guess I'll get on then," he said in the dogged tone of a man who has
made up his mind to an unpleasant task.
But Bill had no intention of letting him go yet. He sat back in his
seat, his hand holding his reins loosely in his lap.
"That wher' your prospect is?" he inquired casually.
Scipio nodded. He could not bring himself to frame any further
aggravation of the lie.
"Wher' did you hear of the prospect?" Bill demanded shrewdly.
"I--"
But little Vada broke in. Her interest had been diverted by the word
prospect.
"Wot's 'prospect'?" she demanded.
Bill laughed without any change of expression.
"Prospect is wher' you _expect_ to find gold," he explained
carefully.
The child's eyes widened, and she was about to speak. Then she
hesitated, but finally she proceeded.
"That ain't wot we're goin' for," she said simply. "Poppa's goin' to
take me wher' momma is. I'm goin' to momma, an' she's ever so far
away. Pop told me. Jamie's goin' to stay with him, an' I'm goin' to
stay with momma, an'--an'--I want Jamie to come too." Tears suddenly
crowded her eyes, and slowly rolled down her sunburned cheeks.
Just for a moment neither man spoke. Bill's fierce eyes were curiously
alight, and they were sternly fixed on the averted face of the father.
At last Scipio turned towards him; and with his first words he showed
his relief that further lying was out of the question.
"I forgot--somehow--she knew. Y'see--"
But Bill, who had just bitten off a fresh chew of tobacco, gave him no
chance to continue.
"Say," he interrupted him, "ther's lies I hate, an' ther's lies that
don't make no odds. You've lied in a way I hate. You've lied 'cos you
had to lie, knowin' you was doin' wrong. If you hadn't know'd you was
doin' wrong you wouldn't have needed to lie--sure. Say, you're not
only handin' over that kiddie to her mother, you're handin' her over
to that feller. Now, get to it an' tell me things. An'--you needn't to
lie any."
Scipio hung his head. These words coming from Wild Bill suddenly put
an entirely different aspect upon his action. He saw something of the
horror he was committing as Bill saw it. He was seeing through another
man's eyes now, where before he had only seen through his own simple
heart, torn by the emotions his Jessie's letter had inspired.
He fumbled in his pocket and drew out his wife's letter. He looked at
it, holding it a moment, his whole heart in his eyes. Then he reached
out and passed it to the gambler.
"She's got to have her," he said, with a touch of his native obstinacy
and conviction. "She's her mother. I haven't a right to keep her.
I--"
But Bill silenced him without ceremony.
"Don't yap," he cried. "How ken I read this yer muck with you throwin'
hot air?"
Scipio desisted, and sat staring vacantly at the long ears of Minky's
mule. He was gazing on a mental picture of Jessie as he considered she
must have looked when writing that letter. He saw her distress in her
beautiful eyes. There were probably tears in her eyes, too, and the
thought hurt him and made him shrink from it. He felt that her poor
heart must have been breaking when she had written. Perhaps James had
been cruel to her. Yes, he was sure to have been cruel to her. Such a
blackguard as he was sure to be cruel to women-folk. No doubt she was
longing to escape from him. She was sure to be. She would never have
willingly gone away--
"Tosh!" cried Bill. And Scipio found the letter thrust out for him to
take back.
"Eh?"
"I said 'tosh!'" replied the gambler. "How'd you get that letter?"
"It was flung in through the window. It was tied to a stone."
"Yes?"
"There was a wrappin' to it." Then Scipio's eyes began to sparkle at
the recollection. "It was wrote on by the feller James," he went on in
a low voice.
Then suddenly he turned, and his whole manner partook of an impotent
heat.
"He'd wrote I was to hand her, Vada, over to him ten miles out on this
trail--or there'd be trouble."
Wild Bill stirred and shifted his seat with a fierce dash of
irritation. His face was stern and his black eyes blazing. He spat out
his chew of tobacco.
"An' you was scared to death, like some silly skippin' sheep. You
hadn't bowel enough to tell him to go to hell. You felt like handin'
him any other old thing you'd got--'Here, go on, help yourself.'" He
flung out his arms to illustrate his meaning. "'You got my wife;
here's my kiddies. If you need anything else, you can sure get my
claim. Guess my shack'll make you an elegant summer palace.' Gee!"
The gambler's scorn was withering, and with each burst of it he
flourished his arms as though handing out possessions to an imaginary
James. And every word he spoke smote Scipio, goading him and lashing
up the hatred which burnt deep down in his heart for the man who had
ruined his life.
But the little man's thought of Jessie was not so easily set aside,
and he jumped to defend himself.
"You don't understand--" he began. But the other cut him short with a
storm of scathing anger.
"No, I sure don't understand," he cried, "I don't. I sure don't. Guess
I'm on'y jest a man. I ain't no sort o' bum angel, nor sanctimonious
sky-bustin' hymn-smiter. I'm on'y a man. An' I kind o' thank them as
is responsible that I ain't nuthin' else. Say"--his piercing eyes
seemed to bore their way right down to the little man's heart like
red-hot needles--"I ain't got a word to say to you but you orter be
herdin' wi' a crowd o' mangy gophers. Tchah! A crowd o' maggots 'ud
cut you off'n their visitin' list in a diseased carkis. Here's a
feller robs you in the meanest way a man ken be robbed, an' you're
yearnin' to hand him more--a low-down cur of a stage-robber, a
cattle-thief, the lowest down bum ever created--an' you'd hand over
this pore innercent little kiddie to him. Was there ever sech a
white-livered sucker? Say, you're responsible fer that pore little
gal's life, you're responsible fer her innercent soul, an' you'd hand
her over to James, like the worstest cur in creation. Say, I ain't got
words to tell you what you are. You're a white-livered bum that even
hell won't give room to. You're--"
"Here, hold on," cried Scipio, turning, with his pale eyes mildly
blazing. "You're wrong, all wrong. I ain't doing it because I'm scared
of James. I don't care nothing for his threats. I'm scared of no
man--not even you. See? My Jessie's callin' for her gal--my Jessie! Do
you know what that means to me? No, of course you don't. You don't
know my Jessie. You ain't never loved a wife like my Jessie. You ain't
never felt what a kiddie is to its mother. You can't see as I can see.
This little gal," he went on, tenderly laying an arm about Vada's
small shoulders, "will, maybe, save my pore Jessie. That pore gal has
hit the wrong trail, an'--an' I'd sacrifice everything in the world to
save her. I'd--I'd sell my own soul. I'd give it to--save her."
Scipio looked fearlessly into the gambler's eyes. His pale cheeks were
lit by a hectic flush of intense feeling. There was a light in his
eyes of such honesty and devotion that the other lowered his. He could
not look upon it unmoved.
Bill sat back, for once in his life disconcerted. All his righteous
indignation was gone out of him. He was confronted with a spectacle
such as, in his checkered career, he had never before been brought
into contact with. It was the meeting of two strangely dissimilar, yet
perfectly human, forces. Each was fighting for what he knew to be
right. Each was speaking from the bottom of a heart inspired by his
sense of human right and loyalty. While the gambler, without subtlety
of emotion, saw only with a sense of human justice, with a hatred of
the man who had so wronged this one, with a desire to thwart him at
every turn, the other possessed a breadth of feeling sufficient to put
out of his thoughts all recollection of his personal wrong, if only he
could help the woman he loved.
It was a meeting of forces widely different, yet each in its way
thrilling with a wonderful honesty of purpose. And, curiously enough,
the purpose of Scipio, who lacked so much of the other's intellect and
force, became, in a measure, the dominating factor. It took hold of
the gambler, and stirred him as he had never been stirred before.
Suddenly Wild Bill leaned forward. Once more those swift, relentless
eyes focused and compelled the others.
"Zip," he said in a tone that was strangely thrilling, "maybe I didn't
get all you felt--all you got in that tow-head of yours. That bein'
so, guess I owe you amends. But I'm goin' to ast you to sure fergit
that gal's letter--fer awhiles. I'm goin' to ast you to turn that
bussock-headed mule you're drivin' right around, and hit back for the
Creek. You do this, Zip, an' I'll tell you what I'm goin' to do. I
ain't no sentimental slob. I ain't got the makin's in me of even a
store-mussed angel. See? But if you do this I swar to you right here
I'm goin' to see your Jessie right. I swar to you I'll rid her of this
'Lord' James, an' it'll jest be up to you to do the rest. Git me?"
Scipio took a breath that was something like a gasp.
"You'll--you'll help me get her back?" he breathed, with a glow of
hope which almost shocked his companion.
"I'm not promisin' that," said Bill quickly. "That's sure up to you.
But I give it you right here, I'll--shift this doggone skunk out of
your way."
Scipio made no verbal reply. Just for a moment he looked into the
gimlet eyes of the other. He saw the iron purpose there. He saw the
stern, unyielding compression of the lean, muscular jaws. There was
something tremendous in the suggestion of power lying behind this
ruffian's exterior. He turned away and gathered up the old mule's
reins.
"You've allus been friendly to me, Bill, so--"
He pulled off the trail and turned the mule's head in the direction of
home. And the rest of the gambler's journey was done in the wake of
Minky's buckboard.