SUNDAY MORNING IN SUFFERING CREEK
On the veranda of the store was the usual Sunday morning gathering of
the citizens of Suffering Creek, an impromptu function which occurred
as regularly as the sun rose and set. Some of the men were clad in
their best black broadcloth, resplendent, if shiny at the seams, and
bespotted with drink and tobacco stains. But the majority had made no
such effort to differentiate between the seventh day of the week and
the other six. The only concession that everyone yielded, and then
with bad enough grace in many instances, was to add to the boredom of
their day of rest by performing a scanty ablution in the washing
trough at the back of the store.
Minky was one of the few who clung to the customs of his up-bringing.
He was there, ample, and gayly beaming, in "boiled" shirt, and a
highly colored vest, which clashed effusively with his brilliantly
variegated bow-tie, but of which he was inordinately proud.
It was the custom at these meetings to discuss any matters which
affected the well-being of the community, to listen to any item of
interest pointing the prosperity of the local gold industry, to thresh
out complaints. In fact, it became a sort of Local Government Board,
of which the storekeeper was president, and such men as Wild Bill,
Sandy Joyce and one or two of the more successful miners formed the
governing committee.
But it was yet comparatively early, and many sore heads were still
clinging to their rough pillows. Saturday night was always a heavy
occasion, and the Sunday morning sleep was a generally acknowledged
necessity. However, this did not prevent discussion amongst those
already assembled.
Wild Bill was not there. Sandy Joyce was still absent, although both
had been long since stirring. Someone sarcastically suggested that
they had gone off to inspect the gambler's rich strike before Sandy
got to work on it on the morrow. This drew a great laugh at Wild
Bill's expense. And it was only the loyal Minky's voice that checked
it.
"You'se fellers are laffin'," he said, in good-humored reproval. "Wal,
laff. I can't say I know why Bill's bo't that claim, but I'll say
this: I'd a heap sooner foller his money than any other man's. I've
sure got a notion we best do our laffin' right now."
"That's so," agreed Joe Brand reluctantly. "Bill's a cur'us feller.
He's so mighty cur'us I ain't got much use for him--personal. But I'll
say right here, he's wide enough to beat most any feller at any bluff
he's got savvee to put up. Howsum, every 'smart' falls fer things at
times. Y'see, they get lookin' fer rich strikes that hard, an' are so
busy keppin' other folks out o' them, it's dead easy gettin' 'em
trippin'. Guess that tow-headed sucker, Zip, 's got him trippin' about
now, sure."
Minky shook his head. He did not believe it. If Bill had been caught
napping, he must have willfully gone to sleep. He knew the man too
well. However, he had no intention of arguing the matter with these
people. So he turned away and stood staring out at the far distance
beyond the creek.
In a few moments the whole matter was dismissed from his mind, and his
thoughts filled with a something that lately had become a sort of
obsession to him. It was the safety of his gold-dust that troubled,
and as each day passed his apprehensions grew. He felt that trouble
was threatening in the air of Suffering Creek, and the thought of how
easily he might be taken at a disadvantage worried him terribly. He
knew that it was imperative for him to unload his gold. But how? How
could it be done in safety, in the light of past events? It was
suicidal to send it off to Spawn City on a stage, with the James gang
watching the district. And the Government--?
Suddenly his eyes lit excitedly. He pointed out across the creek with
startling abruptness, in a direction where the land sloped gradually
upwards towards the more distant foothills, in a broken carpet of pine
woods. He was indicating a rift in the forest, where, for a long
stretch, a wide clearing had been made by the axes of the pioneers of
the camp.
"Ho, fellers!" he cried. "Get a peek yonder. Who's that?"
In an instant every eye followed the direction of his outstretched
arm. And the men stood silently watching the progress of a horseman
racing headlong through the clearing and making for the creek in front
of them as fast as his horse could lay legs to the ground. So silent
and intent did the group on the veranda become, that faint, yet
sharply distinct, even at that distance, the thrashing of the horse's
hoofs floated to their straining ears on the still morning air, and
set them wondering.
On came the man at a furious pace. He was leaning far over his horse's
neck, so that the whole weight of his body was well clear of the
saddle. And as he came the waiting men could plainly see the rise and
fall of his arm, as he mercilessly flogged his straining beast. It was
Joe Brand who first broke the silence.
"Looks like Sid Morton," he hazarded. "I kind o' seem to mind his
sorrel with four white legs. He's comin' from the right direction,
too. Guess his ranch is ten miles up yonder. Say, he's makin' a hell
of a bat."
"He sure is." Jim Wright, the oldest miner in the camp, blinked his
red-rimmed eyes as they watered with the strain of watching, "It's
trouble that's chasin' him," he added, with conviction. "Trouble o'
some kind."
"What sort o' trouble?" Minky spoke half to himself. Just now there
was only one idea of trouble in his mind.
Somebody laughed foolishly.
"There ain't many sorts o' trouble sets a man chasin' like that," said
a voice in the background.
Minky glanced round.
"What are they, Van?" he inquired, and turned back again to his
scrutiny of the on-coming horseman.
"Sickness, an'--guns," replied the man addressed as Van, with another
foolish laugh. "If it's Sid he ain't got anybody out on his ranch to
be sick, 'cep' his two 'punchers. An' I don't guess he'd chase for
them. Must be 'guns.'"
No one answered him. Everybody was too intent on the extraordinary
phenomenon. The man was nearing the creek. In a few seconds he would
be hidden from view, for the opposite bank lay far below them, cut off
from sight by the height of the rising ground intervening on the
hither side.
A moment later a distinct movement amongst the watchers, which had
something almost of relief in it, told that this had happened. Minky
turned to Jim Wright, who chanced to be nearest him.
"It's Sid," he declared definitely.
The old man nodded.
"An' I guess Van's right," he agreed.
"He'll be along up in a minute," said Joe Brand.
Minky remained where he was watching the point at which he expected to
see the horseman reappear. This sudden apparition had fastened itself
upon his general apprehension and become part of it. What was the news
the man was bringing?
Some of the men moved off the veranda to meet the horseman when he
came up, but the majority remained where they were. In spite of their
interest, these people were rarely carried away by their feelings in a
matter of this sort. Time would tell them all they wanted to know.
Perhaps a good deal more than they cared to hear. So they preferred to
wait.
Their patience was quickly rewarded. In less than five minutes a
bobbing head rose above the brow of the incline. Then came the man. He
was still leaning forward to ease his panting horse, whose dilated
nostrils and flattened ears told the onlookers of its desperate
journey. The leg-weary beast floundered up the steep under quirt and
spur--and, in a moment, stood tottering, gasping and steaming before
the eager crowd.
Sid Morton almost fell out of the saddle. And as his feet came to the
ground he reeled. But Minky caught him, and he steadied himself.
"I'm beat," the horseman cried desperately. "For mercy's sake hand me
a horn o' whisky."
He flung himself down on the edge of the veranda, leaving his jaded
beast to anyone's care. He was too far spent to think of anything or
anybody but himself. Falling back against the post he closed his eyes
while the silent crowd looked on stupidly.
Minky seemed to be the only one who fully grasped the situation. He
passed the foundered horse on to his "choreman," and then himself
procured a stiff drink of rye whisky for the exhausted man. This he
administered without a moment's delay, and the ranchman opened his
eyes.
The next instant he sat up, and, in doing so, disclosed a large
dark-red patch on the post he had leaned against. Minky saw the
ominous stain.
"Wounded?" he inquired sharply.
"Some." Then he added, after a moment's hesitation, "Yes, guess I'm
done."
The ranchman spoke rapidly. For the moment at least his weakness
seemed to have passed, and the weariness to have gone out of his eyes
and voice. He strained eagerly, his eyes alight and bloodshot. The
whisky had given him momentary courage, momentary strength; the drawn
lines of rapidly draining life had smoothed out of his young cheeks.
"Here, listen," he cried, almost fiercely. "I'm beat. I know. But--but
I want to tell you things. You needn't to notice that hole in my
back." He writhed painfully. "Guess they--they got my lung or--or
somethin'. Y'see, it's the James gang. Some of 'em are"--a spasm of
pain shot athwart his face as he hesitated--"'bout three miles back
ther'--"
At this point a terrible fit of coughing interrupted him, and blood
trickled into the corners of his mouth. Minky understood. He
dispatched one of the bystanders for some brandy, while he knelt down
to the man's support. At once the drooping body sagged heavily upon
his arm; but when the paroxysm had passed the weight lightened, and
the dying man hurried on with his story, although his voice had lost
more than half of its former ring.
"Ther' ain't much time," he said, with something like a gasp. "He's
run off my stock, an' set my hay an' the corrals afire. He--he got us
when we was roundin'--roundin' up a bunch o' steers. Y'see--y'see, we
was in--in the saddle."
Again he paused. This time his breath came in gasps and deep-throated
gurglings. He struggled on, however, stumbling and gasping with almost
every second word.
"We put up a--scrap--good. An'--an' both--my boys was--was dropped
cold. After I--I emptied--my gun--I--I hit--the trail for here. Then
I--got it good. Say--"
Once more he was interrupted by a fit of terrible coughing. And the
moment it eased the storekeeper held the brandy, which one of the boys
had brought, to his blood-flecked lips. The poor fellow's end was not
far off. The onlookers knew it. Minky knew there was practically
nothing to be done for him. All these men had witnessed the approach
of death in this form too often before. A lung pierced by a bullet!
They could do nothing but look on curiously, helplessly and listen
carefully to the story he was trying to tell.
The man struggled with himself for some moments. The strong young body
was yielding reluctantly enough to the death-grip. And at last his
words gasped haltingly upon the still air.
"Their plugs--wasn't--fresh. Mine--was. That give--me--the--legs--of
'em. But--they--rode--hard, an'--"
His voice died down to a whistling gasp and his eyes closed. He was
sinking fast. Minky forced more brandy between his lips. And presently
the drooping eyelids widened, and a momentary strength lifted the
weakening body.
"They follered," he mumbled, "but--I--don't--know--how--many.
'Bout--three. Three--miles--back--I--I--lost--'em--"
His eyes were glazing and staring painfully. And as his last words
hovered on his lips they were drowned by the gurgling and rattling in
his throat. Suddenly a shudder passed through his frame. He started,
his eyes staring wildly.
"I'm--done!" he gasped. His arms shot up convulsively, his legs flung
out. And then all his weight dropped back on to the storekeeper's
supporting arm. The next moment his body seemed to heave as with a
deep, restful sigh, and his head lolled helplessly forward. He was
dead.