WILD BILL FIRES A BOMB
When Wild Bill returned to his hut later on in the afternoon he was
consumed by a cold, hard rage, such as comes but rarely in the life of
any man. There was no demonstrativeness: he had no words to give it
expression. It was the rage of a man who coldly, calmly collects every
faculty of brain and body into one great concentration for harm to its
object. It was a moment when every evil thought and feeling was drawn
into a cruel longing for harm--harm calculated to be of the most
merciless description.
Neither of the companions who had joined him in the pursuit of the
man they had discovered lurking down at the river had any real
understanding of what lay in the back of the gambler's mind. His
outburst there had been the first volcanic rage which had lit the
fires of hate now burning so deep down in his intolerant heart.
That outburst they had understood. That was the man as they knew
him. But this other man they knew nothing of. This was the real man
who returned to his hut, silent and ghastly, with implacable hatred
burning in his heart.
All three had hurriedly and silently returned to the store from their
futile chase. Bill offered no explanation, and his manner was so
forbidding that even the intrepid Sandy had found no use for the
questions he would so gladly have put.
When they arrived, Scipio and Sunny, with the twins, had reached the
place just before them. But they were lost sight of in the rush that
was made to tell the gambler of the happenings at Sid Morton's ranch.
Nor had he any choice but to listen to the luridly narrated facts.
However, his choice did fall in with their desires, and, after the
first brief outline, told with all the imagination this varied
collection of beings was capable of, he found himself demanding, as
eagerly as they were waiting to tell, every detail of the matter, and
even went so far as to examine the body of the dead rancher, roughly
laid out in the barn on a bed of hay. He listened almost without
comment, which was unusual in him. His manner displayed no heat. He
was cold, critical, and his only words were to ask sharp and
definitely pointed questions. Then, having given Minky instructions
for the safeguarding of the children, he departed without even
mentioning his own adventure down at the river.
But if he neglected to do so, it was otherwise with his friends, the
other members of the Trust. The moment his back was turned they shed
the story broadcast, each man competing with the other in his endeavor
to make it thoroughly palatable to the sensation-loving ears of their
fellow-townsmen. And probably of them all Sandy was the most
successful.
In half-an-hour, loyally supported by his friends, he had the whole of
Suffering Creek strung to such a pitch of nervous excitement that
every man was set looking to his firearms, and all talk was directed
towards the most adequate means of defending their homes and
property.
In the briefest possible time, from a peaceful, industrious camp,
Suffering Creek was transformed into a war base, every citizen stirred
not only to defense of his own, but with a longing to march out to the
fray, to seek these land pirates in the open and to exterminate them,
as they would willingly exterminate any other vermin.
Men talked war. Brains were feverishly racked for strategy, and for
historical accounts of a similar situation in which a town rose to
arms and took the law into its own hands. Stories flew from lip to
lip, and, as is usual under such stress, so did the convivial glass.
And the result which followed was quite in keeping with the occasion.
Quarrels and bickerings occurred, which kept the place at fever-heat
until the store closed down for the night and the supply of liquor was
cut off. Then slumber brought its beneficent opiate to distracted
nerves.
Throughout it all Minky kept his head level. Whatever he felt and
thought, he had nothing to offer on the altar of public suggestion. He
knew that of all these irresponsible debaters he had the most to lose.
Nor did he feel inclined to expose anything of the risk at which he
stood. It was a depressing time for him, so depressing that he could
see very little hope. His risk was enormous. He felt that the
probability was that this raiding gang were well enough posted as to
the store of gold he held in his cellars. He felt that, should James
or any of his people decide upon a coup, the attack would be well
timed, when the miners were out at their work, and he and the camp
generally were left defenseless.
What could he do? He must rid himself of the "dust" somehow. He must
dispose of it secretly. A hiding--that seemed to him, amidst his
trouble, to be the only thing. But where? That was the thing. He must
consult Bill. To his mind Bill was the only man upon whom he could
place any real reliance, upon whose judgment he could depend. So, with
his shrewd eyes ever on the watch for strangers amongst his customers,
he longed for the hours to pass until he could close his store and
seek the gambler in his hut.
In the meantime Wild Bill had cut himself off from his fellows,
spending the long evening hours in the solitude of his humble
dwelling. The man was strangely calm, but his fierce eyes and pale
face told of an enormous strain of thought driving him. His mind was
sweeping along over a series of vivid pictures of past events, mixed
up with equally vivid and strongly marked scenes of possible events to
come. He was reviewing silently, sternly, a situation which, by some
extraordinary kink in his vanity, he felt it was for him to assume the
responsibility of. He felt, although with no feeling of pride, that
he, and he alone, could see it through.
The fact of the matter was that, by some strange mental process,
James' doings--his approach to the camp, in fact his very existence--had
somehow become a direct individual challenge to him. Without
acknowledging it to himself, he in some subtle way understood that
everything this desperado did was a challenge to him--a sneering,
contemptuous challenge to him. James was metaphorically snapping his
fingers under his very nose.
That these were his feelings was undeniable. That the thoughts of the
possibilities of an attack on the camp were the mainspring of his
antagonism to the man, that this voluntary guardianship of Scipio and
his twins was the source of his rage against him, it was impossible to
believe. They may have influenced him in a small degree, but only in a
small degree. The man was cast in a very different mold from that of a
simple philanthropist. It was the man's vanity, the headstrong vanity
of a strong and selfish man, that drove him. And as he sat silently
raging under his thoughts of the happenings of that day, had he put
his paramount feelings into words he would have demanded how James
dared to exist in a district which he, Wild Bill of Abilene, had made
his own.
He spent the evening sitting on his bed or pacing his little hut, his
thoughts tumbling headlong through his brain. He found himself almost
absently inspecting his armory, and loading and unloading his favorite
weapons. There was no definite direction in anything he thought or
did, unless it were in the overwhelming hatred against James which
colored his every feeling. Without realizing it, every force of mind
and body was seeking inspiration.
And the evening was well-nigh spent before inspiration came. Careless
of time, of everything but his feelings, he had finally flung himself
full length upon his bed, brain-weary and resourceless. Then came the
change. As his head touched the pillow it almost seemed to rebound;
and he found himself sitting up again glaring at the opposite wall
with the desired inspiration in his gimlet eyes.
"Gee!" he breathed, with a force that sent the exclamation hissing
through the room.
And for an hour his attitude remained unchanged. His legs were drawn
up and his long arms were clasped about his knees. His eyes were
fiercely focused upon a cartridge-belt hanging upon the wall, and
there they remained, seemingly a fixture, while thought, no longer
chaotic, flew through his revivified brain. He gave no sign; he
uttered no word. But his face told its story of a fiendish joy which
swept from his head to his heart, and thrilled his whole body.
It was in the midst of this that he received a visit from his friend
Minky. And the moment the door opened in response to his summons the
look in his eyes, when he saw who his visitor was, was a cordial
welcome. He swung round and dropped his legs over the side of his
bunk.
"What's the time?" he demanded.
Minky pointed to the alarm-clock on the gambler's table.
"Nigh one o'clock," he said, with a faint smile.
But Bill ignored the quiet sarcasm.
"Good," he cried. Then he brought his eyes to the other's face. They
were literally blazing with suppressed excitement. There was something
in them, too, that lifted Minky out of his desperate mood. Somehow
they suggested hope to him. Somehow the very presence of this man had
a heartening effect.
"Say," cried the gambler in a tone that thrilled with power, "this is
Sunday. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday," he counted the days off on his
lean, muscular fingers. "That's it, sure. Wednesday we send out a
'stage,' an' you're goin' to ship your gold-dust on it. You'll ship it
to Spawn City. Meanwhiles you'll buy up all you feel like. Clean the
camp out of 'dust,' an' ship it by that stage."
The storekeeper stared. For a moment he thought his friend had taken
leave of his senses. A scathing refusal hovered on his lips. But the
words never matured. He was looking into the man's burning eyes, and
he realized that a big purpose lay behind his words.
"An'," he inquired, with a smile from which he could not quite shut
out the irony, "an' who's goin' to--drive it through?"
"I am."
The storekeeper jumped and his eyes widened. He started forward. Then
he checked himself. He struggled with a sudden emotion.
"You?" he cried in a sharp whisper. "I--I don't get you."
The gambler leapt to his feet. He strode down the length of the hut
and came back again. He finally paused before his bewildered friend.
"No, o' course you don't," he cried hotly; "course you don't. Here,
how much 'dust' ken you ship?"
"Maybe we'd need to ship sixty thousand dollars' worth. That is, if we
rake around among the boys."
Minky watched his man closely as he spoke. He was still doubting, but
he was ready enough to be convinced. He knew it was no use asking too
many questions. Wild Bill hated questions. He watched the latter
plunge a hand into the inside pocket of his coat and draw out a book.
He had no difficulty in recognizing it as the gambler flung it on the
table with a force that set the lamp rattling.
"There it is," he cried, with a fierce oath. "Ther's my bank-book.
Ther's seventy odd thousand dollars lyin' in the Spawn City bank to my
dogasted credit. See?" He glared; then he drew a step nearer and bent
forward. "I'm handin' you a check fer your dust," he went on. "I've
seventy thousand dollars says I'm a better man than James an' all his
rotten scum, an' that I'm goin' to shoot him to hell before the week's
out. _Now_ d'ye get me?"
Minky gasped. He had always believed he had long since fathomed the
depths of his wild friend. He had always believed that the gambler had
no moods which were not well known to him. He had seen him under
almost every condition of stress. Yet here was a side to his character
he had never even dreamed of, and he was flabbergasted.
For a moment he had no words with which to adequately reply, and he
merely shook his head. Instantly the other flew into one of his savage
paroxysms by which it was so much his habit to carry through his
purpose when obstructed.
"You stand there shakin' your fool head like some mosey old cow," he
cried, with a ruddy flush suddenly mounting to his temples. "An'
you'll go on shakin' it till ther' ain't 'dust' enuff in your store to
bury a louse. You'll go on shakin' it till James' gun rips out your
vitals. Gee!" He threw his arms above his head appealing. "Give me a
man," he cried. Then he brought one fist crashing down upon the table
and shouted his final words: "Say, you'll get right out an' post the
notices. I'm buyin' your 'dust,' an' I'm driving the stage."