THE LUCK OF SCIPIO
Suffering Creek was again in a state of ferment. It seemed as if there
were nothing but one excitement after another in the place now. No
sooner was the matter of the gold-stage passed than a fresh
disturbance was upon them. And again the established industry of the
place was completely at a standstill. Human nature could no more
withstand the infection that was ravaging the camp than keep cool
under a political argument. The thing that had happened now was
tremendous.
Staid miners, old experienced hands whose lives were wedded to their
quest of gold, whose interest in affairs was only taken from a
standpoint of their benefit, or otherwise, to the gold interest, were
caught in the feverish tide, and sent hurtling along with the rushing
flood. Men whose pulses usually only received a quickening from the
news of a fresh gold discovery now found themselves gaping with the
wonder of it all, and asking themselves how it was this thing had
happened, and if, indeed, it had happened, or were they dreaming.
The whole thing was monstrous, stupendous, and here, happening in
their midst, practically all Suffering Creek were out of it. But in
spite of this the fever of excitement raged, and no one was wholly
impervious to it. Opinions ran riot--opinions hastily conceived and
expressed without consideration, which is the way of people whose
nerves have been suddenly strung tight by a matter of absorbing
interest. Men who knew nothing of the nature of things which could
produce so astonishing a result found themselves dissecting causes and
possibilities which did not exist, and never could exist. They hastily
proceeded to lay down their own law upon the subject with hot
emphasis. They felt it necessary to do this to disguise their lack of
knowledge and restore their personal standing. For the latter, they
felt, had been sorely shaken by this sudden triumph of those whom they
had so lately ridiculed.
And what was this wonderful thing that had happened? What was it that
had set these hardened men crazy with excitement? It had come so
suddenly, so mysteriously. It had come during the hours of darkness,
when weary men hugged their blankets, and dreamed their dreams of the
craft which made up their whole world.
There was no noise, no epoch-making upheaval, no blatant trumpetings
to herald its coming. And the discovery was made by a single man on
his way to his work just after the great golden sun had risen.
He was trailing his way along the creek bank over the road which led
eventually to Spawn City. He was slouching along the wood-lined track
at that swinging, laborious gait of a heavy-booted man. And his way
lay across the oozy claim of Scipio.
But he never reached the claim. Long before he came in view of it he
found himself confronted with a sluggish stream progressing slowly
along the beaten sand of the trail. For a moment he believed that the
creek had, for some freakish reason, suddenly overflowed its banks.
But this thought was swiftly swept aside, and he stood snuffing the
air like some warhorse, and gaping at the stream as it lapped about
his feet.
It came on slowly but irresistibly. And ahead of him, and amongst the
trailside bush, he beheld nothing but this rising flood. Then of a
sudden something of its meaning penetrated his dazed comprehension,
and, turning abruptly, he started to run for the higher ground. He
sped swiftly through the surrounding bush, dodging tree-trunks, and
threading his way circuitously in the direction where stood the great
cut bank of quartz which backed Scipio's claim. The smell of the air
had told him its tale, and he knew that he had made a wonderful, an
astounding discovery. And with this knowledge had come the thought of
his own possible advantage. Eagerly he began to seek the source of the
flood.
But his hopes were completely dashed the moment he reached the bank
overlooking Scipio's claim. There lay the source of the flood, right
in the heart of the little man's despised land. A great gusher of
coal-oil was belching from the mouth of the shaft which Sandy Joyce
had been at work upon, and the whole clearing, right from the oozy
swamp beyond to the higher ground of the river bank, stealing its way
along trail and through bush, lay a vast shallow lake of raw
coal-oil.
The disappointed man waited just sufficiently long to realize the
magnitude of Scipio's luck, and then set off at a run for the camp.
And in half-an-hour the camp was in a raging fever. In half-an-hour
nearly the whole of Suffering Creek had set out for the claim, that
they might see for themselves this wonderful thing that had happened.
In half-an-hour the whole thing was being explained in theory by
everybody to everybody else. In half-an-hour everybody was inquiring
for Scipio, and each and all were desirous of being first to convey
the news.
And when it was discovered that Scipio was from home, and knew nothing
of his good fortune, a fresh thought came to every mind. What had
become of him? They learned that he had borrowed Minky's buckboard,
and had driven away. And immediately in the public mind crept an
unexpressed question. Had Zip abandoned the place in the face of his
ill-luck, and, if so, what about this gigantic oil find?
However, there was nothing to be done at present but wait. The flow of
oil could not be checked, and the tremendous waste must go on. The
gusher would flow on until the pressure below lessened, and after that
it would die down, and require pumps to further exhaust it.
So the camp resigned itself to a contemplation of this wonderful new
industry that had sprung up unsought in their midst; and the luck of
Scipio was upon everybody's lips. Nor was there only the wonder of it
in every mind, for, after the first feelings of envy and covetousness
had passed away, the humor of the thing became apparent. And it was
Joe Brand, in the course of discussing the matter with Minky, who
first drew attention to the queer pranks which fortune sometimes
plays.
"Say, don't it lick creation?" he cried. "Can you beat it? No, sirree.
It's the best ever--it sure is. Say, here's the worstest mule-head
ever got foothold on this yer continent sets out to chase gold in a
place no one outside a bug-house would ever find time to git busy, an'
may I be skinned alive an' my bones grilled fer a cannibal's supper if
he don't find sech a fortune in ile as 'ud set all the whole blamed
world's ile market hatin' itself. Gee!"
And Minky nodded his head. He also smiled slyly upon those who stood
about him.
"Ther' sure is elegant humor to most things in this yer life," he said
dryly. "Which 'minds me Wild Bill bo't ha'f o' that claim o' Zip's
'fore he set out fer Spawn City."
And at his words somehow a curious thoughtfulness fell upon his
hearers. Nor was there any responsive smile among them. The humor he
spoke of seemed to have passed them by, leaving them quite untouched
by its point. And presently they drifted away, joining other groups,
where the reminder that Bill had been derided by the whole camp for
his absurd purchase had an equally damping effect.
But the day was to be more eventful even than the promise of the
morning had suggested. And the second surprise came about noon.
Excitement was still raging. Half the camp was down at Zip's claim
watching the miracle of the oil gusher, and the other half was either
on their way thither or returning from it. Some of them were gathering
the raw oil in cans and tubs, others were hurrying to do so. And none
of them quite knew why they were doing it, or what, if any, the use
they could put the stuff to. They were probably inspired by the fact
that there was the stuff going to waste by the hundreds of gallons,
and they felt it incumbent upon them to save what they could. Anyway,
it was difficult to tear themselves away from the fascinations of
Nature's prodigal outburst, and so, as being the easiest and most
pleasurable course, they abandoned themselves to it.
So it was that Minky found his store deserted. He lounged idly out on
to the veranda and propped himself against one of the posts. And,
standing there, his thoughtful eyes roamed, subtly attracted to the
spot where Zip's luck had demonstrated itself.
He stood there for some time watching the hurrying figures of the
miners as they moved to and fro, but his mind was far away. Somehow
Zip's luck, in spite of the excessive figures which extravagant minds
had estimated it at, only took second place with him. He was thinking
of the man who had journeyed to Spawn City. He was worrying about him,
his one and only friend.
He had understood something of that self-imposed task which the
gambler had undertaken, though its full significance had never quite
been his. Now he felt that in some way he was responsible. Now he felt
that the journey should never have been taken. He felt that he should
have refused to ship his gold. And yet he knew full well that his
refusal would have been quite useless. Wild Bill was a man whom
opposition only drove the harder, and he would have contrived a means
of carrying out his purpose, no matter what barred his way.
However, even with this assurance he still felt uncomfortably
regretful. His responsibility was no less, and for the life of him he
could not rise to enthusiasm over this luck of Scipio's. It would have
been different if Bill had been there to discuss the matter with him.
And as the moments passed his spirits fell lower and lower, until at
last a great depression weighed him down.
It was in the midst of this depression, when, for the hundredth time,
he had wished that his friend had never started out on his wild
enterprise, that he suddenly found himself staring out across the
river at the Spawn City trail. He stared for some moments, scarcely
comprehending that at which he looked. Then suddenly he became aware
of a horseman racing down the slope towards the river, and in a moment
mind and body were alert, and he stood waiting.
* * * * *
Minky was still standing on his veranda. But he was no longer leaning
against the post; he was holding a letter in his hand which he had
just finished reading. It was a painful-looking document for all its
neat, clear writing. It was stained with patches of dark red that were
almost brown, and the envelope he held in his other hand was almost
unrecognizable for the same hideous stain that completely covered it.
The man who had delivered it was resting on the edge of the veranda.
He had told his story; and now he sat chewing, and watching his weary
horse tethered at the hitching-post a few yards away.
"An' he drove that cart fer six hours--dead?" Minky asked, without
removing his eyes from the blood-stained letter.
"That's sure how I sed," returned the messenger, and went stolidly on
with his chewing. The other breathed deeply.
Then he read the letter over again. He read it slowly, so as to miss
no word or meaning it might contain. And, curiously, as he read a
feeling of wonder filled him at the excellence of the writing and
composition. He did not seem to remember having seen Bill's writing
before. And here the rough, hard-living gambler was displaying himself
a man of considerable education. It was curious. All the years of
their friendship had passed without him discovering that his gambling
friend was anything but an illiterate ruffian of the West, with
nothing but a great courage, a powerful personality and a moderately
honest heart to recommend him.
"My Dear Minky,
"I'm dead--dead as mutton. Whether I'm cooked mutton, or raw, I
can't just say. Anyway, I'm dead--or you wouldn't get this
letter.
"Now this letter is not to express regrets, or to sentimentalize.
You'll agree that's not my way. Death doesn't worry me any. No,
this letter is just a 'last will and testament,' as the lawyers
have it. And I'm sending it to you because I know you'll see
things fixed right for me. You see, I put everything into your
hands for two reasons: you're honest, and you're my friend. Now,
seeing you're rich and prosperous I leave you nothing out of my
wad. But I'd like to hand you a present of my team--if they're
still alive--team and harness and cart. And you'll know, seeing I
always had a notion the sun, moon and stars rose and set in my
horses, the spirit in which I give them to you, and the regard I
had for our friendship. Be good to them, old friend.
For the rest, my dollars, and anything else I've got, I'd like
Zip's kids to have. They're bright kids, and I've got a notion for
them. And, seeing Zip's their father, maybe dollars will be useful
to them. You can divide things equally between them.
"And in conclusion you can tell Zip if he can do a good turn,
which I don't suppose he'll be able to, to either Sunny Oak, or
Sandy Joyce, or Toby Jenks, he'd best do it. Because he owes them
something he'll probably never hear about.
"This is the last will and testament, as the lawyers say, of
"Your old friend,
"Wild Bill.
"(A no-account gambler, late of Abilene.)"
Minky looked up from the letter again, and his eyes were shadowed. He
felt that that letter contained more of the gambler's heart than he
would ever have allowed himself to display in life.
And into his mind came many memories--memories that stirred him
deeply. He was thinking of the days when he had first encountered Bill
years ago, when the name of Wild Bill was a terror throughout Texas
and the neighboring States. And he smiled as he remembered how a
perturbed Government had been forced, for their own peace of mind, and
for the sake of the peace of the country, to put this "terror" on the
side of law and order, and make him a sheriff of the county. And then,
too, he remembered the trouble Bill was always getting into through
mixing up his private feuds with his public duties. Still, he was a
great sheriff, and never was such order kept in the county.
He turned again to the man at his side.
"An' he got thro' with the gold?" he inquired slowly.
"Jest as I sed," retorted the weary messenger. "Guess I helped sheriff
to deposit it in the bank."
"And he's dead?"
The man stirred impatiently and spat.
"Dead--as mutton."
Minky sighed.
"An' you come along the Spawn City trail?" he asked presently.
"I ain't got wings."
"An' you saw--?"
"The birds flappin' around--nigh chokin' with human meat."
The man laughed cynically.
"Did you recognize--?"
"I see James. He was dead--as mutton, too--an' all his gang. Gee! It
must 'a' bin a hell of a scrap."
The man spat out a stream of tobacco juice and rubbed his hands.
"It sure must," agreed Minky. And he passed into the store.
* * * * *
It was dark when Scipio urged the old mule up the bank at the fork of
the creek. He was very weary, and Jessie was asleep beside him, with
her head pillowed upon his shoulder. His arm was about her, supporting
her, and he sat rigid, lest the bumping of the rattling vehicle should
waken her. The position for him was trying, but he never wavered.
Cramped and weary as he was, he strove by every means in his power to
leave her undisturbed.
And as he passed the river three ghostly figures ambled down to the
bank, and, after drinking their horses, likewise passed over. But
while Scipio kept to the trail, they vanished amidst the woods. Their
task was over, and they sought the shortest route to their homes.
And so Scipio came to his claim. And such was his state of mind, so
was he taken up with the happiness which the presence of his wife
beside him gave him, and such was his delight in looking forward to
the days to come, that he saw nothing of that which lay about him.
The air to him was sweet with all the perfumes his thankful heart
inspired in his thoughts. His road was a path of roses. The reek of
oil was beyond his simple ken. Nor did he heed the slush, slush of his
mule's feet, as the old beast floundered through the lake of oil
spread out on all sides about him. The gurgling, the sadly bubbling
gusher, even, might have been one of the fairy sounds of night, for
all thought he gave to it.
No; blind to all things practical as he always was, how was it
possible that Scipio, leaving Suffering Creek a poor, struggling
prospector, should realize by these outward signs that he had returned
to it, possibly, a millionaire?