ROY MAKES A STATEMENT
Teddy and Roy Manley exchanged glances. Pop was, in effect, asking them
to give their definite approval or disapproval of the rush toward the
new gold fields. Whether or not the men would take their words to heart
was another question. It might be that with a simple sentence they could
stop the stampede and save the remainder of the men for the ranch.
But were they justified? Could they honestly say they knew the claims at
Nugget Camp to be worthless and that the cowboys would only be wasting
their time if they threw up their jobs and went mining? Could they?
Roy was thinking hard. As the elder brother, it would be his place to
answer Pop’s appeal, and he knew Teddy was leaving the decision to him.
Again the thought occurred--even if it were in his power to stem the
rush by telling the men there was little or no gold at Nugget Camp, did
he have that right? Would it be honest?
“Seems you’ve been saying about all there is to say, haven’t you, Pop?”
Roy asked quizzically, more to gain time to think than for any other
reason.
“Rolls off ’em like water from a duck’s back,” Pop said in a disgusted
tone. “Can’t tell these hombres nothin’. They was all born wise an’ have
been gettin’ wiser every day of their lives, accordin’ to them. I tell
’em somethin’ an’ they give it the merry ha-ha. By golly, I _have_ seen
fourteen rushes! That’s somethin’, ain’t it? How many have you fellers
seen?” He glared at the assembled punchers, his eyes afire under the
tightly stretched skin of his forehead.
“Now, Pop, we ain’t disputin’ yore word,” Rad Schmell said uneasily.
“But, snakes, if these here reports are _true_--”
“But they _ain’t_, blame it! They ain’t!” Pop shouted. “Listen, Roy!
Have you heard anything of some old miner strikin’ it rich at Nugget
Camp, then gettin’ robbed of his nuggets? Likely story, ain’t it!” Pop
sneered. “If it _was_ true I’d hear about it first thing, ’cause I got a
cousin that’s been pannin’ that section for goin’ on two years now. All
he ever made out of it was enough gold to fill his back tooth where he
bit into a hickory nut without peelin’ it first. Well, Roy?”
The boy hesitated no longer. There was but one thing to do--tell the
truth and trust to the loyalty of some of the punchers to stay on the
ranch until the boss could get others to fill their places. Two men they
could be sure of--Pop Burns and Nick Looker. Nick was not in this crowd.
“Well, Pop, I’ll tell you,” Roy said slowly. “Part of the story’s true.
Teddy and I both saw the man who was robbed--in fact, we carried him to
the 8 X 8. He was a pretty old geezer. Can’t say how much he was robbed
of, because he went under before he could tell us. The doctor’s opinion
is that he has a chance to pull through. The bullet caught him in the
neck.”
Pop was gazing at Roy with a surprised, hurt stare.
“So it did happen, after all!” the old man muttered. “Say, boys--” his
voice was toneless--“what was his name? Do you know?”
“Decker,” Teddy replied.
Pop sprang to his feet.
“Decker! What was his first name?”
“Jerry, I think. He looks sort of like--”
“Jerry Decker! My cousin! That poor old washed-out bronco-forker! Jerry
Decker!” Pop shook his head sadly. “Listen, boys--” he looked at them
appealingly. “How bad’s he hurt?”
“Pretty bad, I’m afraid, Pop,” Roy said seriously. “Tell you--I’ll go
in and telephone to the 8 X 8 for you and find out how he is now.”
“Wish you would, Roy. I wish you would.” Pop appeared dazed by the news.
“An’ say--” his eyes flashed--“who done it? Got any idea a-tall?”
“Not any definite one,” Teddy said. “We did find something that might
help.” He told about the German gun. “But I never heard of any Germans
around here except that family over near Sanborn’s Point. They wouldn’t
hurt a fly. Never saw any more law-abiding people.”
“No, it wasn’t them,” Pop agreed. “A German gun, hey! Baby, I hope--” He
clenched his fists. Then his mood changed and he glanced at Roy. “Say,
would you mind--”
“Right away,” Roy declared. “You wait here.”
The punchers crowded about Teddy as Roy walked toward the house. He
answered their questions as best he could, thankful that their minds
were somewhat diverted from the idea of leaving immediately by their
curiosity over Pop’s cousin.
Supper would be ready in half an hour. Other men drifted toward the
bunk-house, tossing saddle blankets under their beds, pouring water into
tin basins and removing, somewhat, the traces of their alkalied trade.
The talk was subdued, strained, as though each was waiting for the other
to say something that remained unsaid. They greeted Teddy heartily, and
exchanged a few words with him. Pop, sitting on the top of the three
steps that led into the bunk-house, moved his form slightly as each
puncher brushed by him and offered an unintelligible grunt to all
remarks.
Nick Looker arrived, and, seeing Teddy, thrust an arm about the boy’s
shoulders. These two were such friends as one often sees in the
West--friendship based, not only on a sincere liking one for the other,
but also on an appreciation of the other’s worth. They had been together
for six years, ever since Nick, a mere youngster, had thrown his
fortunes in with the X Bar X. He was in his early twenties even now. In
build he resembled Teddy--rather tall, sinewy, broad of shoulder and
narrow of hip. In feature he was what the young cow puncher is supposed
to be, but scarcely ever is, high cheek bones, thin nose, deep blue eyes
set wide, sensitive mouth, firm chin.
He and Teddy, as they stood there, framed against the reddening evening
sky, were a picture to capture the eye of an artist.
“And the mommer bear said to the little bear, ‘well, it’s about time you
showed up, you tyke; where you been till this hour in the mornin’?’”
Nick exclaimed, grinning.
“Visiting,” Teddy said, answering Nick’s grin with one of his own. “Seen
quite a lot of excitement lately. Say, Nick--” He moved his head
slightly. Nick understood and walked to one side.
“I suppose you know what’s up?” Teddy asked seriously.
“You mean about that gold strike? Yea, I know. But it don’t mean nothin’
to me. The story’s around that some old geezer made a find--a big
nugget--an’ that he got knocked off an’ robbed. Me, I don’t see much to
it.”
“But it’s true, Nick!” Teddy watched the cowboy’s face.
“True?” Nick’s eyes opened wide. “Somebody did make a strike an’ got
robbed?”
“Uh-huh. And, what’s more, it was Pop’s cousin.” Teddy told the puncher
of finding Decker. “So, Nick, it isn’t all wind,” he finished.
“Well, bust my boilers!” Nick said slowly. “Pop’s cousin! What do you
know about that? Snakes, I hope he makes the grade! Have you heard--”
“Here comes Roy now,” Teddy interrupted. “He just ’phoned to the 8 X 8
for news.”
Roy’s face was reassuring as he approached them. Pop leaped to his feet
and ran forward.
“Let’s have it, Roy,” he said anxiously. “What’s the news?”
“He’s better,” the boy answered. “Much better. The doc’s just been
there, and, unless infection sets in, he’s got much better than an even
chance.”
“Boy, I’m glad of that!” Pop sighed. “I ain’t got many relatives left,
an’ I sure like to keep track of ’em an’ make ’em last as long as I kin.
Thanks, Roy!”
The old man walked toward the rear of the bunk-house. The boys watched,
saying nothing until he was out of earshot.
“That hit him sort of hard,” Teddy remarked. “I never knew Pop Burns had
a cousin.”
“Neither did the rest of us,” Roy said. “Well, Nick?” He thrust out his
hand. “How’s everything?”
“Well enough, considerin’,” Nick replied. “This here life is sure tryin’
on a feller, ain’t it?” He grasped Roy’s hand firmly, then released it.
“Golly, somethin’ happenin’ all the time! Last week Nat Raymond caught
his pants on a nail in the flour barrel an’ tore ’em pretty. Couple of
days ago Hank Foley, over at Eagles, lost his false teeth an’ a bronc
stepped right plumb on ’em. Now Pop’s cousin goes an’ gets shot up. An’
the boys are talkin’ about leavin’ here an’ headin’ for Nugget Camp.
Snakes!” Nick drew a deep breath.
“Not only _talking_, they’re _going_,” Teddy declared. “Nat Raymond, Jim
Casey, and Gus Tripp have taken up their beds and--rode. They’re heading
for Nugget Camp now. The boys here--” he lowered his voice. The three
were talking some little distance from the bunk-house. “The boys here
were listening to Pop tell them how crazy they’d be to join the rush.
But I don’t think they were agreeing with him. Then he asked me what I
thought about it, and lucky for me I had to go in and ’phone.” He
stopped and turned his head, gazing hard at the fast greying hills.
Night was rushing upon them.
“Why, you could tell ’em there was nothing to it,” Nick said
wonderingly. “I bet they’d calm down then. Or some of ’em would,
anyhow.”
“That’s just it,” Roy declared. “There is something to it!” He
hesitated, then spoke more quickly. “There’s no doubt that a strike has
been made at Nugget Camp. I’m sure of that.”
“You are?” Nick demanded interestedly. “Then--”
“And where one strike is made, another is likely to be found. That field
has been hanging fire a long time. I barely remember--it’s such a long
time ago--when they opened it up. Just like now, some one found a rich
deposit of gold. Then it got the name Nugget Camp. From that time until
now a few prospectors have been messing around with it. But they had no
luck. Then here comes a man who finds a small fortune. At least, we
think he had quite a load with him when he was shot down. By golly--”
Teddy gazed at his brother in surprise.
“Well, why by golly? It’s true--all you’ve said. What can we do? If the
boys want to go, we can’t stop ’em. This is a free country. We’ll have
to do the best we can, that’s all.”
“I was thinking,” Roy went on slowly, as though Teddy had not spoken,
“that I’d like to join that rush myself.”