THE RAH-RAH BOY FUNCTIONS
Big Bill grumbled a good deal at the addition to the party. It would be
decidedly awkward if this stranger should become rational and understand
the status of the camp he had joined. The word of old Holt alone might
be negligible, but supported by that of a disinterested party it would
be a very different matter. Still, there was no help for it. They would
have to take care of the man until he was able to travel. Perhaps he
would go in with them as an additional guard. At the worst Big Bill
could give him a letter to Selfridge explaining things and so pass the
buck to that gentleman.
Gid Holt had, with the tacit consent of his guards, appointed himself as
a sort of nurse to the stranger. He lit a smudge fire to the windward
side of him, fed him small quantities of food at intervals, and arranged
a sleeping-place for him with mosquito netting for protection.
Early in the evening the sick man fell into a sound sleep from
which he did not awake until morning. George was away looking after the
pack-horses, Dud was cooking breakfast, and Big Bill, his rifle close at
hand, was chopping young firs fifty feet back of the camp. The cook also
had a gun, loaded with buckshot, lying on a box beside him, so that they
were taking no chances with their prisoner. He could not have covered
twenty yards without being raked by a cross-fire.
The old miner turned from rearranging the boughs of green fir on the
smudge to see that his patient was awake and his mind normal. The quiet,
steady eyes resting upon him told that the delirium had passed.
"Pretty nearly all in, wasn't I?" the young man said.
The answer of Gid Holt was an odd one. "Yep. Seven--eleven--fifteen.
Take 'er easy, old man," he said in his shrill, high voice as he moved
toward the man in the blankets. Then, in a low tone, while he pretended
to arrange the bedding over the stranger, he asked a quick question.
"Are you Elliot?"
"Yes."
"Don't tell them. Talk football lingo as if you was still out of your
haid." Holt turned and called to Dud. "Says he wants some breakfast."
"On the way," the cook answered.
Holt seemed to be soothing the delirious man. What he really said was
this. "Selfridge has arranged a plant for you at Kamatlah. The camp has
been turned inside out to fool you. They've brought me here a prisoner
so as to keep me from telling you the truth. Pst! Tune up now."
Big Bill had put down his axe and was approaching. He was not exactly
suspicious, but he did not believe in taking unnecessary chances.
"I tell you I'm out of training. Played the last game, haven't we? Come
through with a square meal, you four-flusher," demanded Elliot in a
querulous voice. He turned to Macy. "Look here, Cap. Haven't I played
the game all fall? Don't I get what I want now we're through?"
The voice of the young man was excited. His eyes had lost their quiet
steadiness and roved restlessly to and fro. If Big Bill had held any
doubts one glance dissipated them.
"Sure you do. Hustle over and help Dud with the breakfast, Holt. I'll
look out for our friend."
Elliot and Holt found no more chance to talk together that morning.
Sometimes the young Government official lay staring straight in front
of him. Sometimes he appeared to doze. Again he would talk in the
disjointed way of one not clear in the head.
An opportunity came in the afternoon for a moment.
"Keep your eyes skinned for a chance to lay out the guard to-night and
get his gun," Holt said quickly.
Gordon nodded. "I don't know that I've got to do everything just as you
say," he complained aloud for the benefit of George, who was passing on
his way to the place where the horses were hobbled.
"Now--now! There ain't nobody trying to boss you," Holt explained in a
patient voice.
"They'd better not," snapped the invalid.
"Some scrapper--that kid," said the horse wrangler with a grin.
Macy took the first watch that night. He turned in at two after he had
roused Dud to take his place. The cook had been on duty about an hour
when Elliot kicked Holt, who was sleeping beside him, to make sure that
he was ready. The old man answered the kick with another.
Presently Gordon got up, yawned, and strolled toward the edge of the
camp.
"Don't go and get lost, young fellow," cautioned Dud.
Gordon, on his way back, passed behind the guard, who was sitting tailor
fashion before a smudge with a muley shotgun across his knees.
"This ain't no country for chechakoes to be wandering around without a
keeper," the cook continued. "Looks like your folks would have better
sense than to let their rah-rah boy--"
He got no farther. Elliot dropped to one knee and his strong fingers
closed on the gullet of the man so tightly that not even a groan could
escape him. His feet thrashed to and fro as he struggled, but he could
not shake off the grip that was strangling him. The old miner, waiting
with every muscle ready and every nerve under tension, flung aside his
blanket and hurled himself at the guard. It took him less time than it
takes to tell to wrest the gun from the cook.
He got to his feet just as Big Bill, his eyes and brain still fogged
with sleep, sat up and began to take notice of the disturbance.
"Don't move," warned Holt sharply. "Better throw your hands up. You
reach for the stars, too, Holway. No monkey business, do you hear? I'd
as lief blow a hole through you as not."
Big Bill turned bitterly upon Elliot. "So you were faking all the time,
young fellow. We save your life and you round on us. You're a pretty
slick proposition as a double-crosser."
"And that ain't all," chirped up Holt blithely. "Let me introduce our
friend to you, Mr. Big Bill Macy. This is Gordon Elliot, the land agent
appointed to look over the Kamatlah claims. Selfridge gave you lads this
penitentiary job so as I wouldn't meet Elliot when he reached the camp.
If he hadn't been so darned anxious about it, our young friend would
have died here on the divide. But Mr. Selfridge kindly outfitted a party
and sent us a hundred miles into the hills to rescue the perishing, as
the old sayin' goes. Consequence is, Elliot and me meet up and have that
nice confidential talk after all. The ways of Providence is strange, as
you might say, Mr. Macy."
"Your trick," conceded Big Bill sullenly. "Now what are you going to do
with us?"
"Not a thing--going to leave you right here to prospect Wild-Goose
Creek," answered Holt blandly. "Durden says there's gold up here--heaps
of it."
Bill Macy condemned Durden in language profane and energetic. He didn't
stop at Durden. Holt came in for a share of it, also Elliot and
Selfridge.
The old miner grinned at him. "You'll feel better now you've got that
out of your system. But don't stop there if you'd like to say a few more
well-chosen words. We got time a-plenty."
"Cut it out, Bill. That line o' talk don't buy you anything," said
Holway curtly. "What's the use of beefing?"
"Now you're shouting, my friend," agreed old Gideon. "I guess, Elliot,
you can loosen up on the chef's throat awhile. He's had persuading
enough, don't you reckon? I'll sit here and sorter keep the boys company
while you cut the pack-ropes and bring 'em here. But first I'd step in
and unload all the hardware they're packing. If you don't one of them is
likely to get anxious. I'd hate to see any of them commit suicide with
none of their friends here to say, 'Don't he look natural?'"
Elliot brought back the pack-ropes and cut them into suitable lengths.
Holt's monologue rambled on. He was garrulous and affable. Not for a
long time had he enjoyed himself so much.
"Better begin with Chief Big Bill," he suggested. "No, I wouldn't make
that move if I was you, Mr. Macy. This old gun is liable to go off
accidental in your direction and she spatters like hell. That's the
idee. Be reasonable. Not that I give a hoot, but a man hadn't ought to
let his impulses run away with his judgment, as the old sayin' is."
Gordon tied the hands of Big Bill behind him, then roped his feet
together, after which he did the same for Holway. The old miner
superintended the job and was not satisfied till he had added a few
extra knots on his own behalf.
"That'll hold them for awhile, I shouldn't wonder. Now if you'll just
cover friend chef with this sawed-off gat, Elliot, I'll throw the
diamond hitch over what supplies we'll need to get back to Kamatlah.
I'll take one bronch and leave the other to the convicts," said Holt
cheerfully.
"Forget that convict stuff," growled Macy. "With Macdonald back of us
and the Guttenchilds back of him, you'll have a hectic time getting
anything on us."
"That might be true if these folks were back of you. But are they?
Course I ain't any Sherlock Holmes, but it don't look to me like they'd
play any such fool system as this."
Big Bill opened his mouth to answer--and said nothing. He had caught a
look flashed at him by Holway, a look that warned him he was talking too
much.
After Holt had packed one of the animals he turned to Elliot.
"I reckon we're ready."
Under orders from Elliot, Dud fixed up the smudges and arranged the
mosquito netting over the bound men so as to give them all the
protection possible.
"We're going to take Dud with us for a part of the trip. We'll send him
back to you later in the day. You'll have to fast till he gets back, but
outside of that you'll do very well if you don't roll around trying to
get loose. Do that, and you'll jar loose the mosquito netting. You know
what that means," explained Gordon.
"It ain't likely any grizzlies will come pokin' their noses into camp.
But you never can tell. Any last words you want sent to relatives?"
asked Gideon Holt.
The last words they heard from Big Bill as they moved down the draw were
sulphuric.
"Macy he ain't wearin' any W. J. Bryan smile this glad mo'nin'," mused
old Holt aloud.
It was three o'clock in the morning by the watch when they started.
About nine they threw off for breakfast. By this time they were just
across the divide and were ready to take the down trail.
"I think we'll let Dud go now," Elliot told his partner in the
adventure.
"Better hold him till afternoon. Then they can't possibly reach us till
we get to Kamatlah."
"What does it matter if they do? We have both rifles and have left them
only one revolver. Besides, I don't like to leave two bound men alone in
so wild a district for any great time. No, we'll start Dud on the back
trail. That grizzly you promised Big Bill might really turn up."
The two men struck the headwaters of Wild-Goose Creek about noon and
followed the stream down. They traveled steadily without haste. So long
as they kept a good lookout there was nothing to be feared from the men
they had left behind. They had both a long start and the advantage of
weapons.
If Elliot had advertised for a year he could not have found a man who
knew more of Colby Macdonald's past than Gideon Holt. The old man had
mushed on the trail with him in the Klondike days. He had worked a
claim on Frenchman Creek with him and had by sharp practice--so at
least he had come to believe--been lawed out of his rights by the shrewd
Scotchman. For seventeen years he had nursed a grudge against Macdonald,
and he was never tired of talking about him. He knew many doubtful
things charged to the account of the big man as he had blazed a way
to success over the failures of less fortunate people. One story in
particular interested Gordon. It came out the second day, as they were
getting down into the foothills.
"There was Farrell O'Neill. He was a good fellow, Farrell was, but he
had just one weakness. There was times when he liked the bottle too
well. He'd let it alone for months and then just lap the stuff up. It
was the time of the stampede to Bonanza Creek. Men are just like sheep.
They wear wool on their backs like them and have their habits. You can
start 'em any fool way for no cause a-tall. Don't you know it? Well, the
news of the strike on Bonanza reached Dawson and we all burnt up the
trail to get to the new ground first. O'Neill was one of the first.
He got in about twenty below discovery, if I remember. Mac wasn't in
Dawson, but he got there next mo'nin' and heard the news. He lit out
for Bonanza _pronto_."
The old miner stopped, took a chew of tobacco, and looked down into the
valley far below where Kamatlah could just be seen, a little huddle of
huts.
"Well?" asked Elliot. It was occasionally necessary to prompt Holt when
he paused for his dramatic effects. He would pretend to forget that he
was telling a yarn which might interest his hearer.
"Mac draps in and joins O'Neill at night. They knew each other, y'
understand, so o' course it was natural Mac would put up at his camp.
O'Neill had a partner and they had located together. Fellow named
Strong."
"Not Hanford Strong, a little, heavy-set man somewhere around fifty?"
Gordon asked quickly.
"You've tagged the right man. Know him?"
"I've met him."
"Well, I never heard anything against Han Strong. Anyway, he was off
that night packing grub up while Farrell held down the claim. Mac had
a jug of booze with him. He got Farrell tanked up. You know Mac--how he
can put it across when he's a mind to. He's a forceful devil, and he can
be a mighty likable one."
Elliot nodded understanding. "He's always the head of the table no
matter where he sits. And there is something wonderfully attractive
about him."
"Sure there is. But when he is friendliest you want to watch out he
don't slip an upper cut at you that'll put you out of biz. He done that
to Farrell--and done it a-plenty."
"How?"
"O'Neill got mellowed up till he thought Mac was his best friend.
He was ready to eat out of his hand. So Mac works him up to sign a
contract--before witnesses too; trust Mac for that--exchanging his
half-interest in the claim for five hundred dollars in cash and Mac's
no-'count lease on Frenchman Creek. Inside of a week Mac and Strong
struck a big pay streak. They took over two hundred thousand from the
spring clean-up."
"It was nothing better than robbery."
"Call it what you want to. Anyhow, it stuck. O'Neill kicked, and that's
all the good it did him. He consulted lawyers at Dawson. Finally he got
so discouraged that he plumb went to pieces--got on a long bat and
stayed there till his money ran out. Then one bitter night he starts up
to Bonanza to have it out with Mac. The mercury was so low it had run
into the ground a foot. Farrell slept in a deserted cabin without a fire
and not enough bedding. He caught pneumony. By the time he reached the
claim he was a mighty sick man. Next week he died. That's all Mac done
to O'Neill. Not a thing that wasn't legal either."
Gordon thought of Sheba O'Neill as she sat listening to the tales of
Macdonald in Diane's parlor and his gorge rose at the man.
"But Mac had fell on his feet all right," continued Holt. "He got his
start off that claim. Now he's a millionaire two or three times over,
I reckon."
They reached the outskirts of Kamatlah about noon of the third day.
Gordon left Holt at his cabin after they had eaten and went in alone
to look the ground over. He met Selfridge at the post-office. That
gentleman was effusive in his greeting.
"This _is_ a pleasant surprise, Mr. Elliot. When did you get in?
Had no idea you were coming or I'd have asked you for the pleasure
of your company. I'm down on business, of course. No need to tell you
that--nobody would come to this hole for any other reason. Howland and
his wife are the only possible people here. Hope you play bridge."
Elliot played it, but he did not say so. It was his business not to be
drawn into entangling alliances.
"Of course you'll put up with me as my guest," Selfridge flowed on.
"I've wanted to meet you again ever since we were on the Hannah
together."
This was a little too cheeky. Gordon recalled with some amusement how
this tubby little man and his friends had ignored the existence of Sheba
O'Neill and himself for several days.
He answered genially. "Pleasant time we had on the river, didn't we?
Thanks awfully for your invitation, but I've already made arrangements
for putting up."
"Where? There's no decent place in camp except at Howland's. He keeps
open house for our friends."
"I couldn't think of troubling him," countered Gordon.
"No trouble at all. We'll send for your things. Where are they?"
The land agent let him have it right between the eyes. "At Gideon
Holt's. I'm staying with him on his claim."
Wally had struck a match to light a cigarette, but this simple statement
petrified him. His jaw dropped and his eyes bulged. Not till the flame
burned his fingers did he come to life.
"Did you say you were staying--with Gid Holt?" he floundered weakly.
Gordon noticed that his florid face had lost its color. The jaunty
cock-sureness of the man had flickered out like the flame of the charred
match.
"Yes. He offered to board me," answered the young man blandly.
"But--I didn't know he was here--seems to me I had
heard--somewhere--that he was away."
"He was away. But he has come back." Gordon gave the information without
even a flash of mirth in his steady eyes.
Selfridge could not quite let the subject alone. "Seems to me I heard he
went prospecting."
"He did. Up Wild-Goose Creek, with Big Bill Macy and two other men. But
I asked him to come back with me--and he did."
Feebly Wally groped for the clue without finding it. Had Big Bill sold
him out? And how had Elliot got into touch with him?
"Just so, Mr. Elliot. But really, you know, Howland can make you a great
deal more comfortable than Holt. His wife is a famous cook. I'll have a
man go get your traps."
"It's very good of you, but I think I won't move."
"Oh, but you must. Holt's nutty--nobody at home, you know. Everybody
knows that."
"Is he? The old man struck me as being remarkably clear-headed. By the
way, I want to thank you for sending a relief party out to find me, Mr.
Selfridge. Except for your help I would have died in the hills."
This was another facer for Wally. What the devil did the fellow mean?
The deuce of it was that he knew all the facts and Wally did not. He
talked as if he meant it, but behind those cool eyes there might lie
either mockery or irony. One thing alone stood out to Selfridge like
a sore thumb. His plans had come tumbling down like a house of cards.
Either Big Bill had blundered amazingly, or he had played traitor.
In either case Wally could guess pretty shrewdly whose hide Macdonald
would tan for the failure. The chief wanted results. He did not ask of
his subordinates how they got them. And this was the second time in
succession that Selfridge had come to grief.