THE barroom at the Miners’ Home might have been more crowded at some
former period of its existence, but to have duplicated the two dozen
faces and forms of the two dozen Ten Milers who were congregated there
that beautiful Autumn afternoon would have been a hopeless task.
Ten Mile Gulch had turned out _en masse_, and those same Ten Milers were
distinguished neither for their good looks, nor taste in dress, nor
softness of heart or language, nor elegance of manners. Further than
that we do not care to go at present.
But there was one face and one form absent. No more would the genial
atmosphere of that barroom respond to the heavings of his broad chest,
no more would the dignified concoctor of rare and villainous drinks pass
him the whisky-straight. Alas! Bill Foster had passed in his checks, and
gone the way of all Ten Milers.
And it was this fact that brought these diligent delvers after hidden
treasure from their work, for Bill had not gone in the ordinary way. At
night he was in the full enjoyment of health and a game of poker; in the
morning they found him just outside the domicile of Jack Borlan, with a
small puncture near the heart to tell how it was done. Such was life at
Ten Mile Gulch.
Who made the puncture?
Circumstances pointed to Jack Borlan, and they escorted him down to the
settlement. He stood by the bar conversing with the dispenser of liquid
lightning. Two very calm-looking Ten Milers were within easy reach of
Mr. Borlan; two more at the door, which was left temptingly open; two
more at each window, and the remainder scattered about the room to suit
themselves.
Mr. Bob Watson was the only one calm enough to enjoy a seat, and he was
whittling away at the pine bench with such energy that a stranger might
have concluded that whittling was his best hold. Not so, however; he
whittled until he found a nail with the edge of his knife, and then
varied his diversion by grasping the point of the blade between the
thumb and first finger of his right hand, and throwing it at the left
eye of a very flattering representation of Yankee Sullivan which graced
the wall.
By a slight miscalculation of distance and elevation, the eye was
unharmed, but the well-developed nose was more effectually ruined than
its original ever was by the most scientific pugilist.
“Well, gentlemen, what shall we do with the prisoner?” asks Watson.
“We’re waiting for _you_,” said a tall Ten Miler, who had been a pleased
witness of the knife-throwing and its results.
“Well, you need not,” retorted Mr. Watson, as he made a fling at
Yankee’s other eye, and with very good success. “You know my sentiments,
gentlemen. I was opposed to bringing the prisoner here. We might have
fixed up the matter all at one time, and saved a heap of diggin’.”
“It—might—have—done,” said the tall Miler, doubtfully; “but I wouldn’t
like to see the two together. It would spoil all my enjoyment of the
occasion.”
“Bet yer ten to one ye don’t swing him!” cried Watson, springing to his
feet with sudden inspiration, and mounting the bench he had been
whittling. “Twenty to one Jack Borlan don’t choke this heat! Who takes
me? who? who?”
No one seemed disposed to take him.
“Bosh! you Ten Milers are all babies. Now, if this had happened up at
Quit Claim, Borlan would have had a beautiful tombstone over him long
ago. What do _you_ say, Borlan?”
The prisoner, thus addressed, cut short some remark he was making, and
turned to Watson. “There have been cases where the prisoner had the
benefit of a trial, Mr. Watson.”
“Which is so, Mr. Borlan. Obliged to you fur reminding me. Let’s have
one, gentlemen. I’ll be prosecuting attorney, if no one objects; now,
who’ll defend the prisoner at the bar?”
“I’ll make a feeble attempt that way,” was the reply that came from the
doorway. All eyes turned, and recognized Tom Ruger.
“This is betwixt us Ten Milers,” said Watson. “Borlan is guilty, and
we’re bound to hang him before sundown; but we want to do the fair
thing, and give him the benefit of a trial. Who of you Ten Milers will
defend him?”
“I told you _I_ would defend Mr. Borlan,” said Tom Ruger, as he removed
his silk hat and wiped his broad forehead with the finest of silk
handkerchiefs.
“I tell you we won’t have any outsiders in this game,” said Watson.
“I really dislike to contradict you, Mr. Watson,” remarked Tom Ruger, as
he very carefully readjusted his hat. “Very sorry, Mr. Watson, and I do
hope you’ll pardon me when I repeat that I will defend Mr.
Borlan—_with—my—life_!”
This remark surprised no one more than Jack Borlan. He had never spoken
to Mr. Ruger a dozen times in his life, and he could not account for
such disinterestedness. However, there was not much time for conjecture,
for Mr. Watson had taken offense.
“With your death, Tom Ruger, if you interfere!” cried Watson, jumping
down from his elevation.
It did look that way; but Mr. Ruger had not strolled up and down that
auriferous coast without acquiring some knowledge of the usual means of
defense in that sunny clime, as well as some practice. It was quite warm
for a moment; then Mr. Borlan, believing it to be his duty, as client,
to aid his counsel in the defense, went in gladly.
Still it was quite warm; also somewhat smoky from the powder that had
been burned; likewise noisy. Not so noisy, however, that Mr. Borlan
could not hear his counsel say:
“Clear yourself, Borlan! My horses are down at the ford!”
Mr. Borlan followed the advice of his counsel, and Mr. Ruger followed
Mr. Borlan. The Ten Milers—some of them—followed both counsel and
client.
It was neck and heels until the horses were reached. After that the
pursuers were left at a great disadvantage.
“I’ll have his heart!” ejaculated Watson. Which heart he meant we have
no means of knowing. “Give me a horse! quick!”
They brought a mule.
“Wait here, every man of you!” Watson shouted back over the shaved tail
of his substitute for a horse. “I’ll bring him back, dead or alive, or
my name ain’t Watson!”
And over the way the stage had stopped, and Fanny Borlan had reached Ten
Mile Gulch at last.