A LITTLE after sunrise, the next morning, Mr. Tom Ruger might have been
seen leisurely riding along the bridle-path between the mines and the
settlement of Ten Mile Gulch. He was headed toward the village, and was
nine and three-quarter miles nearer to it than the mines. He had found
another good cigar somewhere, and was humming the self-same tune as on
the previous afternoon; but the riderless horse was not with him.
As Mr. Ruger rode into the only street in the village, his approach was
heralded, and the Ten Milers, who were waiting for Watson’s return,
filed out of the Miners’ Home, and took stations in the street.
Mr. Ruger took note of this demonstration, and, with a very
business-like air, examined the contents of his holsters. He also
noticed that patched noses and heads, and canes and crutches, were the
predominating features in the group of Ten Milers, with an occasional
closed eye and a bandaged hand to vary the monotony.
Miss Fanny Borlan, from her window at the Ten Mile House, also noticed
the dilapidated looks of the frequenters of the Miners’ Home, and
wondered if they kept a hospital there. Then she saw Mr. Ruger, and
bowed and smiled as he drew up at her window.
“So you arrived all safe, Miss Borlan? How do you like the place?”
“Better than the inhabitants,” she answered, with a glance over the way.
“Than those, I mean. Is it a hospital?”
“For the present I believe it is.”
“And will be for some time to come, if they all stay till they’re cured.
But have you seen Jack?”
“Yes—last evening. He was very sorry that he could not wait for you, but
it may be as well, however. He has gone down to San Francisco, and he
will wait for you there. The stage leaves here in about two hours, and I
advise you to take passage in it, if you are not too much fatigued.”
“I’m not tired a bit, Mr. Ruger. I will go back. Thank you for the
trouble you have taken.”
“No trouble, Miss Borlan. Give my respects to Jack, and tell him I will
be down in a week or two. Good-morning.”
While talking, Mr. Ruger had about evenly divided his glances between
the very beautiful face of Fanny Borlan and the somewhat expressive
countenances of the Ten Milers. Not that he found anything to admire in
their damaged physiognomies, but he never wholly ignored the presence of
any one.
“Good-morning, gentlemen,” he said, as he rode up in front of them.
“Not to _you_, Tom Ruger,” spoke a tall Ten Miler—the only one,
by-the-way, who had come out of the previous day’s trial unscathed. “Not
to you, Tom Ruger! Where’s Borlan?”
“He’s gone down the coast on business,” said Ruger, “and may not be back
for several months.”
“We’ll not wait for _him_,” was the miner’s reply.
At the same time he drew a revolver.
“You had _better_ wait,” said Ruger, also producing a revolver.
The Ten Miler paused, and looked around at his companions. They did not
present a formidable array of fighting stock. In fact, they were the
sorest-looking men that Ten Mile Gulch ever saw; and as the unscathed
surveyed them, he seemed to think he _had_ better wait.
[Illustration:
“YOU HAD BETTER WAIT,” SAID RUGER, ALSO PRODUCING A REVOLVER.
]
“You’ll wait for Mr. Borlan?” queried Ruger.
“I reckon we’d better,” answered the unscathed.
“And while you are waiting, you had better take a cursory glance at Mr.
Watson,” suggested Ruger. “At the present time he is reposing in the
shade of an acacia-bush, just back of the late lamented William Foster’s
rural habitation. Good-morning, gentlemen; and don’t get impatient.”
If Mr. Ruger had any fear of treachery, he did not exhibit it, for he
never turned his head as he rode off toward the valley. Nor was there
any danger; for beneath his suggestions about Mr. Watson the unscathed
had detected a thing or two.
“I’m glad we waited,” he said. “I begin to see a thing or two. Them as
is able will follow me up the Gulch.”
About half a score went with him. Mr. Watson was still enjoying the
shade of the acacia-bush. In fact, he couldn’t get away, which Mr. Ruger
well knew.
“It’s all up with me, Gulchers,” whispered Watson. “Ruger was too many
for me, and I ought to have known it. You’ll find Bill Foster’s dust in
a flour-sack, in my cabin. My respects to Borlan when you see him, and
tell him I beg his pardon for discommoding him. Give what dust is
honestly mine to him. It’s all I can do now. Good-by, boys. I’m jest
played out; but take my advice and never buck against Tom Ruger. He’s
too many for any dozen chaps on the coast. I knew ’twas all up with me
the minute Tom came in, for he can look right through a feller’s heart.
But never mind! It’s too late to help it now. I staked everything I had
against Foster’s pile, and I’m beat, beat, beat!”
These were the last words Mr. Bob Watson ever spoke, as many a surviving
Ten Miler will tell you, and they buried him in the spot where he died,
without any beautiful stone to mark the place.