Albert Wellesly never made a new investment, nor allowed any change to
be made in property in which he was interested, without first making a
thorough personal inspection. For that reason he spent a number of
busy days at the ranch, near the close of the round-up, inspecting the
range and debating with Colonel Whittaker whether it would be better
to enlarge it or to run the risk of overstocking by increasing the
number of cattle on the land which they already held. They decided
that if they could get control of certain springs and surrounding
ranges, especially Emerson Mead's Alamo and Cienega springs and
another belonging to McAlvin, which joined the range they already
held, it would be exactly what they needed.
"These water holes would be worth a lot to us," said Colonel
Whittaker, "but it would be just like these contrary cusses to refuse
to sell at any price, especially to us."
"Then they'll have to be persuaded," Wellesly replied.
It was necessary for Colonel Whittaker to return to Las Plumas before
they had quite finished their inspection, and Wellesly decided to
remain a little longer and go back to town alone. Whittaker hesitated
over the arrangement, for he knew that Wellesly had neither the
instinct nor the training of the plainsman, and that he was unusually
deficient in that sense of direction which is the traveler's best
pilot over monotonous levels and rolling hills.
"Do you think you can find your way?" he said. "One of the boys can
guide you over the range, and when you start back to town, unless you
are perfectly sure of yourself, you'd better have him go with you, as
far as Muletown, at least."
"Oh, I'll have no trouble about getting back," Wellesly replied. "It's
a perfectly plain, straight road all the way, and all I'll have to do
will be to follow the main track. I'll stay here two days longer and
I'll take two days for the trip to town. You can expect me--this is
Monday--some time Thursday afternoon."
The misadventure of Nick Ellhorn, which landed both him and Emerson
Mead in jail, was on Tuesday afternoon, and it was early the next
morning that Albert Wellesly left the ranch house and rode down
through the foothills. He decided that the horse knew more about the
road than he did, and would do just as well if left to its own
guidance. So he let the reins lie loosely on its neck and, forgetful
of his surroundings, was soon absorbed in a consideration of the
problems of the cattle ranch. Well down toward the plain the road
forked, one branch turning sharply to the right and the other to the
left. The horse which he rode had, until recently, belonged to Emerson
Mead, from whom the Fillmore Company had bought it. Left to its own
will, at the forks it chose the left hand branch and cantered
contentedly on over rising foothills. Wellesly's thoughts turned from
the ranch to other business ventures in which he was interested. It
was a long time and the horse had covered much ground before he
finally looked about him to take his bearings and consider his
progress. Looking at his watch he thought he ought to be well down in
the plain toward Muletown, and wondered that he was still among the
foothills. He had an uneasy feeling that there was something wrong,
but he said to himself that he had followed the straight road all the
way and that therefore it must be all right. At any rate, it would be
foolish not to go straight ahead until he should meet some one from
whom he could ask directions. So he rode on and on and the sun rose
higher and higher, and nowhere was there sign of human being. But at
last he saw in the distance a splotch of green trees through which
shone whitewashed walls. And presently he was hallooing in front of
Emerson Mead's ranch house.
A thick-set, elderly man, with a round, smooth, pleasant face, out of
which shrewdly looked small dark eyes, came out to see what was
wanted. In his knocking around the world Billy Haney had kept fast
hold of two principles. One was to find out all that he could about
any stranger whom he chanced to meet, and the other, never to tell
that stranger anything about himself that was true. In response to
Wellesly's question, Haney told him that he was far off the road to
Las Plumas, and then by means of two or three shrewd, roundabout
questions and suggestions, he brought out enough information to enable
him to guess who his visitor was. He knew about Wellesly's connection
with the cattle company and his recent presence at the ranch, and the
man's personal appearance had been described to him by Mead and
Ellhorn. So he felt very sure of his ground when he shortly surprised
the traveler by addressing him by name. Then he told Wellesly that his
own name was Mullford, which was the name of a man who owned a cattle
range much farther to the south and who had not been engaged in the
recent trouble over the round-up. He represented himself as the owner
of the place and said that he had been engaged in the cattle business
ten years, but that he was not pleased with it and intended to pull
out within the next year. It was nearly noon and he insisted that
Wellesly should stay to dinner. An idea was dawning in his brain and
he wanted time to consider it.
A hammock hung in the shade of the cottonwoods, where the breeze blew
cool and refreshing, and he invited Wellesly to stretch himself there
until dinner should be ready. A _vaquero_ took his horse to the stable
and Wellesly threw himself into the hammock and looked up into the
green thickets of the trees with a soul-satisfying sense of relief and
comfort. His revolver in his hip pocket interfered with his ease and
he took it out and laid it on a chair beside the hammock. Then he
pulled his hat over his eyes and in five minutes was asleep.
There was only one _vaquero_ at the ranch house, and he and Billy
Haney and Wellesly were the only human beings within many miles. When
the cow-boy had taken care of Wellesly's horse Haney called him into
the kitchen. The man was tall and sinewy, with a hatchet face, a
thin-lipped mouth and a sharp chin.
"Jim," said Haney, "I've got a scheme in my 'ead about that man, and I
think there'll be lots of money in it. Do you want to come in?"
"What'll it be worth to me?"
"If there's anything in it, there'll be a big pile and we'll go 'alf
and 'alf, and if there isn't--well, of course there's chances to be
took in everything."
"What'll it cost?"
"Some work and some nerve, and then a quick scoot."
"All right, Billy. What's your play?"
When they had finished their planning Haney walked softly toward the
hammock. A gentle snore from beneath the hat told him that Wellesly
was sleeping quietly. He took the revolver from the chair, removed the
cartridges from the six chambers and put it back in the same position.
Then he walked around to the other side of the sleeper and called him
in a hearty tone. Wellesly rose yawning, and they started toward the
house for luncheon.
"You've forgotten your revolver, sir," said Billy.
"So I have! I'm not accustomed to carrying the thing, and if you had
not reminded me I probably wouldn't have thought of it again for a
week. I don't believe it is necessary to carry one, anyway, but my
friend, Colonel Whittaker, insisted that I should do so."
"You never know when you'll need one down in this country," Haney
replied, with a sad shake of the head. "It's pretty tough, I can tell
you. There's that Emerson Mead outfit. They're the worst in the
southwest. You'd need your gun if you should meet any of them."
"Yes, our company has had very serious and very sad experience with
them."
"Ah, yes! Poor young Whittaker! I 'eard about 'is death. That was the
wickedest thing they've ever dared to do. Most everybody in this
country 'as lost cattle by them and we'd all be glad to see 'em driven
out."
"They belong to that class of cattlemen," Wellesly replied, "who start
in the business with one old steer and a branding iron, and then let
nature take its course."
Haney laughed uproariously and when he could speak added: "Yes, and in
three years they 'ave bigger 'erds than any of their neighbors.
You're right, sir, and the sooner the country gets rid of such men the
better. I don't think, Mr. Wellesly, it's safe for you to ride alone
where you are likely to meet any of that outfit. You know the feeling
they 'ave for your company, and what they did for young Will, poor
boy, they'd do for you if they got the chance. I've got business out
your way, over at Muletown, and if you don't mind I'll ride along with
you that far. That will put you on the right road and if we should
meet any of the Mead outfit they wouldn't be so likely to shoot as if
you were alone."
"All right, Mr. Mullford, I'll be very glad of your company. I'm no
plainsman, and it is the easiest thing in the world for me to get lost
out here among the mesquite and sagebrush, where the country all looks
alike. I suppose I have about the least sense of direction of any man
who ever tried to find his way across a plain alone."
"You needn't worry about that now. Just leave it to me and I'll get
you to Muletown by the shortest route. I know all this country
thoroughly, every cow-path and water 'ole in it, and you couldn't lose
me if you tried. You needn't think about the road again this
afternoon."
Haney buckled on a full cartridge belt and a revolver, put a pair of
saddle bags with a big canteen of water in each side over his horse,
slung a rifle on one side of his saddle, and they started off along a
slightly beaten road straight toward the southeast. Wellesly asked
Haney if he were sure they were going in the right direction, and
Haney assured him that it was all right and chaffed him a little that
he so easily lost the points of the compass. In the distance, a mile
or so ahead of them, they saw a man on horseback leading another horse
which carried a pack. When Wellesly again said that he did not
understand how he could be so entirely at sea, Haney suggested that
they overtake this traveler and get his assurance in the matter. They
galloped up beside him and called out a friendly hail. It was Jim, the
_vaquero_ from Mead's ranch, but he and Haney looked at each other as
if they had never met before. He assured Wellesly that they were
certainly on the road which led to Las Plumas by the way of Muletown,
that he knew it perfectly well, having traveled it many times, and
that he himself was going past Muletown to the Hermosa mountains.
"You see," he explained, "Muletown ain't on the straight line between
here and Las Plumas. It's away off to one side and you have to go
quite a ways around to get there. That's what has mixed you up so,
stranger. The road has to go past Muletown, because it's the only
place on the plain where there's water."
"Well," said Wellesly, "since you both say so, it must be all right.
The joke is on me, gentlemen." He took a flask from his breast pocket.
"There isn't much left in this bottle, but as far as it will go, I
acknowledge the corn."
The men each took a drink, Wellesly finished the liquor and threw the
empty flask on a sandheap beside the road. Light clouds had risen, so
that the sun and all the western sky were obscured and there were no
shadows to suggest to him that they were going east instead of west.
They were nearing a depression in the Fernandez mountains. Haney
pointed to it, saying:
"When we get there we can show you just the lay of the land."
They passed through the break and a barren plain lay spread out before
them bounded by precipitous mountains which swerved on either hand
toward the range in which they were riding.
"That," said Haney, "is the Fernandez plain. You remember crossing
that, surely?" Wellesly nodded. "And the mountains over there," Haney
went on, "are the 'Ermosas."
"The range just this side of Las Plumas," said Wellesly. "Yes, I am
getting my bearings now."
"I'm going prospecting in them mountains," said Jim. "I'm satisfied
there's heaps of gold there. I'm going up into that canyon you see at
the foot of that big peak. I was in there two weeks ago and I found
quartz that was just lousy with gold. You fellows better break away
and come along with me. I'll bet you can't make more money anywhere
else."
"I don't care to go prospecting," said Wellesly, "but if you make a
good strike, and develop it enough to show what it is, I'll engage to
sell it for you."
"Good enough! It's a bargain!" Jim cried. "Just give me your address,
stranger, so I'll know where to dig you up when I need you."
Wellesly handed his card and Jim carefully put it away in his
pocketbook.
Haney laughed jovially. "You may count me out, pard, on any of that
sort of business. I've blowed all the money into this damn country
that I want to. You'll never get anything out of it but 'orned toads
and rattlesnakes and 'bad men' as long as it lasts. If I can pull out
'alf I've planted 'ere I'll skip, and think I'm lucky to get out with
a whole skin."
They trotted across the dry, hot, barren levels of the desert into
which they had descended, seeing nowhere the least sign of human life.
The faintly beaten track of the road stretched out in front of them in
an almost straight line across the gray sand between interminable
clumps of cactus and frowsy, wilted sagebrush. Bunches of yellow,
withered grass cropped out of the earth here and there. But even these
forlorn caricatures of vegetation gave up and stayed their feet on the
edges of frequent alkali flats, where the white, powdery dust covered
the sand and dealt death to any herbage that ventured within its
domain. Hot, parched, forbidding, the desert grew more and more
desolate as they proceeded. To Wellesly there was an awe-inspiring
menace in its dry, bleaching, monotonous levels. He felt more keenly
than ever his own helplessness in such a situation and congratulated
himself on having fallen in with his two guides. He wondered that the
plain had not impressed him more deeply with its desolation and
barrenness when he came out to the ranch. But he had no doubt of the
ability and good faith of his two companions and he drew his horse a
little nearer to them and said:
"My God! What a place this desert would be for a man to be lost in!"
Then they told him stories of men who had been lost in it, who had
wandered for days without water and had been found raving maniacs or
bleaching skeletons--the sort of stories that make the blood of any
but a plainsman seem to dry in his veins and his tongue to cleave to
the roof of his mouth. Told in all their details and surrounded by the
very scenes in which their agonies had been suffered, they brought the
perspiration to Wellesly's brow and a look of horror to his eyes.
Haney and Jim saw that they made him nervous, and racked their
memories and their imaginations for more of the same sort.
They were approaching the mountains and the country around them was
broken into barren, rocky hills. The road grew rougher and the
mountains towered above them in jagged peaks of seemingly solid rock.
The day was nearly ended and Wellesly remembered enough of the
distances along the Las Plumas road to be sure that they ought to be
approaching Muletown. But in this stern wilderness of rock and sand,
human habitation did not seem possible. He looked back across the
desert at the Fernandez mountains, standing out sharply against the
red sunset clouds, and it suddenly flashed across his mind that if the
sun were setting there they must have been traveling in an easterly
direction all the afternoon, which meant that they had been getting
farther and farther away from Las Plumas. Enlightened by this idea, he
sent a quick, seeing glance along the range of mountains standing out
boldly and barrenly in front of them, and he knew it was not the
Hermosa range. Haney turned with a jovial remark on his lips and met
Wellesly's eyes, two narrow strips of pale gray shining brilliantly
from between half-closed lids, and saw that his game had played itself
smoothly as far as it would go.
Wellesly disregarded Haney's jest and looking him squarely in the eyes
said: "I suppose, Mr. Mullford, if we keep on in this direction a
matter of some twenty-five thousand miles we might reach Muletown. But
don't you think we would save time if we were to turn around and
travel the other way?"
Haney laughed good-naturedly and exclaimed: "You've not got that
notion out of your 'ead yet, 'ave you! Say, pard," he added to Jim,
"Mr. Wellesly is still turned around. 'E thinks we ought to right
about face and take the back track to get to Muletown. What can we do
to convince 'im 'e's all right?"
Wellesly was watching the two men narrowly, his suspicions aroused and
all his faculties alert. Haney's calm, solicitous tone for a moment
almost made him think he must be mistaken. But another glance at the
rocky, precipitous mountains reassured him that they were not the
Hermosas and settled the conviction in his mind that he had fallen
into the trap of a pair of very smooth rogues. A still, white rage
rose in his heart and mettled his nerves to his finger-tips, as he
thought of the plausible pretensions of good will with which they had
led him into this wilderness. He scarcely heard Jim's reply:
"I don't know what else he wants. We're going to Muletown, and if he
don't want to get lost out on this desert and have the coyotes pickin'
his bones inside of a week he'd better come along with us."
"My friends," said Wellesly, in an even tone in which could barely be
heard here and there the note of suppressed anger, "if you think you
are going to Muletown in this direction, all right, go ahead. That's
your funeral. But it isn't mine. If anybody in this crowd is turned
around I'm not the man. I have been, thanks to your very ingenious
efforts, but I'm not now, and I'm not going any farther in this
direction. Unless you can get a little more light on which way is west
I'm afraid we'll have to part company. Good-bye, gentlemen. I'm going
back."
He turned his horse squarely around and faced the long, gray levels of
the darkening desert. As his eye swept over that forbidding,
waterless, almost trackless waste, a sudden fear of its horrors smote
through his anger and chilled his resolution. Haney spurred his horse
to Wellesly's side, exclaiming:
"Stop, Mr. Wellesly! You can't go back over that desert alone in the
night! Why, you couldn't follow the road two miles after dark! You
know 'ow uncertain it is by day, and in the dark you simply can't see
it at all. The desert is 'ell 'erself in the daytime, and it's worse
at night."
Wellesly did not reply, for his resolve was wavering. Jim came beside
them, swearing over the delay. "See here," he said, "we've got no time
to fool away. If this here tenderfoot thinks he knows better than we
do which way we're going, just let him round-up by himself. I've been
over this here road dozens of times, I reckon, and I know every inch
of it, but I wouldn't undertake to travel a mile after night and keep
to the trail. Maybe he can. If he thinks he's so darned much smarter
than we are let him try it."
"Can we make Muletown to-night?" asked Haney.
Jim swore a big oath. "Didn't you hear me say I don't do no travelin'
on this road at night? No, sir. I know a canyon up in the mountain a
ways where there's sweet water and I'm goin' to camp there to-night.
If you folks want to come with me and eat prospector's grub, all
right, you're welcome."
"Thank you, pard," said Haney. "For my part, I'll be glad to get it.
You'd better come too, Mr. Wellesly. It will be sure death, of the
sort we've been talking about this afternoon, for you to start back
alone."
"You're right," said Wellesly. "I'll go with you."
Jim rode into a canyon which led them into the mountains and for a
mile or more their horses scrambled and stumbled over boulders and
sand heaps. Then they turned into another, opening at right angles
into the first, and after a time they could hear the crunching of wet
sand under their horses' feet and finally the tinkle of a little
waterfall met their ears.
"Here's the place," said Jim, dismounting.
"Sure this isn't h'alkali?" said Haney.
"You and the tenderfoot needn't drink it if you don't want to,"
growled Jim. "And you needn't stay with me if you're afraid I'm
a-going to pizen your coffee."
"Don't get angry, my friend," said Wellesly. "Mr. Mullford didn't mean
anything out of the way. We are both very much obliged to you for
allowing us to share your camp."
"Yes," assented Haney warmly, "it's w'ite, that's what it is, to take
in two 'ungry fellows and feed us out of your grub. And we'll see that
you don't lose by it."
They watered their horses, which Jim hobbled and left to graze upon
the vegetation of the little canyon. All three men hunted about in the
dim light for wood with which to make a fire, and they soon had ready
a supper of coffee, bacon, and canned baked beans, which Jim produced
from his pack. Afterward, he brought out a blanket apiece and each man
rolled himself up and lay down on the ground with his saddle for a
pillow. Wellesly thought the matter all over as he lay on his back and
stared up at the moon-lighted sky. He finally decided there was
nothing to do but to wait for the next day and its developments, and
in the meantime to get as much sleep as he could.
When he awakened the next morning he found that the others were
already up and had prepared breakfast. The blue sky was brilliant with
the morning sun, but the little canyon was still damp and cool in the
black shadow of its walls and of the beetling mountains that towered
beyond. Their camp was at the very head of the canyon. On two sides
the walls reached high above them in almost perpendicular cliffs. At
the end, the rocky barrier was more broken and was heaped with
boulders, through which the clear waters of the streamlet came
trickling and gurgling and finally leaped over the wall into a little
pool. The floor of the canyon was barely more than two hundred feet
across, and twice that distance below the pool the walls drew so near
together that they formed a narrow pass. In this little oval enclosure
grew several pine trees of fairly good size, some scrub pines and
cedars and other bushes, and the ground was well covered with green
grass and flowers.
Haney was hearty and jovial in his greeting to Wellesly, solicitous
about his physical welfare and genial and talkative all through
breakfast. Jim grinned at his jokes and stories and ventured some
facetious remarks of his own, and Wellesly told a story or two that
sent the others into peals of laughter. He searched his pockets and
found three cigars, and the three men sat down on the rocks and smoked
them in silence. Each side was waiting for the other to make a move.
At last Wellesly said that he would start back across the plain if the
others still wished to continue in the same direction. They
expostulated and argued with him and reminded him of the probability
that he could not find his way alone, and of the dangers from heat and
thirst which he would have to face.
Wellesly guessed that they wanted money and were trying to force him
into making an offer. He held to his determination and while they
talked he saddled and mounted his horse. Then they tried to beat down
his resolution by picturing to him the certain death he would meet on
the waterless plain. In his heart he was really very much afraid of
that scorching, sandy waste, but he let no sign of his fear show in
his face as he curtly replied:
"I'm very much obliged to you for all your concern about my welfare,
but I'll be still more obliged if you won't worry about me any more.
I'm going back and I'm going to start now, and if you are so sure I'll
get lost and die you can come along a week or so later, hunt up my
bones and collect the reward that will be offered for news of me."
At that suggestion Jim glanced hastily at Haney and Wellesly saw the
Englishman shake his head in reply.
"We don't want to be responsible for your death, Mr. Wellesly," Haney
began, but Wellesly cut him off short:
"You won't be. I release you from all responsibility, after I leave
you. Good morning, gentlemen." And with a cut of the quirt his horse
started. They had been standing near the lower end of the head of the
canyon, and as he moved forward the two men sprang in front of him,
blocking the narrow pass which gave the only outlet.
"Will you let me pass?" demanded Wellesly, his lips white and his
voice trembling with anger.
"We're not ready for you to go yet," said Haney, all the joviality
gone from his face and voice. His look was that of brutal
determination and his voice was harsh and guttural. Jim added an
oath and both men drew their guns.
"Then, by God, we'll shoot it out!" cried Wellesly, whipping his
revolver from his pocket. The hammer fell with a flat thud, and with
an angry exclamation he clicked the trigger again. With furious haste
he went the round of the cylinder. Jim and Haney stood grinning at
him, their guns in their hands.
"Something the matter with your pop-gun, I reckon," said Jim.
Wellesly opened it and looked through the empty cylinder. Then he put
it carefully in his hip pocket, rested his hands on the pommel of his
saddle and looked the two men slowly over, first one and then the
other, from head to foot. At last he spoke:
"Well, whenever you are ready to make your proposition I will listen
to it."
"We 'aven't any proposition to make," Haney replied. "We're not ready
to leave 'ere yet, and we're not willing for you to risk your life
alone on the desert. That's all there is about it."
"Oh, very well! I can stay here as long as you can," Wellesly replied,
dismounting. He unsaddled his horse, hobbled it and turned it loose to
graze. Then he sat down in the shade of a tree, while the others still
held guard over the narrow pass. He had made up his mind that he would
not offer them money. He would watch his chance to outwit them, he
would match his intelligence against their cunning, his patience
against their brute force. It would be worth a week's captivity to
turn the tables on these two rogues and get back to civilization in
time to set at work the police machinery of a hundred cities, so that,
whatever way they might turn, there would be no escape for them. He
turned several schemes over in his mind as he watched Haney preparing
their noon meal of bread, coffee, beans and bacon. Jim was taking a
pebble from the shoe of one of the horses. Wellesly sauntered up and
watched the operation, asked some questions about the horses and
gradually led Jim into conversation. After a time he broke abruptly
into the talk with the question:
"What is the name of these mountains?"
"The Oro Fino," Jim answered promptly. Then he remembered that he and
Haney had been insisting that they were the Hermosas ever since the
day before and he stammered a little and added:
"That is, that's what the--the Mexicans call them. The Americans call
them the Hermosas."
"So you told me last night," Wellesly answered calmly, "but I had
forgotten."
He remembered the name and recalled a topographical map of the region
which he had looked at one day in Colonel Whittaker's office. He
remembered how the three ranges looked on the map--the Hermosas, the
first range east of Las Plumas, with the wide Fernandez plain lying
beyond, then the Fernandez range, more like high, grassy hills than
mountains, with only their highest summits barren and rocky, and
separated from the Oro Fino--the Fine Gold--mountains, by the desert
they had crossed the day before. He recalled the descriptions he had
heard of these Oro Fino mountains--high, barren, precipitous cliffs,
separated by boulder-strewn canyons and cleft by deep gorges and
chasms, a wild and almost impassable region. He remembered, too, that
he had been told that these mountains were rich in minerals, that the
whole rocky, jumbled, upreared, deep-cleft mass was streaked and
striped and crisscrossed with veins of silver and gold, turquoise,
marble, coal and iron, but that it was all practically safe from the
hand of man because of the lack of wholesome water. Alkali and mineral
springs and streams there were, but of so baneful nature that if a
thirsty man were to drink his fill but once he would drink to his
death. Recalling these things, Wellesly concluded that this trickling
spring of sweet, cool water and the little green canyon must be rare
exceptions to the general character of the mountains and that this
must have been the objective point of his captors from the start.
Along with the awakened memories came also a sudden recollection of a
tale once told him in Denver by a prospector, whom he was grubstaking
for the San Juan country, of a lost mine in the Oro Fino mountains of
New Mexico. He was able to recall the salient points of the story and
it occurred to him that it might be useful in the present emergency.
While they ate dinner Wellesly spoke again of the dangers of the
desert and of the risks he knew he would be taking if he should
attempt to cross it alone.
"With my deficient sense of direction," he said, "I should probably
wander all over it a dozen times before I could find my way out."
"You'd be dead long before that time," said Jim.
"Yes, it's very likely I would," Wellesly calmly assented.
"Of course," said Haney, "our friend 'ere 'asn't got much grub and if
you and me continue to live off 'im it won't last long. 'E knows a way
to get through these mountains and go down to El Paso, but of course
'e can't be expected to pilot you down there for nothin'. Now, if you
made it worth 'is w'ile, I dare say 'e'd be willin' to stop 'is
prospecting long enough to get you safe into the town. Eh, pard?"
"Yes, I can," Jim replied, "if the tenderfoot wants to make it enough
worth while. I ain't stuck on the trip and I don't want to fool any
more time away around here. You two have got to decide what you're
a-going to do mighty quick. I want to get to prospectin', and if I
have to tote you-all down to El Paso you'll have to pay big for the
favor."
Wellesly did not reply and Haney, who was looking critically at a big
boulder on the top of the canyon wall, burst into the conversation
with an exclamation:
"My stars! Do you see that 'uge boulder up there, just above the
narrow place in the canyon? 'Ow easy it would be, now, wouldn't it,
for two men to get up there and pry it loose. It would crash down
there and fill up that whole blamed trail, wouldn't it, Mr. Wellesly?"
"Yes, and effectually wall up anybody who might have had the bad luck
to be left in here," Wellesly dryly replied. "But speaking of the
dangers of crossing the desert," he went on, "I remember a story told
me once in Denver by a prospector who had been down in this country.
It was about a lost mine, the Winters mine. Did you ever hear of it?"
"Yes," said Jim, "I have. I've heard about it many a time. It's in
these mountains somewhere."
"It was so rich," Wellesly went on, "that Dick Winters knocked the
quartz to pieces with a hammer and selected the chunks that were
filled with gold. He said the rock was seamed and spotted with yellow
and he brought out in his pocket a dozen bits as big as walnuts that
were almost solid gold."
The two men were listening with interested faces. Jim nodded. "Yes,
that's just what I've heard about it. But there are so darn many of
them lost mines and so many lies told about 'em that you never can
believe anything of the sort."
"What became of this chap and 'is mine?" asked Haney.
"I reckon the mine's there yet, just where he left it," Jim answered,
"but Dick went luny, crossin' the desert, and wandered around so long
in the heat without water that when he was picked up he was ravin'
crazy and he didn't get his senses back before he died. All anybody
knows about his mine is what he said while he was luny, and you can't
put much stock in that sort of thing."
"I don't know about that," said Wellesly. "I had the story from the
man who took care of him before he died, the prospector I spoke of
just now--I think his name was Frank, Bill Frank. He said that the old
man was conscious part of the time and told him a good deal about the
strike--enough, I should think, to make it possible to find the place
again."
Haney and Jim were looking at him with intent faces, their interest
thoroughly aroused. Wellesly decided to draw on his imagination for
any necessary or interesting details that the prospector had not told
him.
"What did he say," Jim demanded, "and why didn't he go after it
himself?"
"As I remember it, he said that during his delirium Winters talked
constantly of his rich find, that he seemed to be going over the whole
thing again. He would exclaim, 'There, just look at that! As big as my
fist and solid gold!' 'Look at that seam! There's ten thousand dollars
there if there's a cent!' and many other such things. He would jump up
in bed and yell in his excitement. If he was really repeating what he
had seen and done while he was working his strike, Bill Frank said
that he must have taken out a big pile, probably up near a hundred
thousand dollars. That he really had found gold was proved by the
nuggets in his pockets."
"Did Winters tell him what he'd done with the ore?" Jim demanded. He
was evidently becoming very much interested.
"Frank told me that at the very last he seemed to be rational. He
realized that he was about to die and tried to tell Frank how to find
the gold he had taken out. He said he had hidden it in several places
and had tried to conceal the lead in which he had worked. It is likely
that the strike, whatever it was, had upset his head a little and made
him do queer things before he got lost and heat-crazed on the desert."
"Well, did this man tell you where he'd hid the dust?"
"Do you know where it is?"
"My informant, Bill Frank, said that Winters was very weak when he
came to his senses and could only whisper a few disconnected sentences
before he died, and part of those," Wellesly went on, smiling at the
recollection, "Frank said 'the darn fool wasted on gratitude.' But he
gathered that the Winters mine was somewhere in the southern part of
the Oro Fino mountains, not far from a canyon where there was good
water, and that he had hidden the nuggets and dust and rich rock that
he had taken out, in tin cans and kettles and bottles in another
canyon not far away."
"Why didn't your chap go and 'unt for it 'imself?" asked Haney.
"He did spend several weeks trying to find it, and nearly died of
thirst, and broke his leg falling off a precipice, and had a devil of
a time getting out and getting well again. Then he wanted me to
grubstake him for another hunt for it, but I think a man is more
likely to find a new mine than he is a lost one and so I sent him to
the San Juan instead."
"Lots of men have gone into these mountains hunting for the Winters
mine," said Jim, "but all I've known anything about have always gone
farther north than this."
"Yes," said Wellesly, as easily as if it were not an inspiration of
the moment, "Bill Frank told me that when he talked about it he always
made people think that Winters had said it was in the northern part of
the range, but that it was really in the southern part."
Jim got up and walked away and presently called Haney. Wellesly lay
down and pulled his hat over his face. He fell into a light slumber
and awoke himself with a snore. He heard the voices of the two men,
and so he kept on snoring, listening intently, meanwhile, to their
conversation. He could not hear all that they said, but he soon found
that they were talking about the lost mine.
"If this here tenderfoot ain't lyin'," said Jim, "the Winters mine
ain't far from here. I know these mountains and I know this here
spring is the only sweet water within ten miles, yes, twenty of 'em,
unless there may be one up so high among the cliffs that nothing but a
goat could find it. If Dick Winters' mine is in the southern part of
the Oro Fino mountains it's somewhere within two miles of us."
Then he heard them talk about "finishing up" with him and coming back
to look for the mine. Haney suggested that as they had enough
provisions to last two or three days longer they might spend a day
examining the near-by canyons and "finish up" with Wellesly afterward.
"If we find the stuff," he heard Haney say, "and this chap don't
conclude to be reasonable, we can leave 'im 'ere. If 'e does come to
time, we'll 'ave so much the more."
Then they walked farther away and Wellesly heard no more. His scheme
was coming out as he wished, for they would of course take him with
them, and in their search for the lost mine they might become so
interested that their vigilance would relax and he would find an
opportunity to slip away unobserved. He thought he could find his way
out of the mountains by following the downward course of the canyons.
That would be sure to bring him to the desert.
After breakfast the next morning Haney said:
"Well, Mr. Wellesly, do you think you would like to go to El Paso
to-morrow?"
Wellesly looked him squarely in the eye and replied: "I have no
business in El Paso and do not care to go there."
An ugly look came into Haney's face, and Wellesly saw that his captors
were ready to throw off all pretense and take extreme measures.
"Well," said Haney; "this is what we've decided to do. We'll give you
till to-morrow morning to make up your mind whether you'll go to El
Paso and give us ten thousand dollars apiece for taking you there. If
you don't want to get away that bad, that big rock will roll down into
this canyon and shut up that outlet and you will stay 'ere and starve.
We are going to leave you 'ere alone to-day to think the matter over,
and we are going to tie you fast to that big tree, so you won't 'ave
anything to distract your attention. We'll be back to-night and then
you can 'ave your supper and I 'ope we'll find you in a reasonable
frame of mind."
Jim approached with a picket rope, and Wellesly whitened with anger.
For a moment, earth and sky turned black before him, and before he
realized what he was doing he had hit Jim a smashing blow in the jaw.
Jim staggered backward, and then, with a howling oath, whipped out and
leveled his revolver. Haney, who had grabbed one of Wellesly's wrists
and was struggling to keep it in his grasp, jumped between them and
shouted in a tone of command: "Don't shoot, Jim, don't shoot! You'll
spoil the whole game if you kill 'im!"
Jim lowered his revolver sullenly and vented his anger in vile
epithets instead of bullets.
"'Ere, stop your swearing and grab that arm," said Haney. "You can't
blame the man for kicking. You or me would do the same thing in 'is
place. Now push 'im up against this pine tree and 'and me the rope.
I'm sorry we 'ave to treat you this way, Mr. Wellesly, but if you
won't be reasonable it's the only thing we can do."
Wellesly struggled at first, but he soon realized that they were much
the stronger and wasted no more strength in useless resistance, though
grinding his teeth with rage. They tied his arms to his body, and
then, standing him upright, bound him close against the tree. They
stepped back and Jim shook his fist at the captive.
"I'll get even with you yet," he shouted, "for the way you took me in
the jaw! If you ain't ready to do what we want to-morrow morning you
won't get a chance to starve, you hear me shout! I'll wait till then,
but I won't wait no longer!"
"Shut up, Jim! Don't be a fool!" said Haney. "After 'e's meditated
about it all day 'e'll be reasonable."
Wellesly did not speak, but the two men read a "never surrender" in
his blazing eyes. Haney laughed excitedly and said, replying to his
look:
"You'll feel differently to-night, Mr. Wellesly. That rope's likely
to 'ave a big effect on your state of mind. Jim, we don't want to
leave any knives on 'im."
They went through his pockets and took out everything they contained,
dividing the money between them, while Haney took charge of his
papers. Then they made ready for their own trip, saddling their horses
and preparing to lead the two others.
"We won't leave 'im the least possibility of getting away," said Haney
to Jim, "even if 'e should 'appen to get loose."
"He'll never get out of that rope till we let him out."
"If the 'orses ain't 'ere he won't 'ave any temptation to try. 'E'd
never undertake the desert alone and afoot."
As they started, Haney called out, as good-naturedly as if they were
the best of friends: "Good morning, Mr. Wellesly! I 'ope we'll find
you more reasonable to-night."
Jim took out his revolver and turned in his saddle toward the captive.
Haney grabbed his arm.
"Don't you worry," said Jim. "I ain't a-goin' to kill him, like I
ought to do. I'm just a-goin' to put my mark on him."
Wellesly heard the clicking of the trigger and the thought sped
through his mind that this was his last moment on earth. He saw the
flash and heard the report, and then it seemed many long minutes until
the whizzing of the bullet filled his ear and he heard it thump into
the bark of the tree beside his head. There was a stinging in the rim
of his left ear, where it had nicked out a little rounded segment.
"There!" said Jim, with an ugly laugh, as he put away his gun, "he's
my maverick now, and if anybody else claims him there'll be war."