THE SHORT SPORTS
The booming mining camp of Blackwater stood under the rim of a high
mesa, between it and an alkali flat, and as Wunpost rode in he looked it
over critically, though with none too friendly eyes. Being laid out in a
land of magnificent distances, there was plenty of room between the
houses, and the broad main street seemed more suited for driving cattle
than for accommodating the scant local traffic. There had been a time
when all that space was needed to give swing-room to twenty-mule teams,
but that time was past and the two sparse rows of houses seemed dwarfed
and pitifully few. Yet there were new ones going up, and quite a
sprinkling of tents; and down on the corner Wunpost saw a big building
which he knew must be Judson Eells' bank.
It had sprung up in his absence, a pretentious structure of solid
concrete, and as he jogged along past it Wunpost swung his head and
looked it over scornfully. The walls were thick and strong, but that was
no great credit, for in that desert country any man who would get water
could mix concrete until he was tired. All in the world he had to do was
to scoop up the ground and pour the mud into the molds, and when it was
set he had a natural concrete, composed of lime and coarse gravel and
bone-dry dust. Half the burro-corrals in Blackwater were built out of
concrete, but Eells had put up a big false front. This had run into
money, the ornately stamped tin-work having been shipped all the way
from Los Angeles; and there were two plate-glass windows that framed a
passing view of marble pillars and shining brass grilles. Wunpost took
it all in and then hissed through his teeth--the money that had built it
was his!
"I'll skin him!" he muttered, and pulled up down the street before Old
Whiskers' populous saloon. Several men drifted out to speak to him as he
tied his horse and pack, but he greeted them all with such a venomous
glare that they shied off and went across the street. There there stood
a rival saloon, rushed up in Wunpost's absence; but after looking it
over he went into Whiskers' Place, which immediately began to fill up.
The coming of Wunpost had been noted from afar, and a man who buys his
grub with jewelry gold-specimens is sure to have a following. He
slouched in sulkily and gazed at Old Whiskers, who was chewing on his
tobacco like a ruminative billygoat and pretending to polish the bar. It
was borne in on Whiskers that he had refused Wunpost a drink on the day
he had walked out of camp, but he was hoping that the slight was
forgotten; for if he could keep him in his saloon all the others would
soon be vacated, now that Wunpost was the talk of the town. He had found
one mine and lost it and gone out and found another one while the rest
of them were wearing out shoe-leather; and a man like that could not be
ignored by the community, no matter if he did curse their town. So
Whiskers chewed on, not daring to claim his friendship, and Wunpost
leaned against the bar.
"Gimme a drink," he said laying fifteen cents before him; and as several
men moved forward he scowled at them in silence and tossed off his
_solamente_. "Cr-ripes!" he shuddered, "did you make that
yourself?" And when Whiskers, caught unawares, half acquiesced, Wunpost
drew himself up and burst forth. "I believe it!" he announced with an
oracular nod, "I can taste the burnt sugar, the fusel oil, the wood
alcohol and everything. One drink of that stuff would strike a stone
Injun blind if it wasn't for this dry desert air. They tell me,
Whiskers, that when you came to this town you brought one barrel of
whiskey with you--and that you ain't ordered another one since. That
stuff is all right for those that like it--I'm going across the street."
He strode out the door, taking the fickle crowd with him and leaving Old
Whiskers to chew the cud of brooding bitterness. In the saloon across
the street a city barkeeper greeted Wunpost affably, and inquired what
it would be. Wunpost asked for a drink and the discerning barkeeper set
out a bottle with the seal uncut. It was bonded goods, guaranteed seven
years in the wood, and Wunpost smacked his lips as he tasted it.
"Have one yourself," he suggested and while the crowd stood agape he
laid down a nugget of gold.
That settled it with Blackwater, they threw their money on the bar and
tried to get him drunk, but Wunpost would drink with none of them.
"No, you bunch of bootlickers!" he shouted angrily, "go on away, I won't
have nothing to do with you! When I was broke you wouldn't treat me and
now that I'm flush I reckon I can buy my own liquor. You're all sucking
around old Eells, saying he made the town--I made your danged town
myself! Didn't I discover the Willie Meena--and ain't that what made the
town? Well, go chase yourselves, you suckers, I'm through with ye! You
did me dirt when you thought I was cleaned and now you can all go to
blazes!"
He shook hands with the friendly barkeeper, told him to keep the change,
and fought his way out to the street. The crowd of boomers, still
refusing to be insulted, trooped shamelessly along in his wake; and when
he unpacked his mule and took out two heavy, heavy ore-sacks even Judson
Eells cast aside his dignity. He had looked on from afar, standing in
front of the plate-glass window which had "Willie Meena Mining Company"
across it; but at a signal from Lynch, who had been acting as his
lookout, he came running to demand his rights. The acquisition of The
Wunpost and The Willie Meena properties had by no means satisfied his
lust; and since this one crazy prospector--who of all men he had
grubstaked seemed the only one who could find a mine--had for the third
time come in with rich ore, he felt no compunctions about claiming his
share.
"Where'd you get that ore?" he demanded of Wunpost as the crowd opened
up before him and Wunpost glanced at him fleeringly.
"I stole it!" he said and went on sorting out specimens which he stuffed
into his well-worn overalls.
"I asked you _where_!" returned Eells, drawing his lip up sternly,
and Wunpost turned to the crowd.
"You see?" he jeered, "I told you he was crooked. He wants to go and
steal some himself." He laughed, long and loud, and some there were who
joined in with him, for Eells was not without his enemies. To be sure he
had built the bank, and established his offices in Blackwater when he
might have started a new town at the mine; but no moneylender was ever
universally popular and Eells was ruthless in exacting his usury. But on
the other hand he had brought a world of money in to town, for the
Willie Meena had paid from the first; and it was his pay-roll and the
wealth which had followed in his wake that had made the camp what it
was; so no one laughed as long or as loud as John C. Calhoun and he
hunched his shoulders and quit.
"Never you mind where I stole it!" he said to Eells, "I stole it, and
that's enough. Is there anything in your contract that gives you a cut
on everything I _steal_?"
"Why--why, no," replied Eells, "but that isn't the point--I asked you
where you got it. If it's stolen, that's one thing, but if you've
located another mine----"
"I haven't!" put in Wunpost, "you've broke me of that. The only way I
can keep anything now is to steal it. Because, no matter what it is, if
I come by it honestly, you and your rabbit-faced lawyer will grab it;
but if I go out and steal it you don't dare to claim half, because that
would make you out a thief. And of course a banker, and a big mining
magnate, and the owner of the famous Willie Meena--well, it just isn't
done, that's all."
He twisted up his lips in a wry, sarcastic smile but Eells was not
susceptible to irony. He was the bulldog type of man, the kind that
takes hold and hangs on, and he could see that the ore was rich. It was
so rich indeed that in those two sacks alone there were undoubtedly
several thousand dollars--and the mine itself might be worth millions.
Eells turned and beckoned to Phillip F. Lapham, who was looking on with
greedy eyes. They consulted together while Wunpost waited calmly, though
with the battle light in his eyes, and at last Eells returned to the
charge.
"Mr. Calhoun," he said, "there's no use to pretend that this ore which
you have is stolen. We have seen samples of it before and it is very
unusual--in fact, no one has seen anything like it. Therefore your claim
that it is stolen is a palpable pretense, to deprive me of my rights
under our constitution.
"Yes?" prompted Wunpost, dropping his hand on his pistol, and Eells
paused and glanced at Lapham.
"Well," he conceded, "of course I can't prove anything and----"
"No, you bet you can't prove anything," spoke up Wunpost defiantly, "and
you can't touch an ounce of my ore. It's mine and I stole it and no
court can make me show where; because a man can't be compelled to
incriminate himself--and if I showed you they could come out and pinch
me. Huh! You've got a lawyer, have you? Well, I've got one myself and I
know my legal rights and if any man puts out his hand to take away this
bag, I've got a right to shoot him dead! Ain't that right now, Mr. Flip
Flappum?"
"Well--the law gives one the right to defend his own property; but only
with sufficient force to resist the attack, and to shoot would be
excessive."
"Not with me!" asserted Wunpost, "I've consulted one of the best lawyers
in Nevada and I'm posted on every detail. There's Pisen-face Lynch, that
everybody knows is a gun-man in the employ of Judson Eells, and at the
first crooked move I'd be justified in killing him and then in killing
you and Eells. Oh, I'll law you, you dastards, I'll law you with a
six-shooter--and I've got an attorney all hired to defend me. We've
agreed on his fee and I've got it all buried where he can go get it when
I give him the directions; and I hope he gets it soon because then
there'll be just three less grafters, to rob honest prospectors of their
rights."
He advanced upon Lapham, his great head thrust out as he followed his
squirming flight through the crowd; and when he was gone he turned upon
Eells who stood his ground with insolent courage.
"And you, you big slob," he went on threateningly, "you don't need to
think you'll git off. I ain't afraid of your gun-man, and I ain't afraid
of you, and before we get through I'm going to _git_ you. Well,
laugh if you want to--it's your scalp or mine--and you can jest politely
go to hell."
He snapped his fingers in his face and, taking a sack in both hands,
started off to the Wells Fargo office; and, so intimidated for once were
Eells and his gun-fighter, that neither one followed along after him.
Wunpost deposited his treasure in the Express Company's safe and went
off to care for his animals and, while the crowd dispersed to the
several saloons, Eells and Lapham went into conference. This sudden glib
quoting of moot points of law was a new and disturbing factor, and
Lapham himself was quite unstrung over the news of the buried retainer.
It had all the earmarks of a criminal lawyer's work, this tender
solicitude for his fee; and some shysters that Lapham knew would even
encourage their client to violence, if it would bring them any nearer to
the gold. But this gold--where did it come from? Could it possibly be
high-graded, in spite of all the testimony to the contrary? And if not,
if his claim that it was stolen was a blind, then how could they
discover its whereabouts? Certainly not by force of law, and not by any
violence--they must resort to guile, the old cunning of the serpent,
which now differentiates man from the beasts of the field, and perhaps
they could get Wunpost drunk!
Happy thought! The wires were laid and all Blackwater joined in with
them, in fact it was the universal idea, and even the new barkeeper with
whom Wunpost had struck up an acquaintance had promised to do his part.
To get Wunpost drunk and then to make him boast, to pique him by
professed doubts of his great find; and then when he spilled it, as he
had always done before, the wild rush and another great boom! They
watched his every move as he put his animals in a corral and stored his
packs and saddles; and when, in the evening, he drifted back to The
Mint, man after man tried to buy him a drink. But Wunpost was
antisocial, he would have none of their whiskey and their canting
professions of friendship; only Ben Fellowes, the new barkeeper, was
good enough for his society and he joined him in several libations. It
was all case goods, very soft and smooth and velvety, and yet in a
remarkably short space of time Wunpost was observed to be getting
garrulous.
"I'll tell you, pardner," he said taking the barkeeper by the arm and
speaking very confidently into his ear, "I'll tell you, it's this way
with me. I'm a Calhoun, see--John C. Calhoun is my name, and I come from
the state of Kentucky--and a Kentucky Calhoun never forgets a friend,
and he never forgets an enemy. I'm burned out on this town--don't like
it--nothing about it--but you, now, you're different, you never done me
any injury. You're my friend, ain't that right, you're my friend!"
The barkeeper reassured him and held his breath while he poured out
another drink and then, as Wunpost renewed his protestations, Fellowes
thanked him for his present of the nugget.
"What--_that_?" exclaimed Wunpost brushing the piece of gold aside,
"that's nothing--here, give you a good one!" He drew out a chunk of rock
fairly encrusted with gold and forced it roughly upon him. "It's
nothing!" he said, "lots more where that came from. Got system,
see--know how to find it. All these water-hole prospectors, they never
find nothing--too lazy, won't get out and hunt. I head for the high
places--leap from crag to crag, see, like mountain sheep--come back with
my pockets full of gold. These bums are no good--I could take 'em out
tonight and lead 'em to my mine and they'd never be able to go back.
Rough country 'n all that--no trails, steep as the devil--take 'em out
there and lose 'em, every time. Take you out and lose you--now say,
you're my friend, I'll tell you what I'll do."
He stopped with portentous dignity and poured out another drink and the
barkeeper frowned a hanger-on away.
"I'll take you out there," went on Wunpost, "and show you my mine--show
you the place where I get all this gold. You can pick up all you want,
and when we get back you give me a thousand dollar bill. That's all I
ask is a thousand dollar bill--like to have one to flash on the
boys--and then we'll go to Los and blow the whole pile--by grab, I'm a
high-roller, right. I'm a good feller, see, as long as you're my friend,
but don't tip off this place to old Eells. Have to kill you if you
do--he's bad actor--robbed me twice. What's matter--ain't you got the
dollar bill?"
"You said a thousand dollars!" spoke up the barkeeper breathlessly.
"Well, thousand dollar bill, then. Ain't you got it--what's the matter?
Aw, gimme another drink--you're nothing but a bunch of short sports."
He shook his head and sighed and as the barkeeper began to sweat he
caught the hanger-on's eye. It was Pisen-face Lynch and he was winking
at him fiercely, meanwhile tapping his own pocket significantly.
"I can get it," ventured the barkeeper but Wunpost ignored him.
"You're all short sports," he asserted drunkenly, waving his hand
insultingly at the crowd. "You're cheap guys--you can't bear to lose."
"Hey!" broke in the barkeeper, "I said I'd take you up. I'll get the
thousand dollars, all right."
"Oh, you will, eh?" murmured Wunpost and then he shook himself together.
"Oh--sure! Yes, all right! Come on, we'll start right now!"