POISONED BAIT
The fight for the Sockdolager Mine was on and Wunpost led off up the
canyon with a swagger. His fast walking mule stepped off at a brisk pace
and the pack-mule, well loaded with provisions and grain, followed along
up Judson Eells' road. First it led through the Gorge, now clinging to
one wall and now crossing perforce to the other, and as Wunpost saw the
work of the powder-men above him he laughed and slapped his leg. Great
masses of rock had been shot down from the sides, filling up the
pot-holes which the cloudburst had dug; and then, along the sides, a
grade had been constructed which gave clearance for loaded trucks. Past
the Gorge, the work showed the signs of greater haste, as if Eells had
driven his men to the limit; but to get through at all he had had to
move much dirt, and that of course had run into money. Wunpost ambled
along luxuriously, chuckling at each heavy job of blasting and at the
spot where Cole Campbell's road turned in; and then he swung off up
Woodpecker Canyon to where the Stinging Lizard Mine had been located.
Great timbers still lay where they had been dumped from the trucks,
there was a concrete foundation for the engine; and a double-compartment
shaft, sunk on the salted vein, showed what great expectations had been
blasted. With the Willie Meena still sinking on high-grade ore, Judson
Eells had taken a good deal for granted when he had set out to develop
the Stinging Lizard. He had squared out his shaft and sunk on the vein
only as far as the muckers could throw out the waste; and then, instead
of installing a windlass or a whim, he had decided upon a gallows-frame
and hoist. But to bring in his machinery he must first have a road, for
the trail was all but impassable; and so, without sinking, he had
blasted his way up the canyon, only to find his efforts wasted. The ore
had been dug out before his engine was installed, thus saving him even
greater loss; but every dollar that he had put into the work had been
absolutely thrown away. Wunpost camped there and gloated and then,
shortly after midnight, he set off with his tongue in his cheek.
The time had now come when he was to match wits with Lynch in the old
game of follow-my-leader and, even with the Indian to do Lynch's
tracking, he had no fears for the outcome. There were places on those
peaks where a man could travel for miles without placing his foot on
soft ground, and other places in Death Valley where he could travel in
sand that was so powdery it would bog a butterfly. First the high
places, to wear them out and make Pisen-face Lynch get quarrelsome; and
then the desolate Valley, with its heat and poison springs, to put the
final touch to his revenge. For it was revenge that Wunpost sought,
revenge on Pisen-face Lynch, who had driven him from two claims with a
gun; and this chase over the hills, which had started so casually, had
really been planned for months. It was part of that "system" which he
had developed so belatedly, by which his enemies were all to be
confounded; and, knowing that Lynch would follow wherever he led,
Wunpost had made his plans accordingly. He was leading the way into a
trap, long set, which was sure to enmesh its prey.
At daylight Wunpost paused in his steady, plunging climb and looked back
over the rock-slides and boulders; and while his mules munched their
grain well back out of sight he focussed his new field glasses and
watched. From the knife-blade ridge up which he had spurred and
scrambled the whole country lay before him like a relief map, and in the
particular gash-like canyon where he had located the Stinging Lizard he
made out his furtive pursuers. The Indian was ahead, leaning over in his
saddle as he kept his eyes on the trail; and Lynch rode behind, a heavy
rifle beneath his knee, scanning the ridges to prevent a surprise. But
neither led a pack-horse and when Wunpost had looked his fill he put up
his glasses and smiled.
In the country where he was going there was no grass for those horses,
no browse that even an Indian pony could travel on; and if they wanted
to keep up with him and his grain-fed mules they would have to use quirt
and spurs. And the man who feeds his horse on buckskin alone is due to
walk back to camp. So reasoned John C. Calhoun from his cow-puncher
days, when he had tried out the weaknesses of horseflesh; and as he
returned to the grassy swale where his mules were hid he looked them
over proudly. His riding mule, Old Walker, was still in his prime, a
big-bellied animal with the long reach in its fore-shoulders which made
it by nature a fast walker; and his pack-mule, equally round-bellied to
store away food, was short-bodied as well so that he bore his pack
easily without any tendency to give down. He had been raised with Old
Walker and would follow him anywhere, without being dragged by a rope,
so that Wunpost had both hands for any emergency which might arise and
could keep his eyes on the trail.
And to think that these noble animals, big and black and beautifully
gaited, had been bought with Judson Eells' own money; while he, poor
fool, sent Lynch out after him on a miserable Indian cayuse. Wunpost's
road was always plain, for where he went they must follow, but at every
rocky point or granite-strewn flat they must circle and cut for his
trail. As he rode on now to the north he did not double and twist, for
the Indian would know the old trail; but the tracks he had left behind
him before he mounted to the ridge were as aimless as it was possible to
make them. They did not strike out boldly up some hogback or canyon but
at every fork and bend they turned this way and that, as if he were
hopelessly lost. And now as he rode on, unobserved by his pursuers, over
the well-worn Indian trail along the summit, Lynch and his tracker were
far behind, tracing his mule-tracks to and fro, up and down the broiling
hot canyons.
On the summit it was cool and the grass was still green, for the snow
had held late on the peaks, and the junipers and pinons had given place
to oaks and limber pines which stood up along the steep slopes like
switches. The air was sweet and pure, all the world lay below him; but,
as the heat came on, the abyss of Death Valley was lost in a pall of
black haze. It gathered from nowhere, smoke-like and yet not smoke; a
haze, a murk, a mass of writhing heat like the fumes from a witches'
cauldron. Wunpost had simmered in that cauldron, and he would simmer
again soon; but gladly, if he had Lynch for company. It was
follow-my-leader and, since there were no long wharves to jump off of,
Wunpost had decided upon the Valley of Death. And if, in following after
him to rob him of his mine, Pisen-face Lynch should succumb to the heat,
that might justly be considered a visitation of Providence to punish him
for his misspent life. Or at least so Wunpost reasoned and, remembering
the gun under Lynch's knee, he decided to keep well in the lead.
Wunpost camped that night at the upper water in Wild Rose Canyon,
letting his mules get a last feed of grass; and the next morning at
daylight he was up and away on the long trail that led down to Death
Valley. But first it led north over a broad, sandy plain, where Indian
ponies were grazing in stray bands; and then, after ten miles, it swung
off to the east where it broke through the hills and turned down. After
that it was a jump-off for six thousand feet, from the mountain-top to
down below sea-level; and, before he lost himself in the gap between the
hills, Wunpost paused and looked back across the plain.
This was the door to his trap, for at the edge of the rim the trail
split in twain; the Wet Trail leading past water while the Dry Trail was
shorter, but dry. And as live bait is best he unpacked and waited
patiently until he spied his pursuers in the pass. They were not five
miles away, coming down the narrow draw which marked the turn in the
trail, and after a long look Wunpost put up his glasses and saddled and
packed to go. Yet still he lingered on, looking back through the
shimmering heat that seemed to make the yellow earth blaze; until at
last they were so near that he could see them point ahead and bring
their tired horses to a stop. Then he whipped out his pistol and shot
back at them defiantly, turning off up the Dry Trail at a trot.
They followed, but cautiously, as if anxious to avoid a conflict and
Wunpost swung off between the points of two hills and led them on down
the dry canyon. If they took the Wet Trail, which the Indian knew, he
might double back and give them the slip; but now there was no water
till they had descended to sea level and crossed the treacherous
corduroy to Furnace Creek. The trap was sprung, they were committed to
the adventure, to follow him wherever he might lead; and Wunpost never
stopped spurring until he had descended the steep canyon and led them
out in the dry wash below. It was like climbing down a wall into a
sink-hole of boiling heat, but Lynch did not weaken and Wunpost bowed
his head and took the main trail to the ranch.
The sun swung low behind the rim of the Panamints, throwing a shadow
across the broad canyon below; ten miles to the east, under the heat and
haze, lay Furnace Creek Ranch and rest; but as his pursuers came on,
just keeping within sight of him, Wunpost turned off sharply to the
north. He quit the trail and struck out across the boulder-patches
towards the point of Tucki Mountain, and if they followed him there it
would be into a country that even the Indians were afraid of. It was
there that Death Valley had earned its name, when a party of Mormon
emigrants had died beside their ox-teams after drinking the water at
Salt Creek. There was Stove-pipe Hole, with the grave close by of the
man who had not stopped to bail the hole; and, nearest of all, was
Poison Spring, the worst water in all Death Valley. Wunpost turned out
and started north, daring his enemies to follow, and Lynch accept the
challenge--alone.
The Indian rode on, leaving the white man to his fate and heading for
Furnace Creek Ranch; and Wunpost, sweating streams and cursing to
himself, flogged on toward Poison Spring. It was a hideous thing to do,
but Lynch had chosen to follow him and his blood would be upon his own
head. Wunpost had given him the trail, to go on to the ranch while he
turned back the way they had come; but no, Lynch was bull-headed, or
perhaps the heat had warped his judgment--in any case he had elected to
follow. The last courtesies were past, Wunpost had given him his chance,
and Lynch had taken his trail like a bloodhound; he could not claim now
that he was going in the same direction--he was following along after
him like a murderer. Perhaps the slow fever of the terrible heat had
turned his anger into an obsession to kill, for Wunpost himself was
beginning to feel the desert madness and he set out deliberately to lure
him.
Where the black and frowning ramparts of Tucki Mountain thrust out
towards the edge of the Sink a spring of stinking water rises up from
the ground and runs off into the marsh. From the peaks above, it is a
bright strip of green at which the wary mountain sheep gaze longingly;
but down in that rank grass there are bones and curling horns that have
taught the survivors to beware. It is Poison Spring, _the_ Poison
Spring in a land where all water is bad; and in many a long day Wunpost
was the only human being who had gazed into its crystal depths. For the
water was clear, too clear to be good, without even a green scum along
its edge; and the rank, deceiving grass which grew up below could not
tempt him to more than taste it. But, being trailed at the time by some
men from Nevada who had seen the Sockdolager ore, he had conceived a
possible use for the spring; and, coming back later, he had buried two
cans of good water where he could find them when occasion demanded. This
was the trap, in fact, toward which for four days he had been leading
his vindictive pursuers; it was poisoned bait, laid out by Nature
herself, to strike down such coyotes as Lynch.
Wunpost arrived at Poison Spring well along in the evening, the desert
night being almost turned to day by the splendor of a waning moon. He
rode in across the flat and down the salt-encrusted bank, still
sweltering in the smothering heat; and the pounding blood in his brain
had brought on a kind of fury--a death-anger at Pisen-face Lynch. He dug
into the sand and drew out the cans of water, holding his mules away
from the spring; and then, from a bucket, he gave each a small drink
after taking a large one himself. There were two five-gallon cans, and
after he had finished he lashed the full one on the pack; the other one,
which sloshed faintly if one shook it up and down, he tossed mockingly
down by the spring. And then he rode on, wiping the sweat from his brow
and gazing back grimly into the night.