SCOT McCLINTOCK INTRODUCES HIMSELF
Mark Twain tells us that in the early Nevada days it gave a man no
permanent satisfaction to shoot an enemy through both lungs, because the
dry air was so exhilarating that the wounded foe was soon as good as
new. Hugh McClintock was an illustration of this. He reached the Mormon
settlement a white-faced rag of humanity. But he had lived hard and
clean. The wind and the sun and able-bodied forbears had given him a
constitution tough as hammered brass. When his brother Scot drove from
Virginia City to see him, having heard the news that Hugh was wounded to
death, he found the boy wrapped in a blanket and sitting in the sunshine
at the corner of the ranch house. This was just a week after the end of
the young brother’s wild ride.
“’Lo, Hugh! How are cases?” asked Scot, his gay smile beaming down at
the boy.
“Fine as silk, Scot. I got an appetite like a bear. Sorry you had to
come so far.”
“I hooked up soon as I heard about it, old f’ler. Now I’ve seen you I
feel a lot better. The way I heard it you were ready to cash your
chips.”
Scot’s arm was round the lad’s shoulder. The half-caress, the light in
the fine eyes, the warmth of the voice, all told of the strong affection
the older brother had for the younger. Hugh repaid this love with
interest. In his eyes Scot was an Admirable Crichton, the most wonderful
man he had ever been privileged to know. He trod the earth a king among
his race—and the king could do no wrong.
No two sons of the same father and mother could have been more unlike
than these. The last-born was counted steady as an eight-day clock,
reliable as tested steel. The other walked wild and forbidden paths. Yet
to call them unlike is to tell a half-truth. They had in common courage,
a certain cleanness of fibre, and an engaging gaiety. Scot McClintock
was nearly ten years older than Hugh, but there was a remarkable
physical resemblance between them. Each had inherited from a Scotch
father eyes of the same colour, a square-cut chin, and a strong Roman
nose. The head of each was crowned with curls of russet gold.
The shoulders of Scot were broader, his figure less stringy. He was of
splendid physique, tall, compact, powerful. Bearing himself with manly
grace, he radiated vitality. His chin told the truth. He was indomitably
resolute, a born leader. Vanity was his weakness. The spectacular
appealed. It had been said of him that he would rather break down a door
than wait for a key. The self-esteem of the man expressed itself in
clothes. These he wore always for effect, with the knowledge that his
fine figure would win him envy and admiration, even though he affected
the dandy. In his frock coat of doeskin with its flaring skirt and broad
lapels, his fancy vest cut wide to show a frilled shirt and blue satin
necktie, his pegtop trousers, his immaculately varnished boots, and his
flat-crowned silk derby, he was out of question the Beau Brummel of
Washoe. Another might have been laughed at for this punctilious devotion
to dress, but even in Virginia City nobody was hardy enough to poke fun
at Scot McClintock.
Many smiled with him, for this blue-eyed gambler had a thousand friends.
It was in his horoscope to fight or share his last dollar with you
gladly. He did not care which. He could be brave, reckless, generous,
sociable, or witty. But nobody could ever say that he was mean spirited.
“I’m going to take you back with me as soon as you can travel, Hugh,” he
said.
“That’ll be to-morrow mo’ning.”
“Sure you can stand the jolting yet?”
“Sure. Ask Mother Jessup here.”
The rancher’s wife had come out from the house and been introduced to
Scot. Now she smiled comfortably at her patient. “He’s doing fine.”
“He would, with you looking after him, Madam,” Scot answered gallantly.
“It’s a God’s mercy he stuck on all those miles, wounded the way he was.
I don’t see how he ever did,” Mrs. Jessup said.
“I reckon he clamped his teeth on the job. Hugh’s right obstinate when
he gets set,” the older brother said with affectionate pride.
“Runs in the family,” Hugh cut back, grinning.
“Maybe so. Well, tell me all about it, boy. Where did you jump the
Piutes? And how did you make your getaway?”
“Not much to tell,” the younger brother replied, and gave a skeleton
outline of the story.
They started on their journey next morning, made a short day of it on
account of Hugh’s wound, and put up at Carson for the night.
On what had been known as Eagle Ranch, in the valley of the same name,
the town of Carson had been built. During the previous decade both Eagle
and Carson valleys had served as a refuge for those who ran off stolen
stock from San Francisco and other California points. In these hidden
parks the outlaws had been accustomed to rest and feed the herds before
making the desert trip by obscure routes to Salt Lake. But those days
were past. Carson now had two thousand inhabitants, a boom in town lots,
and a civic consciousness. It had become respectable, though guns still
flashed frequently. Already it was laying political wires to become the
capital of Nevada, the “battle-born” state.
Through Carson supplies came by way of Mormon Station for the diggings
at Virginia, along a road which wound around the base of the hills. As
Scot drove in, the air was musical with chimes. Some of these came soft
and mellow from a great distance. Each mule of the freight outfits had a
circlet of bells suspended in a steel bow above its collar. They made
music as they moved.
At the hay corral into which McClintock drove, scores of outfits were
gathered, most of them freighters to or from the diggings. A dozen
others could be heard jingling in, from one direction or the other. The
winter had been a severe one, and hundreds of cattle in the adjacent
valleys had died for lack of feed. Hay was scarce. There was a very
strong demand for it to feed the freight outfits. Just now the price was
three hundred dollars a ton. Ranchers found it far more profitable to
let their cattle rustle on bunch grass and take a chance of roughing
through than to feed hay worth such a price. Wherefore all the native
hay went to the stock hauling supplies.
Scot hailed Baldy Green, a well-known stage driver. “How about places up
on the stage for me and Hugh to-morrow, old-timer?”
Baldy rubbed the top of his shiny head and grinned at him. “Full up.
Like to ditch a couple of my passengers for you if I could—a jewellery
peddler and a sky pilot—but I don’t reckon I can, Scot.”
The eyes of the older McClintock sparkled. “Show ’em to me, Baldy.”
Three minutes later the Beau Brummel of Virginia City might have been
seen in earnest conversation with a clergyman who hailed from Buffalo,
New York. He was telling the story of the Indian attack upon his brother
and making certain deductions from it. His manner of grave deference was
perfect.
“But bless my soul, do you really think the redskins are likely to
attack the stage to-morrow?” asked the startled missionary.
“Can’t tell, sir. They were certainly heading this way when last seen.
Big chance of it, I’d say. I’m a sinner—a professional gambler. What
does it matter about me? But you—the only minister of the Gospel in a
hundred miles—you can’t be spared. The harvest is ripe for the reaper.
Why not wait here a day or two and make sure the Piutes are not around?”
The missionary was frankly frightened, but he had in him the stuff of
heroes. His lower lip became a thin straight line of resolution. No
professional gambler should put his courage to shame. If he rode through
the valley of the shadow he had a promise from Holy Writ to comfort him.
“I’ll go if the stage goes,” he said stoutly.
Scot McClintock knew when he was beaten temporarily. But he was not the
man to give up a point upon which he had set his heart. He looked up a
friend of his, the mayor of the town, drew him aside, and whispered
persuasively in his ear.
The fat little man with whom he talked exploded a protest. “But doggone
it, Scot, if the Gospel shark accepts, won’t I have to go to his
meetin’?”
“Maybe so. What of it? Be a good scout, Adams. I want that boy of mine
to get up to Virginia to-morrow so that I can make him comfortable.”
The mayor grinned. “Never saw your beat for gettin’ your own way. All
right. I’ll rustle up some of the women and ask him.”
Scot dropped into the What Cheer House and glanced around. The jewellery
salesman was sitting in a corner by himself. McClintock introduced
himself and invited the stranger to a rum cocktail or a whisky sling. In
five minutes he knew all about the peddler’s business and how much he
hoped to make from the sale of his stock at Virginia.
“But why not sell it here in Carson? The town’s booming. Lots of money
here. More women. Up in Virginia they can’t think anything except
mines,” Scot suggested.
“My friendt, I make more at Virginia.”
“Well, you know your business better than I do. Hope we get through
without trouble.”
“Trouble? Vat kind of trouble?”
“Injuns on warpath. They shot up my brother. I’m taking him up with me
to a doctor. From the way the Piutes were heading I rather expect an
attack on the stage to-morrow.”
The peddler rose to the bait, excitedly, with shrill voice. “And I haf
paid my fare to Virginia. It’s an outrage. I vill demand a refund. I
vill sue the company. I vill nodt travel in onsavety. You are right, my
friendt. I sell my stock right here in Carson if I get a refund.”
“I would,” agreed McClintock sympathetically, “I know Baldy Green. Let’s
see if he’ll stand for the refund.”
The stage driver played up to his friend with a serious face. It was not
customary to make refunds. He had a kind of hunch the stage would get
through without being attacked. But if the gentleman wanted to stay at
Carson and if McClintock would guarantee him against loss to the company
through an empty seat, probably it could be arranged. Incidentally, he
mentioned that he had just heard from the clergyman cancelling his
passage. He had been urged by a deputation of Carson citizens to stay in
town over Sunday and preach on the plaza. This call, he felt, could not
be ignored.
Baldy called Scot back as he was leaving. The stage driver’s face was
one wrinkled grin. “You ce’tainly take the cake, old alkali. I got to
give it to you. Afraid the stage will be attacked, are you? Dad gum yore
hide, you know Injuns won’t dare come up here on the peck.”
“I’d hate to have the jewellery gentleman take any chances,” Scot
explained.
“And preachin’ on the plaza. Don’t you know there’s hawss racin’ here
every Sunday?” cackled Baldy.
“Competition is the life of trade. The ladies can meet an’ pray for
their wicked husbands. They need it, don’t they?”
“Sure do. Well, I got no kick comin’. I won’t be here Sunday.”
Neither was Scot. He and his brother travelled Virginiaward in the
morning. The “mud-wagon” had been left at Carson. They travelled in a
beautiful painted Concord stage behind six high-stepping chestnuts
decked with ivory rings, silver tassels, and expensive harness.
Baldy drove superbly. He and his kind were knights of the road. The
wranglers and attendants were deferential to them, the public viewed
them admiringly as celebrities. Baldy drew on his gauntlets slowly,
mounted to the box, and took the ribbons from the hand of a hostler.
There was a swift tightening of the reins, a sweeping crack of the whip.
The leaders came round on the run, the swings at a gallop, and the
wheelers at a trot.
The ride to Virginia was one worth taking. The road wound round curves,
dropped into draws, swept along dugways beneath which were deep
precipices. When he hit the curves Baldy gave the wheels play.
Occasionally one of the back ones hung precariously over space. A minute
later the stage perhaps had struck a level and the driver was riding the
brakes while the horses dashed wildly forward. Ten miles an hour, up
hill and down, over the precipitous mountain road, the chestnuts
travelled wildly, every foot of the way guided by the man on the box who
handled them coolly and expertly. Meanwhile, Baldy discussed casually
with Scot McClintock the news of the day. With his whip he pointed to a
bad turn.
“Hank Monk went over the grade yesterday—coach, hawsses, and
passengers.”
“Much damage?”
“Nope—none a-tall. Nary a beast skinned. Paint on coach hardly
scratched. Busted one tenderfoot’s laig. That’s all. Mighty lucky spill.
Hank always did fall on his feet. Been me I’d prob’ly a-hurted one of
the animals.”
“Lucky for all parties except the tenderfoot,” agreed Scot.
“Yep. Couldn’t a-been better. G’lang!”
The long whip snaked out with a crack like the sound of an exploding
gun. The coach leaped forward, swaying like a cradle set on wheels. They
were drawing close to Virginia now, and the whole desert was staked like
the sole of a giant shoe. American Flat fell away to the rear. The
chestnuts raced up Gold Hill and the Ophir Grade, across the divide, and
down into Virginia City, which was perched on the lower slope of Mt.
Davidson.
The town was an uncouth and windswept camp, but it represented uncounted
hopes and amazing energy. In this mass of porphyry lay the fabulously
rich Comstock Lode, from which in a single generation nearly a billion
dollars’ worth of ore was to be taken.
The Concord dropped down into B Street, the horses covering the home
stretch at a gallop. Baldy brought the coach along the rough street at a
dead run, sweeping it skillfully around a train of wood-packed burros.
He stopped exactly in front of the company’s office, twined the reins
around the brake bar, and smiled at Scot.
“Yore friend the peddler will feel sold when he hears you wasn’t
scalped.”
“The scenery flew past so fast I couldn’t tell whether it was punctuated
with Piutes or not,” said Scot genially, as he swung down to help Hugh
from inside.
The younger McClintock stepped out stiffly.
“Hope I didn’t mix yore inside geography too much,” Baldy asked him.
“I’m all right. The docs say the inside of a stagecoach is first rate
for the inside of a man,” Hugh answered.
“Tha’s right, too—for a well man; but they don’t say it’s a sure cure
for one the Injuns have been playin’ with, do they? Well, so long, young
fellow. Don’t you let that rip-snortin’ brother o’ yours c’rupt you
none.”