"FOOL'S LUCK"
Gaunt, unshaven, weary, Winthrop rested on the crest of the northern
range. Overland, looking for water, toiled on down the slope with the
little burro. Winthrop rose stiffly and shuffled down the rocks. Near
the foot of the range he saw the burro just disappearing round a bend in
a cañon. When he came up with Overland, the tramp had a fire going and
had pitched the tent. The cañon opened out to a level green meadow,
through which ran a small stream. They had come a long day's journey
from the water-hole on the other side of the range. They were safe from
ordinary pursuit. That evening beside the fire, Overland Red told again
the story of the dead prospector, the gold, and the buried papers. In
his troubled slumbers the Easterner dreamed of pacing along the track
counting the ties, and eventually digging in the sand, digging until his
very soul ached with the futility of his labor. Waking, he never lost
faith in the certainty of finding the place. He now knew the tramp well
enough to appreciate that the other had not risked his own life and
nearly killed one of his pursuers through sheer bravado, or fear, or
personal hatred. Something more potent was beneath the tramp's
motives--some incentive that was almost a religion. So far, Winthrop was
correct. He erred, however, in supposing Overland to be obsessed with a
mania for gold for its own sake. The erstwhile sheriff of Abilene had
dreamed a dream about an adopted waif and a beautiful young girl. The
dream was big. Its fulfillment would require much money. There was more
of the poet in Overland Red than his best friend had ever imagined.
Three days they rested in the wild seclusion of the cañon. The silence,
the solemnity of the place, fascinated Winthrop. The tiny stream, cold
and clear, the vegetation, in a region otherwise barren-gray and
burning,--the arid Mojave with its blistering heat, the trees, the
painted rocks,--ochre, copper, bronze, red, gray, and dim lilac in the
distances,--the gracious shade, the little burro, half ludicrous, half
pathetic in its stolid acceptance of circumstances,--all had a charm for
him that soothed and satisfied his restlessness.
Meanwhile the indefatigable Overland spun yarn after yarn of the road
and range, and rolled innumerable cigarettes with one hand, much to
Winthrop's amusement.
The third morning Winthrop had awakened feeling so completely refreshed
that he begged Overland to allow him to make an attempt to find the
hidden papers and the little bag of gold. Overland demurred at first,
fearing that the Easterner would become lost or stricken with the heat.
Throughout the day Winthrop argued stubbornly that he ran no risk of
capture, while Overland did. He asserted that he could easily find the
water-hole, which was no difficult task, and from there he could go by
compass straight out to the tracks. Overland had told him that somewhere
near a little culvert beneath the track was the marked tie indicating
the hiding-place of the dead prospector's things. It would mean a
journey of a day and a night, traveling pretty continuously.
Finally Overland agreed to Winthrop's plan to make the attempt the
following day.
* * * * *
At the foot of the range Overland gave his companion a canteen and a
piece of gunnysack wrapped round some hardtack and jerked beef.
"Don't I need my gun this time?" queried Winthrop.
"Nope, Billy. 'Cause why? You don't generally kill a little gopher or a
little owl that's settin' up tendin' to his business, because you ain't
scared of them. But you will go off of the trail to kill a rattler, a
side-winder, because he's able to kill you if he takes a notion.
Correct. Now a tenderfoot totin' a gun is dangerouser than any rattler
that ever hugged hisself to sleep in the sun--and most fellas travelin'
the desert knows it. Why, I'm plumb scared of a gun-totin' tenderfoot,
myself. Not havin' a gun will be your best recommend, generally
speakin'. Stick to the bugs, Billy; stick to the bugs."
"Well, you ought to know."
"I got seven puckers in my hide to prove what I say. Six of 'em were put
there by plumb amachoors in the gun line; fellas I never took pains to
draw on quick, never suspectin' nothin'. The other, number seven, was
put there by a gent that meant business. He died of a kind of lead
poisonin' right immediate."
They shook hands, the battered, sunburned adventurer, rough-bearded,
broad-chested, genial with robust health, and the slender, almost
delicately fashioned Easterner, who had forgotten that there were such
things as lungs, or doctors,--for the time being.
"Say, Billy, you need a shave," commented Overland, as the other turned
to begin his journey across the desert.
Winthrop grinned. "You need--er--decapitating," he retorted, glancing
back. Then he faced the south and strode away.
Overland, ascending the range, paused halfway up. "Decap-itating," he
muttered. "Huh! That's a new one on me. De-cap--Let's see! Somethin' to
do with a fella's hat, I reckon. It's easy to run a word down and hole
it if you got brains. Mebby Billy meant for me to get a new one. Well,
the constable's friend only put one hole in her--she's a pretty good hat
yet."
* * * * *
Overland found his slow way back to the hidden cañon. He felt a little
lonely as he thought of Collie. He gave the burro some scraps of camp
bread, knowing that the little animal would not stray so long as he was
fed, even a little, each day.
It was while he was scouring the fry-pan that he noticed the black sand
across the stream. Leisurely he rose and scooped a panful of the sand
and gravel and began washing it, more as a pastime than with an idea of
finding gold. Slowly he oscillated the whispering sand, slopping the
water out until he had panned the lot. He spread his bandanna on a
smooth rock and gently emptied the residue of the washing on it.
"Color--but thin," he said. "Let's try her again."
He moved farther upstream--this time with one of his regular pans. He
became absorbed in his experiment. He washed panful after panful,
slowly, carefully, collectedly. Suddenly he stood up, swore softly, and
flung the half-washed dirt of the last pan on the rocks. "I'm a nut!"
he exclaimed. "This livin' in civilization has been puttin' my intellec'
to the bad. Too much Eastern sassiety." And with this inexplicable
self-arraignment he stooped at the tent-door, buckled on his gun, and
started upstream. He glanced from side to side of the steep and
narrowing walls as he advanced slowly. He passed places where the stream
disappeared in the sand to find some subterranean channel and reappear
below again. Rounding an angle of the cliff, he dropped to his knees and
examined some tiny parallel scratches on a rounded rock--the marks made
by a boot-heel that had slipped. For an hour he toiled over the rocks on
up the diminishing stream. "Gettin' thin," he muttered, gazing at the
silver thread of water rippling over the pebbles. A few feet ahead the
cliffs met at the bottom in a sharp-edged "V," not over a foot apart in
the stream-bed, but widening above. Overland scrambled through. On the
other side of the opening he straightened up, breathing hard. His hand
crept to his hip. On a sandy level a few yards ahead of him stood a
ragged and faded canvas tent, its flap wavering idly in a breath of
wind. In front of the tent was the rain-washed charcoal of an old fire.
A rusted pan, a pick, and the worn stub of a shovel lay near the stream.
A box marked "Dynamite" was half-filled with odds and ends of empty
tins, cooking-utensils, and among the things was a glass fruit-jar half
filled with matches.
Slowly Overland's hand dropped to his side. He stepped forward, stooped,
and peered into the tent. "Thought so," he said laughing queerly. Save
for a pair of old quilts and an old corduroy coat, the place was empty.
"Fool's luck," muttered Overland. "Wonder the Gophertown outfit didn't
find him and fix him. But come to think of it, they ain't so anxious to
cross over to this side of the range and get too clost to a real town,
and get run in or shot up. Fool's luck," he reiterated, coolly rolling a
cigarette and gazing about with a critical eye. "They's another trail
into this cañon that the prospector knowed. I got to find it. Billy'll
be some interested."