THE MAN-KILLER
"Did he hit ye?" yelled Bunker when Denver had conquered his pitching
horse and set him back on his haunches. "Hell's bells, boy, I told you
to stay out of there!"
"Well, you lend me a gun!" shouted Denver in a fury, "and I'll go back
and shoot it out with that dastard! It's him or me--that's all!"
"Here's a gun, pardner," volunteered a long-bearded prospector handing
up a six-shooter with tremulous eagerness; but Bunker Hill struck the
long pistol away and took Denver's horse by the bit.
"Not by a jugful, old-timer," he said to the prospector. "Do you want to
get the kid killed? Come on back to the meeting and we'll frame up
something on these jumpers that'll make 'em hunt their holes. But this
boy here is my friend, understand?"
He held the prancing horse, which had been spattered with glancing lead,
until Denver swung down out of the saddle; and then, while the crowd
followed along at their heels, he led the way back to the store.
"What's going on here?" demanded Denver, looking about at the automobile
and the men who had popped up like magic, "has Murray made a strike?"
"Danged right," answered Bunker, "he made a strike last month--and now
he has jumped all our claims. Or at least, it's his men, because Dave
there's the leader; but Murray claims they're working for themselves.
He's over at his camp with a big gang of miners, driving a tunnel in to
tap the deposit--it run forty per cent pure copper."
"Well, we're made then," exulted Denver, "if we can get back our claims.
Come on, let's run these jumpers off!"
"Yes, that's what _I_ said, a few hours ago," grumbled Bunker
biting savagely at his mustache, "and I never was so hacked in my life.
We went up to this Dave and all pulled our guns and ordered him out of
the district, and I'm a dadburned Mexican if he didn't pull _his_
gun and run the whole bunch of us away. He's nervy, there's no use
talking; and I promised Mrs. Hill that I'd keep out of these shooting
affrays. By grab, it was downright disgraceful!"
"That's all right," returned Denver, "he don't look bad to me. You just
lend me a gun and----"
"He'll kill ye!" warned Bunker, "I know by his eye. He's a killer if
ever there was one. So don't go up against him unless you mean business,
because you can't run no blazer on _him_!"
"Well--oh hell, then," burst out Denver, "what's the use of getting
killed! Isn't there anything else we can do? I don't need to eject him
because he's got no title, anyway. How about these lead-pencil fellows
that haven't done their work for years?"
"That's it," explained Bunker, "we were having a meeting when we seen
you horn in on Dave. These gentlemen are all men that have held their
ground for years and it don't seem right they should lose it. At the
same time it'll take something more than a slap on the wrist to make
these blasted jumpers let go. They've staked all the good claims and are
up doing the work on them and the question is--what can we do?"
"I'll tell you what I'll do," spoke up the old prospector vindictively
as the crowd surged into the store, "I'll get up on the Leap and shoot
down on them jumpers until I chase the last one of 'em off. They can't
run no rannikaboo on me!"
He wagged his long beard and spat impressively but nobody paid any
attention to him. They realized at last that they were up against
gun-fighters--men picked for quick shooting and iron nerves and working
under the orders of one man. That man was Dave Chatwourth, nominally
dismissed by Murray but undoubtedly still in his pay, and until they
could devise some plan to eliminate him it was useless to talk of
violence. So they resumed their meeting and, as Denver owned a claim, he
found himself included in the membership. It was a belated revival of
the old-time Miners' Meeting, at one time the supreme law in Western
mining camps; and Bunker Hill, as Recorder of the district, presided
from his perch on the counter.
From his seat in the corner Denver listened apathetically as the miners
argued and wrangled, and the longer they talked the more it became
apparent that nothing was going to be done. The encounter with Dave had
cooled their courage, and more and more the sentiment began to lean
towards an appeal to the power of the law. But then it came out that the
law was an instrument which might operate as a two-edged sword; for
possession, and diligence in working the claim, are the two big points
in mining law and just at that moment a legal decision would be all in
favor of the jumpers. And if Murray was behind them, as all the
circumstances seemed to indicate, he would hire the most expensive
lawyers in the country and fight the case to a finish. No, if anything
was to be done they must find out some other way, or they would be
playing right into his hands.
"I'll tell you," proposed Bunker as the talk swung back to action,
"let's go back unarmed and talk to Dave again and find out what he
thinks he's doing. He can't hold Denver's claim, and those claims of
mine, because the work has just been done; and then, if we can talk him
into vacating our ground, maybe these other jaspers will quit."
"I'll go you!" said Denver rising up impatiently, "and if he won't
vacate my claim I'll try some other means and see if we can't persuade
him."
"That's the talk!" quavered the old prospector, slapping him heartily on
the back. "Lord love you, boy, if I was your age I'd be right up in
front there, shooting. Why, up in the Bradshaws in Seventy-three----"
"Never mind what you'd do if you had the nerve," broke in Bunker Hill
sarcastically. "Just because you've got a claim that you'd like to get
back is no reason for stirring up trouble. No, I'm willing to go ahead
and do all the talking; but I want you to understand--this is
_peaceable_."
"Well, all right," agreed the miners and, laying aside their pistols,
they started up the street for Denver's mine; but as Bunker led off a
voice called from the porch and his wife came hurrying after him. Behind
her followed Drusilla, reluctantly at first; but as her father kept on,
despite the entreaties of her mother, she ran up and caught him by the
sleeve.
"No, don't go, father!" she cried appealingly and as Bunker replied with
an evasive laugh she turned her anger upon Denver.
"Why don't you get back your own mine?" she demanded, "instead of
dragging my father into it?"
"Never mind, now," protested Bunker, "we ain't going to have no
trouble--we just want to have a friendly talk. This has nothing to do
with Denver or his mine--all we want is a few words with Dave."
"He'll shoot you!" she insisted. "Oh, I just know something will happen.
Well, all right, then; I'm going along too!"
"Why, sure," smiled Bunker, "always glad to have company--but you'd
better stay back with your mother."
"No, I'm going to stay right here," she answered stubbornly, giving
Denver a hateful glance, "because I don't believe a word you say."
"Ve-ry well, my dear," responded Bunker indulgently and took her under
his arm.
"I'm going ahead!" she burst out quickly as they came to the turn in the
trail; and before he could stop her she slipped out of his embrace and
went running to the entrance of the cut. But there she halted suddenly
and when they came up they found her pale and trembling. "Oh, go back!"
she gasped. "He's in there--he'll shoot you. I know something awful will
happen!"
"You'd better go back, now," suggested her father quietly, and then he
turned to the barrier. "Don't start anything, Dave--we've come
peaceable, this time; so come out and let's have a talk."
There was a long, tense silence and then the muzzle of a gun stirred
uneasily and revealed the hiding place of Dave. He was crouched behind
the rocks which he had piled up across the cut where it entered the
slope of the hill, and his long barrelled six-shooter was thrust out
through a crack just wide enough to serve for a loop-hole.
"Don't want to talk," he answered at last. "So go on, now; get off of my
property."
"Well, now listen," began Bunker shaking off Drusilla's grasp, "we
acknowledge we made a slight mistake. We tried to run a whizzer and you
called us good and plenty--all right then, now let's have a talk. If you
can show title to this ground you're holding, we'll leave you in
peaceful possession; and if you can't, you're just wasting your time and
talents, because there's plenty more claims that ain't took. It's a
cinch you can't hide in that hole forever, so you might as well have it
out now."
"Well what d'ye want?" snarled Chatwourth irritably. "By cripes, I'll
kill the first man that comes a step nearer. I won't stand no
monkey-business from nobody."
"Oh, sure, sure," soothed Bunker, "we know you're the goods--nerviest
gun-man, I believe, I ever saw. But here's the proposition, you ain't
here for your health, you must figure on making a winning somehow. Well,
if your title's good you've got a good mine, but if it ain't you're out
of luck. Now I sold this claim for five hundred dollars to Mr. Russell,
that you met a while ago; and we think it belongs to him yet. I gave him
a clear title and he's done his work, so----"
"Your title was no good!" contradicted Chatwourth from his rock pile,
"you hadn't done your work for years. I've located this claim and the
man don't live----"
"That's all right!" spoke up Denver, "but I located it before you did. I
didn't _buy_ this claim. I paid for a quit-claim and then relocated
it myself--and my papers are on record in Moroni."
"Who called you in on this?" burst out Chatwourth abusively, rising up
with his gun poised to shoot. "Now you git, dam' your heart, and if you
say another word----"
"You don't dare to shoot me!" answered Denver in a passion, standing
firm as the crowd surged back. "I'm unarmed, and you don't dare to shoot
me!"
"Here, here!" exclaimed Bunker grabbing hastily at Denver's arm but
Denver struck him roughly aside.
"Never mind, now," he said, "just get those folks away--I don't want any
of my friends to get hurt. But I'll tell you right now, either I throw
that man out or he'll have to shoot me down in cold blood."
He backed away panting and the miners ran for cover, but Bunker Hill
held his ground.
"No, now listen, Denver," he admonished gently, "you don't know what
you're doing. This man will kill you, as sure as hell."
"He will not!" cried Denver grabbing up a heavy stone and advancing on
the barricade, "I'm destined to be killed by my dearest friend--that's
what old Mother Trigedgo told me! But this bastard ain't my friend and
never was----"
He paused, for Chatwourth's gun came down and pointed straight at his
heart.
"Stand back!" he shrilled and Denver leapt forward, hurling the rock
with all his strength. Then he plunged through the smoke, swinging his
arms out to clutch, and as he crashed through the barrier he stumbled
over something that he turned back and pounced on like a cat. It was
Chatwourth, but his body was limp and senseless--the stone had struck
him in the head.