The night passed and the morning dawned bright and beautiful, and it
seemed that all nature was astir to welcome the light. There was first
a cold blue light far in the East, which swiftly changed to a purplish
pink, and this again to a rosy yellow, and then the sun rose in all its
bright beauty.
The tops of the somber mountains took on a mellow tinge of golden
brown, and birds began to sing in every direction. Here and there along
the rugged mountains a thin line of smoke ascended, showing that there
were inhabitants along the range. The distant sound of the lowing of
cattle came faintly to the ears in the peaceful stillness of the early
morning.
Then some one began to chop wood out back of the hotel, and this
strange sound aroused the sleeping shoemaker, and it awoke him to all
the miseries of what is vulgarly called “the morning after.”
One bird, with a louder, more insistent song than the others, perched
on a twig near the tent, and it seemed to poor Morris Goldberg, who had
never felt anything like the agony he was now enduring, that its voice
was louder and shriller than a steam calliope.
The suffering man crawled feebly from the tent, leaving the child
sleeping peacefully there. Slowly, and painfully holding his hand to
his splitting head, Morris crept along to the watering-trough and to
the little stream that trickled cool and clear from far up in the
mountains.
Letting the cold water run over his aching head, and drinking a
quantity of the blessed water from the hollow of his hands, Morris sat
down on an upturned bucket and gave vent to his feelings in these words:
“I vish dot pirt vould shut up. I nefer t’ougt a pirt in der vorld haf
such a voice--so lout. I nefer haf such a headache like dis. I vonder
if dere is any ice in Vyoming. Oh, my! oh, my! I vonder”--here he
laid his burning head against the moist rock down which the water was
trickling, and found it cool. He continued his lament: “Dank Gott! de
rocks are colt. Ah, go avay, birtie; you annoy me! Go to de Sout’--to
de pottom of it. I feel so sick, und de ice on de mountains is a
million miles avay.”
Loney had been awakened by the birds, and now came from the tent with
an empty, black whiskey-bottle in his hands, and this he extended
toward Morris, saying:
“Look, Mr. Goldberg, what I found in the tent.”
“Vat is it? Money?”
“No; it is this bottle. I know we never had one like this before.”
“Dake it avay, Loney, und proke it against de rocks. It makes me sick
as I nefer vos yust to look at it!”
“Yes, sir, I will. Can I do anything for you, Mr. Goldberg?”
“No. Yes, go und look after de Jakey. Gif him some vater--oh, yes, some
vater!”
Loney, with an uneasy fear tugging at his heart lest Mr. Goldberg
should die, went after the horse, which he found, after a long search,
in the rough stable back of the place, with his nose against a bundle
of hay which he was not even trying to eat. He looked so round and
comfortable that Loney, little as he knew of horses, was glad, for no
one can travel in the lonely places of earth with a horse as companion
without learning to love him.
Loney led the horse to the water and let him drink; then, with a
sorrowful look at Mr. Goldberg, whose aching brow was still pressed
against the cool rock, he returned him to the stable and tied him in
front of the hay.
Poor little Loney did not know that Shoshone Pete had seen to the
actual wants of the worn-out horse, but supposed it was what was
customary at hotels. And it was Shoshone himself who had rubbed the
tired horse down, given him a bedding of straw, which the half-starved
animal had half-eaten before morning.
Shoshone it was, now, who went to the suffering man and gave him a
resounding slap on the shoulder, saying loudly:
“Good-morning, pardner--I mean Mr. Wild Bill, the Bull-man.”
“Der teuyfel!”
“Why, what is the matter?”
“Oh, it is de vorst sickness vot efer vos. I pe goin’ grazy! Den vot
vill pecome of little Loney? Mr. Shoshone, vot is de most tangerous
sickness of all?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neider do I, but I got it all right, und dot pirt is setting me mad!”
“Oh, I’ll soon fix that,” said Shoshone, drawing his pistol, which
action brought a cry from Morris.
“Don’t shoot! don’t shoot! For Gott’s sake don’t make dot noise!”
“Oh, I see; you don’t feel well this morning. Why don’t you try some of
the hair of the dog that bit you?”
With a gesture of distaste that spoke plainer than words, Morris
refused, at which Shoshone laughed. Then Morris said innocently, but
convincingly:
“Mister, I gif you mein vort, dot dog didn’t pite me--he eat me all up!”
“Well, what are you standing there suffering for? Come on into the
saloon and get a snifter.”
“For Gott’s sake don’t mention it! Dot vos mein first und it shall pe
mein last. I vill die first--if I live. I vos come out here to find
mein daughter, Dora, vot vos stolen from me--her olt fader--und I haf
dot poor little Loney, und vill you dot I pecome a drinker like dot?”
“Well, come on in and get some breakfast. You ate no dinner----”
“Und I t’ink nefer again vill I eat.”
As he mournfully spoke these words, the poor man took from his pocket
a stump of a pencil and a piece of paper and began to write. Shoshone
watched him a moment and then asked what he was doing.
“I am writing my vill.”
At the same time Morris kept brushing his hand before his eyes, as
though tormented by flies, and at last he said:
“Nefer dit I see cockroaches dot coult fly like dot. Dey comes right in
your face!”
“Oh, ah--there are no--that is just the effect of your headache. That
will pass off in a little while. A cup of strong coffee----”
“Nefer, nefer shall I eat again. I shall die here--und my poor Dora----”
Here the unhappy man broke down utterly and wept scalding tears of such
unfeigned sorrow that Shoshone was greatly touched.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked of the sorrowing man.
“Yes. Will you take care of Loney, yes? He is a poor chilt, not quite
right in his head, but good. He haf neider fader nor mudder, and I gif
you Jake, mein horse. Dot Loney, he is goot und he vill vork for you
ven he get a leetle fatter.”
“All right, pardner. That goes.”
“So does de horse, but not very goot. Dot horse, he neets more t’ings
to eat, but ve been very poor lately, und de mens at de next place
behint say dot dere vos lots of grass und t’ings here, und dot dey puts
cream on de horse’s oats efery morning, mit hot piskits und peefsteak
und parsley at noon. I don’t t’ink so, do you?”
Shoshone was trying hard to keep a straight face. He now began to feel
ashamed of the part he had taken in tormenting this poor man, and,
above all, one who was “one of the craft” of operators. He determined
that from now on he would act as his friend.
Just as Shoshone turned, there was a sudden cloud of dust, and a horse
came galloping up the road, and, as it approached, they saw a young
man on its back, with his elbows and knees flying up and down, and in
another minute the whole outfit resolved itself into Bennie--red and
dusty, but undoubtedly Bennie:
“Here I am, Papa Goldberg! Here I am!” shouted Bennie, as he tumbled
off the horse and rushed to greet his friend.
“Oh, de Bennie! I peen glat to see you! Haf you got any headache
powders?”
“Yes; here they are. I got your telegram and I followed. Have you any
news of Dora?”
“No, Bennie; none, but somehow I keep on dis vay und I t’ink I vill
find her yet.” Then, turning to Shoshone: “If I die, Mister, please put
on de stone, ‘Vilt Bill, he lif two hours; den he die!’”
“All right, pardner.”
“Oh, I must haf a glass of vater, to take de powters. Vere can I get de
glass?”
“Go to the saloon----”
“Is dere no oder veres?”
“You can go around the back of the house and get one at the kitchen.”
“Den dot is vere I shall go. Come, Bennie, I vould not alone go. Oh,
Mister, Mister! please don’t do vit’ de Bennie like vot you do mit me.
He is de betrothed of mein Dora vot vas stolen und I vish him to lif to
hunt for her. Please gif me your vord.”
“I promise you,” said Shoshone, waiting for an introduction, in due
form, to Bennie.
He liked the frank young face of the “betrothed” of the lost Dora. But
the shoemaker had not learned the etiquette of the range yet, and,
with several groans, he took Bennie’s arm and they went around to the
kitchen door for the glass of water.
Shoshone had had his breakfast and so sat down upon an upturned bucket
and lighted his companionable old pipe, and ruminated as he smoked. As
he sat there, Loney came back, supposing he would find Mr. Goldberg,
but as he was not at the watering-place the boy went to the tent and
looked in, and then turned, frightened, as he saw it was empty.
“Hallo, youngster!” said Shoshone kindly.
“How do you do, Mister?” said Loney. “Did you see Mr. Goldberg--I mean
Mr. Wild Bill? Which way did he go?”
“Oh, he’ll be back in a minute. He’s all right. Say, kid, who is your
friend, anyway, and what brought him here. Come, now, tell me the
truth.”
“I always tell the truth, sir. His name is Mr. Morris Goldberg, and he
is a shoemaker from New York. A man came there--Mr. ‘Cactus Bill’--and
another man shot him in the back. I saw him, and the bad man took
Dora away. The bad man had another bad man along and that man hit me
here--see--and they carried Dora away; and Bennie--that’s Dora’s steady
company--don’t know where we are.”
“‘Cactus Bill,’ you say? What became of him?”
“Mr. Goldberg had a funeral for him, ’cause he had no friends. ‘Cactus
Bill’ gave Mr. Goldberg a paper that he said was about a gold mine
out here and it was for him, and when all of Mr. Goldberg’s money was
spent, looking for Dora, we came here to find the mine so, maybe, we
could get some more money. Say, what ails Mr. Goldberg this morning?”
“What shall never ail you, little man, if I can help it,” said Shoshone
contritely. “Ahem! Have you had your breakfast yet?”
“No, sir; not yet.”
“Well, come along and we’ll have our breakfast together, and you shall
tell me all about this Dora, and all, while we eat.”
“I thought I saw you at the table when I took Jake back. Say, he looks
fine this morning. You ought to see him.”
Shoshone slapped his leg with his hat in great enjoyment of something,
but all he said was:
“Folks have to eat a lot out here.”
“I believe you,” said Loney, “for I’ve been hungry ever since we hit
the trail. And so is Mr. Goldberg, only he pretends he isn’t. Business
isn’t very good in his line out here,” added the child reflectively.
Then they went, hand in hand, to the dining-room, Shoshone feeling a
distinct thrill of pleasure at the confiding clasp of those little
fingers. Loney felt a great confidence in this big man who had such
kind eyes. Neither of them would have felt so happy had they seen
the two evil faces peering at them from between two great rocks
half-covered by creeping vines.
As Shoshone and the child disappeared into the house, the two men came
down to the ground, and John, with a face white with anger, hissed:
“You liar! You see the boy is not dead! That Jew is here, seeking his
daughter, and the fool she was to marry! All in the same house with us!
A fine fix you have got us in!”
“I t’ought I’d croaked him! He fell like a lump o’ lead, and when I
dragged him he never moved. What’s to be done? Say it, and I’ll do it.”
“Our lives are not worth a wisp of straw! If these rough Westerners had
but an inkling of this, we’d adorn that lone tree over there in a short
time. They have such absurd notions about women here.”
“Say, don’t talk like dat. It gives me a sore t’roat. Say, what’s the
matter of turning the gal loose. She’s daffy, anyhow, and if dey find
her it’ll be all right, and, if dey don’t, de mountain lions will find
her for sure.”
“Oh, come on. I must figure it out some way. No one must see us here.
Our very lives depend upon it. I have it. We can get out the same way
_we_ did--out the back window, upstairs and on to the rocks. It is our
only chance. Let us get safely away from here, and out on the range,
then let him follow. Or, rather, we will follow, to ‘Cactus Bill’s’
claim. I knew he had one, but, drunk or sober, he never gave his secret
away.”
“We’re in a hole, cull,” said Dopey gloomily, while John said grimly:
“You are right. So long as Dora and that boy, Loney, live. Once out
of this, and their lives shall never stand to threaten me with the
electric chair. Come on; we must not be seen.”
They dodged back again behind the rocks and crept along up the run, out
of sight.
Shoshone left the boy for a few moments while he came into the
bar-room, intending to head off any possible trouble for Bennie, in
case any threatened, and he said:
“Hello, Snakesy! you trying to play the millionaire. Where’s the rest
of the boys?”
“Gone down to the spring-house to lift a spring-rafter. Have something?”
“Not now. Where’s Wild Bill, the Bull-man?”
“Setting on a rock out there, pouring water over his head with a
tin-cup and taking powders, I think. There’s a young chap with him, a
stranger----”
“Yes, and he is to be let alone. You hear me! let alone, that young
chap. Say, I’m going to tell you something, and that is----”
And here Shoshone told Snakes all he had learned about Morris Goldberg,
his quest, and the fact that he was caring for this homeless, orphaned
boy, and how he had buried “Cactus Bill,” whom they had all known well.
They all knew that Bill had a claim somewhere in the mountains, but
no one knew where, and, in spite of Bill’s reputation for a quick and
sure shot, he was generally liked. It was much to these men to know
that the poor, inoffensive man outside had given him a decent burial,
and, with quick remorse for their unfeeling joke of the previous day,
they planned to wipe out the memory of it by kindness. So Bennie was to
be spared, and the “house” was to supply Goldberg, Loney and the horse
with all they needed until they moved on. They never do anything by
halves out West.