"A long sleep like that often makes a man feel that way," responded Tex.
"Th' muscles are stubborn an' th' eyes get a little touchy, too," he
added.
They ate the poorly cooked dinner and leaned back for a smoke, Blascom
allowing himself to lose the time because he felt so inert.
"Have any visits from friend Jake?" carelessly asked the marshal.
Blascom laughed. "Not one. You see, Jake come home that night about as
drunk as a man can get an' walk at all. I planted th' jug, a full
bottle of gin, an' near half a quart of brandy in his cabin where he'd
shore see it. He's been petrified for a week steady. To make shore I
put another bottle of whiskey ag'in' his door."
Tex nodded. "I busted that, just now. You come near killin' him. I
just about got him through. Don't give him no more. I sat up all last
night with him, draggin' him back from th' Divide, an' only left him a
little while ago. Get yore gold out quick an' you don't have no call to
want him drunk. Cache it, an' then spend a week takin' things easy.
You wasn't far behind Jake when I saw you."
Blascom was staring at him in vast surprise. "I never thought good
likker would hurt an animal like him!"
"I didn't say it was good likker," rejoined Tex. "Even good likker will
do it when drunk by th' barrel; an' there's no good likker in Windsor,
if I'm any judge. Well," he said, arising and taking up his hat, "I'll
drift along for another look at Jake an' then head for town. Seein' as
how you got him that way, through my suggestion, I'll admit, you better
look in at him once in awhile an' see he has what he needs. Take some
of yore water with you: his stinks."
*CHAPTER XVI*
*BUFFALO CREEK IN THE SPOTLIGHT*
What instinct it is and how it operates, that leads vultures from over
the horizon to a dying animal, has never been satisfactorily explained
to a lot of people; no more than the instinct which led Sinful and Hank
to go prowling around Buffalo Creek when by all rights they should have
been hanging around their own camp or loafing in the hotel; but prowl
they did, their cunning old eyes missing nothing, certainly nothing so
new and shining and high as the sand heap above the creek bank.
Sinful saw it first and he nudged his companion, whose cud nearly choked
him before he could cough it back where it belonged.
"Glory!" he choked. "Jest look at it! Come on, Sinful: we got to
inwestigate. Nobody's diggin' all that out an' totin' it up there for
th' fun of it. But why's he luggin' it so far?"
Sinful snorted scornfully. "Too busy totin' to pan it," he snapped.
"Rain's due 'most any time an' he's workin' to beat it. I don't have to
inwestigate it--anybody that's workin' like that knows what he's doin';
an' I ain't never heard it said that Blascom's any fool. If he didn't
know it was rich, he wouldn't be workin' so hard in th' sun."
"Well, mebby," doubted Hank, always a cold blanket in regard to his
companion's contentions. "Looks like he ain't got no water for pannin',
like everybody else. He ain't lazy like you, an' instead of wastin' his
time around th' hotel like us he's totin' sand so he can work while th'
crick's floodin'. When th' floodin' comes everybody else'll have to set
down an' watch it till it gets low enough. Me an' you would be doin'
somethin' if we follered his example. Where you goin'?" he demanded as
his sneering companion walked away.
Sinful flashed a pitying glance over his shoulder. "To git a handful of
that sand an' prove you ain't got no sense, that's where. You keep yore
eye open for Blascom while I raid his sand pile. Here's a can," he
said, stooping to pick it up. "It'll mebby tell us somethin' when we
gits it to some water. If you see him a-comin' out, throw a pebble at
me. 'Twon't take me long, once I git my boots off."
Hank obeyed and scouted toward the hut, finally stopping when he could
see its door. Watching it a few minutes he saw Blascom pass the
opening, and after another few minutes, the watcher slipped away,
hastening toward the sand pile. Reaching it, he saw no signs of his
partner and backed into the brush to await developments. He no sooner
had stopped behind a patch of scrub oak than he caught sight of Sinful
carefully picking his way across the stony ground in his socks, one hand
carrying the can, the other a pair of boots. On his leathery face was
an expression of vast surprise and pious awe. He seemed almost stunned,
but he was not so lost to his surroundings that he ignored a bounding,
clicking pebble which passed across his path. Clutching can and boots
in a firmer grip, he sprinted with praiseworthy speed and agility toward
the somewhat distant railroad track. In his wake sped Hank, an unholy
grin wreathing his face at the goatlike progress of his old friend over
the rocky ground. To Sinful's ears the sound of those clattering boots
spelled a determined pursuit and urged him to better efforts. At last,
winded, a cramp in his side and his feet so tender and bruised that he
preferred to fight rather than go any farther in his socks, he dropped
the boots, drew his gun, and wheeled. At sight of Hank's well-known and
inelegant figure a look of relief flashed over his face, swiftly
followed by a frown of deep and palpitant suspicion.
"What you mean, chasin' me like that?" he shouted.
"Gosh!" panted Hank as he drew near. "That was shore close! An' for an
old man yo're a runnin' fool. Jack rabbits an' coyotes can cover ground,
but they can't stack up ag'in' you. Did you see him?"
Sinful, one boot on and the other balanced in his hand, looked up. "No,
I didn't; did you?" he demanded, suspicion burning in his old eyes.
"Shore," answered Hank, lying with a facile ease due to much practice.
"He suddenly busted out of th' door with a rifle in his hands an' headed
for his sand pile. I dusted lively, heaved th' pebble; an' here we
are." He cast an apprehensive glance behind him and then sharply
admonished his friend. "Hustle, you! Yo're settin' there like there
ain't no mad miner projectin' around in th' brush with a Winchester!
Think I want to git shot?"
"I reckon mebby you ought to," retorted Sinful, struggling erect and
trying each tender foot in turn. "Stone bruises, cuts, an' stickers,
an' all because you git in a panic!" he growled. "Come on, you old
fool: there's a pool of water in th' crick, t'other side of th' railroad
bridge. Yo're too smart, you are. Mebby yore eyes'll pop out when you
see what's in this here can. Great guns, what a sight I've seen!"
Panning gold in a tomato can might be difficult for a novice, but
Sinful's cunning old hands did the work speedily and well. After
repeated refillings and mystic gyrations he carefully poured out the
last of the water and peered eagerly into the can, bumping his head
solidly against his companion's, for Hank was as eagerly curious.
Sinful placed it reverently on the creek bank and looked at his staring
friend.
"An' only a canful," he muttered in awe.
"Glory!" breathed Hank, and looked again to make sure. "Nothin' but
dust--but Good Lord!" He packed a vile pipe with viler tobacco, lit it,
and arose. "No wonder he grabbed his gun an' dusted for his sand pile!
Come on, Sinful: we got a long walk ahead of us, some quick packin' to
do, an' a long walk back ag'in. If we only could get a couple of mules,
we'd load 'em with three-hundred pounds apiece an' go down th' crick a
day's journey. It'd be worth it."
Sinful looked scornfully at his worrying companion and slowly arose.
"No day's journey for me, mules or no mules," he declared, spitting
emphatically. "I ain't shore it would be worth it, considerin' th' time
an' th' trouble; but it's worth pannin' right where it is. I've jumped
claims before in my life an' I ain't too old to jump another. When I
looked over that bank an' saw that wallopin' big rock a-stickin' up in
th' crick bed, from bank to bank; an' th' ditch he's put down on th'
upstream side, I purty near knew what th' sand pile would show. I'm
bettin' he's got _bushels_ of gold at th' foot of that riffle. If his
location don't run up that far, an' mebby it don't, we got somethin' to
keep us busy. An' if it does, we've mebby got more to keep us busy.
Come on, you wall-eyed ijut: we got to be gittin' back to camp. Great
Jerus'lam!"
The marshal of Windsor, riding slowly toward town south of the railroad
track after a long detour to mask his trail, saw two scarecrows bumping
along the ties, bobbing up and down jerkily as they tried to stretch
their stride to cover two ties and repeatedly fell back to one. They
were well to the northeast of him and to his left, but he thought they
looked familiar and he pushed more to the south to remain hidden from
them while he rode ahead. When he finally had reached a point south of
the station he turned and rode toward it, timing his arrival to coincide
with theirs.
Sinful grinned up at the smiling rider, his missing teeth only making
more prominent the few brown fangs he had left. Two dribbles of tobacco
juice had dried at each corner of his mouth and reached downward across
his chin, giving him an appearance somewhat striking. He mopped the
perspiration from his face by a vigorous wipe of his soiled shirt sleeve
and lifted each palpitating foot in turn.
"Been ridin' far?" he asked in idle curiosity and in great good humor,
considering the aches in his body and the soreness of his feet.
"Oh, just around exercisin' Oh My," answered Tex. "I thought you two was
located out on Antelope, west of town?"
"We are," replied Hank, ignoring his partner's furtive elbow. "Been
gettin' sorta tired of it, though, not havin' nothin' to do but set
around an' look at th' same things. Thought we'd take a look at th'
Buffaler, south of th' track; but it ain't much better, though there is
some water in th' pools. Anyhow, Antelope's kinda crowded. We may shift
our camp. Jake's out on Buffaler som'er's, ain't he?"