"If we had enough bait to fill that can we'd 'a' ate it ourselves,"
chuckled Hank.
"Naw, there ain't no fish left now," said Sinful. "Hard-luck coffeepot,
that's all it is. Good as anythin' else, an' shore plentiful. Punch a
hole in each side of it an' shove in a piece of wire, an' she'll cook
anythin' small. Ain't it hot?"
"Hot, an' close," replied the marshal. "Well, I reckon I'll be gettin'
along. Feels like rain is due 'most any time, though I don't reckon
we'll get any before th' moon changes. Still, you can't allus tell."
"Can't tell nothin' about it at all, this kind of weather," observed
Hank, the can now against the other side of his body. "But one thing's
shore--it's gettin' closer every day. So-long," and the grotesque
couple went bobbing down the track toward their own camp.
Tex looked after them, humorously shaking his head. "'It's gettin'
closer every day,'" he mimicked. "Shore it is. Pair of cunning old
coyotes, an' entirely too frank about Buffalo Creek." Just then Sinful
leaped into the air, cracked his sore heels together and struck his
companion across the shoulders. This display of exuberance awakened a
strong suspicion in the marshal. "I'll keep my eye on you two old
codgers," he soliloquized, thoughtfully feeling of the handcuffs in his
pocket. Wheeling abruptly he rode up to the station, where Jerry
grinningly awaited him. "Let me know when those mossbacks go west,
Jerry, if you see them," he requested. "They're too cussed innocent an'
happy to suit me. How are things?"
Jerry shook his head. "I'll be cussed if I know. But I know one thing,
and that is that I'm apologizing to you for the way Jane shut the door
in your face. I don't know what's the matter with her lately."
"There's never any tellin' about wimmin," said Tex, smiling. "An' don't
you ever apologize to anybody for anythin' she does. Wimmin see things
from a different angle, an' they ain't got a man's defenses. A
difference in structure is likely to be accompanied by differences in
nature, in this case notably in the more delicate balance of th' nervous
system. Their reactions are both more subtle an' more extreme. I
wasn't insulted, but just folded my tents like th' Arabs, an' as
silently stole away. Which I'm now goin' to repeat. See you later,
mebby."
Jerry watched his visitor ride off and a puzzled frown crept over his
face.
"Wish I knew more about you, Mr. Tex Jones," he muttered. "You're
either as fine a human as I have seen, or the smoothest rascal: and I'm
d--d if I can tell which."
The marshal rode to his office and sought the chair outside the door,
his thoughts running back over recent events. Blascom's find and the
physical condition of the man naturally brought to mind Jake's narrow
escape. The latter bothered him, notwithstanding the certainty that
Blascom would keep a good watch over the sick man. While he anxiously
ran over his scant knowledge of Jake's illness and the remedies he had
employed, he glanced up to see Doctor Horn nervously hurrying toward
him. The doctor, in view of what he now knew of him, became a very
interesting study for the marshal.
"Marshal!" cried the physician while yet a score of paces away,
"somebody burst down my door during my absence and took some drugs which
by their nature are not common out here and, consequently, hard to
obtain. I am formally reporting it, sir."
"Doctor," replied Tex, "when a patient comes to you for help you
naturally expect him to be frank and truthful. It is the same with a
peace officer, who endeavors to cure not the ills of a single unit of
society, but the ills of society as a whole. Here, as in your own
field, a refractory or diseased unit may, and generally does, affect the
body of which he is a part. So, as a social physician, I must ask of
you that frankness so valuable to a medico. First, what drugs did you
miss?"
"Your analogy, while clever, is sophistical and is entirely
unwarranted," retorted the physician, taken somewhat aback by the words
and attitude of a "cowhand," as he contemptuously characterized
punchers. "Leaving it out of the argument, except to say, in passing,
that your 'social physician' does not exercise a corrective influence,
but rather a punitive one, I hardly see how the naming of the missing
drugs will give any enlightenment to a layman. There still exists the
forcible breaking into, and the unlawful entry of, my residence."
"For purposes of identification it might be well to know the drugs that
were stolen; but I'll waive that. What time would you say this
occurred?" asked Tex with professional interest.
"Some time yesterday," answered the physician.
"You certainly are not very specific, Doctor," commented Tex. "I'm
afraid we must come closer to it than that. You say you were away at
the time?"
"Yes: I did not return until quite late."
"In body or in spirit, Doctor Horn?"
"Sir, I do not understand you!" retorted the complainant, flushing
slightly and gazing with great intensity into the marshal's eyes.
"There have been many others who did not understand me," replied Tex,
calmly rolling and lighting a cigarette. "I'm mentioning that so you
won't think you are an exotic variation of our large and interesting
species. The study of man is the greatest of all, Doctor. The words
were more of a joke than anything else. Have you ever suffered from
hallucinations, Doctor? I've heard it said that too close confinement,
too close an application to study, and too intimate relations with
chemicals, volatile and otherwise, operate that way in these altitudes.
Hothouse gardeners, for instance, notably those engaged in raising
poppies, have slight touches of mental aberration. You are certain that
your house was entered while you were away?"
The doctor, arms akimbo, was staring at this calm mind-reader as though
in a trance, too stunned to be insulted.
Tex continued: "The value of the missing drugs and the damage to the
door undoubtedly will be paid to you, Doctor, in a few days. In fact, I
am so confident of that that I will pay you just damages now, taking
your receipt in return. Do you agree with a great many people that a
physician to the body has much the same high obligations as those
belonging to a minister or a priest, who are physicians to the soul?
That his work is of a humanitarian nature before it is a matter of
remuneration; that he should hold himself fit and ready to answer calls
of distress without regard to his own bodily comfort?"
Doctor Horn still stared at him, rallying his thoughts. He nodded assent
as he groped.
"There are professional secrets, Doctor, which need not be divulged,"
continued Tex. "I understand that you have a horse?"
The physician nodded again.
"Then use it. I have reason to believe that a man named Jake, a miner,
who is located on the first fork of Buffalo Creek, west of town,
urgently needs your professional services. I understand that he has
been brought back from death from alcoholic poisoning, but will be much
safer if you look at him. Did you say you are going now? And by the
way, before you start, let me say that the old idea of peace officers
being corrective forces, in a punitive sense only, is rapidly becoming
obsolete among the more intelligent and broader-minded men of that
class. While punishment is undoubtedly needed as a warning to others,
the cure's the thing, to paraphrase an old friend of mine. Is there any
connection between the natures of the missing drugs and alcoholic
poisoning, Doctor? But we are wasting time. This little problem can
wait. Just now speed's the thing. Drop around again soon, Doctor: I
always enjoy the companionship of an educated man," and the marshal,
slowly arising, bowed and entered his little office, the door softly
closing behind him.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*THE RUSH*
The marshal was leaving the hotel after breakfast the following morning
when he saw Jerry walking briskly toward him from the station and he
waited for the agent to come up.
"Those two old prospectors just passed the station, going west along the
track," Jerry informed him. "From the way they were loaded down it
looked as though they are moving their camp. And how men as old as they
are can carry such packs is beyond my understanding."
"Thanks, Jerry," said the marshal. "Go back to th' station. I've got
to take a ride. Trouble's brewin', I reckon."
Passing the hotel on his way to Carney's stable, Tex saw a running miner
hurrying into it and in a moment an excited half-score of armed
prospectors poured into the street, shouting and gesticulating. The
little crowd picked up additions as it passed along the street and
headed westward to strike the railroad at an angle. Some of them had
partners with them and, when the tracks had been reached, quite a number
turned and ran eastward toward their camps to pack up belongings and
supplies.
"Mental telepathy?" murmured Tex, watching them in some surprise. "Hank
and Sinful are too clever rascals to tell anybody anything of value that
they might know. Huh! That's only a name, I guess, for subconscious
weighing of facts subconsciously received: instinctive deductions from
observations too vague to be definitely recognized. Instinct, I'm
afraid you have more names than most people recognize. But it does beat
the devil, at that! An animal does seemingly wonderful and impossible
things because of the keenness of its scent, which passes our
understanding; birds of prey have eyes nearly telescopic in power--but
how the knowledge of this gold strike has spread about so quickly when
everyone concerned in it naturally would be secretive, is too much for
me. One thing is certain, however: it is known, and I have work to do,
and quickly!"
Omar welcomed him and soon was stringing the miles out behind him as
smoothly almost as running water. There was no need to urge the animal
at its best speed, for it was doing two miles to the miners' one and
easily would beat them to the scene of action.
When he reached the second fork, Blascom was not at the hut and, leading
the roan into a brush-filled hollow, the marshal took his rifle from its
scabbard and went up to the scene of the miner's operations. His hail
was followed by a startled crouching on the prospector's part and a
rifle barrel leaped up to the top of the ditch.
"Don't shoot: It's Jones," called the marshal, slowly emerging from his
cover. "I come up to warn you that th' rush has started. Hank an'
Sinful ought to get here in about half an hour, th' others a little
behind them. I'm aimin' to be referee: th' kind of a referee I once saw
at a turf prize fight: he had to jump in an' thrash both of th'
principals--an' he did it, too. Get that bonanza cleaned out and cached
yet?"
Blascom swore as he stood up again. "Yes: but nobody's goin' to git
_this_ without a fight! How th' devil did they find out I'd struck it
rich?"
"Shore this claim is staked an' located?" demanded Tex.
"Yes; an' there's work enough done on it to make it stick. But how did
they find out I'd struck it?"
"Don't know," answered the marshal. "You better climb out an' go off
an' hide somewhere in th' brush from where yore rifle will cover th'
cache. They're keen as hounds an' there's no use takin' chances of
losin' th' greater to save th' less. I'll handle this end of it. If
you hear a shot you better slip back an' look things over. Get a rustle
on you--time's flyin'."
In a few minutes the creek bed and the little hut appeared to be
deserted. Blascom lay on his stomach at a point from which he could see
his cache and the ditch as well. After a short silence there came the
sound of a snapping twig and a few minutes later Sinful's greedy eyes
peered over the creek bank down at the big ditch. He slid a rifle over
the edge and looked around eagerly. To his side crept Hank, who added
his scrutiny to that of his partner. Sinful spoke out of one corner of
his mouth as he gazed intently down the creek bed, where one corner of
Blascom's hut could be seen through the scrawny timber on the little
point. Hank nodded, crawled to the edge of the bank and was about to
slip over it when a low warning from the brush at their side froze them
both.
"Stay where you are," said a well-known voice, cold and unfriendly.
"That claim's got one owner now, an' he ain't lookin' for no partners,
a-tall. Better shove up yore hands an' face th' crick. You know
me--an' so far you ain't seen me miss, yet."
Tex emerged from his cover, a Colt in one hand, a pair of shining
handcuffs clinking from their short chains as they swung from the other.
Snapping one over Sinful's wrist he curtly ordered Hank to his partner's
side and linked the two together. Disarming them he unloaded the
weapons, appropriated the cartridges, and searched them both to make
certain they could do him no injury.
"Sit down," he said, "an' keep quiet. Th' real show is about to start.
Who all did you chumps tell about this strike?"
Hank glared at Sinful, Sinful glared at Hank, and then both glared at
their captor. "Nobody, so strike me blind!" snapped Sinful. "Hank
ain't been out of my sight since we left here yesterday. Think we're
fools?"
"Anything but that," grimly rejoined Tex. "Shut up, now: I want to
listen. Any play you make that don't suit me will call for a gun butt
bein' bent over yore heads. If I need you, I'll call: an' you come
a-runnin'. Hear me?"
"We could come faster if we was loose from each other," whispered Sinful
in bland innocence. "Couldn't we, Hank?"
"Can't come fast, a-tall, hooked up this way," said Hank earnestly.
"Shut up!" snapped the marshal in a low voice.
A winged grasshopper rasped up over the bank and rasped back again
instantly. A few birds chirped and sang across the creek bed and
chickadees flashed and darted in an endless search for food. Several
birds shot suddenly into the air from the fringe of timber and brush on
the farther bank halfway between the ditch and the cabin, quickly
followed by vague movements along the ground. Then more than a
half-score of men popped into sight and, leaping from the steep bank,
landed in the bed of the creek and scurried to different points, fooled
by the numerous sumps which Blascom had dug in his quest for water.
None of them had the knowledge possessed by Hank and Sinful, and the
weather conditions had been such that the ages of the various sumps
could not be quickly determined. Each man, eager to grab a hole while
there was one left to grab, and to become established, chose a mark and
appropriated it without loss of time. No sooner had the scurrying crowd
selected their grounds than the marshal, who had crept along the top of
the high bank, jumped over it and held two guns on them, guns which they
had good reason to respect.
"Han's up!" he roared. "_Pronto_ an' high! You-all know me--don't
gamble! I drop th' first man that makes a gunplay. _Hank! Sinful!_"
he shouted. "Come a-runnin'!" Crouched, he faced the scowling crowd,
his steady hands before his hips, his steady guns ready to prove his
mastery. The handcuffed pair, squabbling as they came, shuffled up to
him.
"You yank me any more an' I'll bust yore fool head!" growled Sinful to
his bosom friend. "Just because yore laigs is longer is no reason for
playin' kite with me! Knock-kneed old fool! Here we are, Marshal: what
you want?"
"Hold yore han's close," ordered Tex, his left gun slipping into its
sheath, his right becoming even more menacing. With the free hand he
fished out the key, handed it to Hank and waited until he had made use
of it. It went swiftly back into the pocket and the left hand again
held a gun. "Slip around an' take their weapons!" he snapped. "Don't
get between them an' me. Lively!"
"We ain't goin' to spoil yore aim, Marshal," Hank assured him with great
fervor. "Come on, you bald-headed old buzzard--git them guns for th'
marshal!" He gave his companion a shove forward. "He done us a good
turn--an' one good turn deserves another. Come on!"
"Who you shovin'?" blazed Sinful, starting away.
"You ain't got no right, cuttin' in here!" shouted a red-faced, angry
miner, his companions growling and cursing their hearty endorsements.
"Yo're a town marshal, not a county sheriff! Turn them guns off us!"
"I got a wider range than marshal," rejoined Tex grimly and not for an
instant relaxing his alertness. "Gus Williams said so when he 'pinted
me; an', besides, I got th' very same authority out here as I have in
town: twelve sections of th' Colt statutes as made an' pervided. Blascom
has legally established his claim, drove his stakes, and done his work
on it. When he comes he'll p'int out his boundaries. Hold still, you
two! Git 'em all, Sinful; don't overlook nothin', Hank! No use turnin'
this crick into a slaughter-pen."
"I ain't likely to overlook nothin'," replied Sinful, moving more
rapidly, "though I'm shore bothered by these here cussed contraptions on
my wrist. You'll notice Hank unlocked _his_ end of 'em! D--d claim
jumpers! A man's rights ain't safe no more these days. Hank an' me
shore would 'a' planted some of this passel if they'd bothered us. How
th' devil did they find out about it, _I_ want to know?"
"What you reckon yo're goin' to do with us all?" sneered a wrathy
prospector, his hands slowly coming down toward a harmless belt.
"I'll tell you that after I see Blascom," answered the marshal, firing a
shot into the ground. He ordered Sinful and Hank to pile the weapons at
his feet, locked them together again and ordered them to get closer to
the rest of the miners. The shot brought Blascom as rapidly as he could
get there with a due regard to caution. Obeying Tex's terse command he
slid down the bank and went to him.
"Shore yore claim takes in th' ditch an' th' riffle?" asked Tex in a
whisper.
"Th' new one does," answered Blascom. "I sent off th' papers with
Jerry, like you said, th' day I got th' dynamite."
"Th' old one any good?"
"Not much; not much better'n day wages. 'Tain't no good without water;
but neither is th' other, now."
"This crowd is fooled by yore old sumps," explained Tex hurriedly. "If
we drive 'em off they'll be back ag'in, an' mebby add yore murder to th'
rest of their crimes. I can't stay here day an' night; an' if I could,
they'd get us both after dark, or at long range in daylight. You got to
let 'em stay. By tomorrow there'll be twice as many. I'm scared
some'll come slippin' up any minute an' turn th' tables on us. You let
Sinful an' Hank divide a quarter of th' sand pannin' between
'em--they'll commit murder for half that, an' you've got to have
partners in case of a rush. Besides, rain's due any day now, an' you
need 'em to beat it."
"I hate like--" began Blascom stubbornly.
"We all has to do things we hate!" cut in his companion. "You can't do
anythin' else. If you can, tell me quick!"
Blascom shook his head. He could do nothing else. He turned and faced
the crowd, telling it to go ahead and stake out claims where each man
had started to, on condition that there was to be no more jumping and
that they join him in putting up a solid front against any newcomers
other than partners. The scowls died out, heads nodded, and the hustle
and bustle began again from where it had left off.
Tex called the Siamesed pair to him and they listened, with their eyes
glowing, to Blascom's offer of limited partnership, Hank nearly
swallowing his cud when asked if he was satisfied with the terms.
Sinful smelled a rat and looked properly suspicious, his keen old mind
racing along on the theory that no one ever gave away anything valuable.
Suddenly he grinned so expansively that a generous stream of tobacco
juice rolled down his sharp chin.
"Us three ag'in' that gang," he mused. "Huh! Fair enough, _I_ says.
Hank an' me can lick 'em by ourselves. Can't we, Hank?"
"Shore!" promptly answered the other weather-beaten old rascal. "We
shore kin, Sinful!"
Tex smiled at the cheerful old reprobates, bound closer together now
than ever they had been before. "I ought to dump th' pair of you in th'
new jail," he said, "though it shore wouldn't get no benefit from it.
Yo're a pair of land pirates an' you both ought to be hung from th'
yardarm of some cottonwood tree. Hold out yore hands till I turn you
loose. You two youngsters want to keep th' bargain, or I _will_ hang
you!"
"Glad to git shet of them cuffs," growled Sinful. "Hank takes sich long
steps an' walks sideways, th' old fool. We'll play square, won't we,
Hank? There; he said so, too. We allus has felt kind of friendly to
Blascom, ain't we, Hank? Shore we has. An' he needs us to keep our
eyes on them blasted claim jumpers. 'Sides, he's a friend of yourn,
Marshal: an' we ain't forgettin' them few dollars we won from you
t'other night--_are_ we, Hank?" His shrewd old eyes baffled Tex's
attempt to read just what he thought about the poker game.
"We ain't!" emphatically replied Hank, spitting copiously and
vehemently. "We'll make these claim jumpers herd close to home; yes,
sir, by glory!" He paused a moment and leaned nearer to his companion's
ear. "_Won't_ we, Sinful?" he suddenly shouted.
"Who you yowlin' at that way?" blazed Sinful, and then his eyes popped
wide open in frank surprise. "Cussed if th' doc ain't got th' fever,
too!" he ejaculated. "Here he comes up th' crick! Beats all how news
does spread! An', great Jerus'lam: if he ain't as sober as a watched
Puritan!"
Nodding right and left Doctor Horn rode slowly among the busy claim
jumpers and drew rein in front of Tex and his companions.
"How do you do, gentlemen?" he said, smiling. "I see you're quite busy,
Marshal, which seems to be a habit of yours. I happened to have a
patient out this way, down on the lower fork, and while I was in his
vicinity I thought I would drop in and compliment Blascom for his care
of Jake. While the efficient treatment he first received undoubtedly
saved his life, Blascom's nursing comes in for well-earned praise. He
is still a sick man, although out of danger. I hope you will disregard
our former conversation, so far as my part of it is concerned, Marshal.
Good day to you all," and wheeling, he rode up a break in the creek bank
and slowly became lost to sight among the bowlders and timber.
Sinful had watched both men carefully while the doctor spoke, and now he
covertly glanced at the marshal, who was gazing after the departing
physician. Then he looked at Blascom, and from him to his own,
disreputable partner.
"Come on, Hank," he said. "If any of these gold thieves start swappin'
claims, we'll play 'em a smart tune for 'em to dance to. There's shore
been a-plenty of lives saved on this crick plumb recent--our own, mebby,
among 'em. An' who do you reckon yo're a-starin' at?"
"You, you pore ol' fool!" retorted Hank. He blew out a bleached cud,
rammed in a fresh one, nodded at Blascom and the contemplative marshal,
and followed his impatient partner toward their packs and guns.
Tex slowly turned and looked after them. "Hey, Sinful!" he called.
"You still makin' coffee in old tin cans? If you are, you want to watch
'em close on account of sand gettin' in 'em!"
Sinful nudged his companion, stopped, scratched his head, and then
grinned.
"Don't have to use 'em _now_. We got all our traps along, an' th' old
coffeepot is with 'em, kivver an' all. Anyways, _we_ don't mind a little
sand once in awhile--_do_ we, Hank?"
"No, sir, by glory!" cried Hank. "Not no more, we don't, a-tall!"
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*"HERE LIES THE ROAD TO ROME!"*
A few nights later Tex awakened to feel his little lean-to shaking until
he feared it would collapse. A deafening roar on the roof made an
inferno of noise, the great hailstones crashing and rolling. Flash
after flash of vivid lightning seemed wrapped in the volleying crashes
of the thunder. A sudden shift in the hurricane-like wind drove a white
broadside against his front windows, both panes of glass seeming
spontaneously to disintegrate. Another gust overturned a freight wagon
in the road before the office and tore its tarpaulin cover from it as
though it were tied on with strings, whisking it out of sight through
the incessant lightning flashes like the instant passing of some huge
ghost. The teamster, who saw no reason to pay for hotel beds while he
had the wagon to sleep in, went rolling up the slatted framework and
down again, bounced to his knees, and crawled frantically free, beaten
by the streaking hail and buffeted by the shrieking wind. He was blown
solidly against the lean-to, almost constantly in the marshal's sight
because of the continuous illumination. Groping along the wall, he
reached the shattered window and, desperate for shelter, promptly dived
through it and rolled across the room.
Tex laughed, the sound of it lost to his own ears. "Yo're welcome,
stranger!" he yelled. "But I'm sayin' yo're some precipitate! Better
gimme a hand to stop up that window, or she'll blow out th' walls and
lift off th' roof. Grab this table an' we'll up-end it ag'in th'
openin'. I'll prop it with th' benches from th' jail. That's right.
Ready? Up she goes."
After no mean struggle the window was closed enough to give protection
against the raging wind, the two benches holding it securely. Then Tex
struck a match and lit both of his lamps.
"We don't hardly need any light, but this is a lot steadier," he
shouted, turning to look at his guest. His eyes opened wide and he
stared unbelievingly. "Good Lord, man! You look like a slaughter-house!
Here, lemme look you over!"
The teamster, cut, bruised, and streaked with blood, held up his hand in
quick protest, shouting his reply. "'Taint nothin' but th' wallerin' I
did when th' wagon turned over, an' th' beatin' from th' hail. I've seen
it worse than this, friend. These stones are only big as hens' aigs,
but I've seen 'em large as goose aigs, an' lost three yoke of oxen from
'em. I was freightin' in a load of supplies for a surveyin' party, down
on th' old Dry Route, southwest of th' Caches. One ox was killed, his
yokemate pounded' senseless, an' th' others couldn't stand th' strain
an' lit out. I never saw 'em again. I was under th' wagon when they
left, which didn't turn over till th' hail changed into rain, an' I
wouldn't 'a' poked out my head for all th' oxen in th' country. This
here's a little better than a fair prairie hail storm. Gosh," he said,
grinning, as he glanced at the badge on his companion's vest. "I got
plenty of nerve, all right, bustin' into th' marshal's office! Ain't
got any likker, have you?"
Tex handed him a full bottle and packed his pipe. The deafening crashing
of the hailstones grew less and less, a softer roar taking its place as
the rain poured down in seemingly solid sheets. The great violence of
the wind was gone and the lightning flashed farther and farther away.
"Feel better now," said the teamster, passing the bottle to his host and
taking out his pipe. He accepted the marshal's sack of tobacco and
leaned back, puffing contentedly. "Sounds a lot better, now. I'd ruther
drowned than be beat to death, any time. There won't be a trail left
tomorrow an' not a crick, ravine, or ditch fordable. Some of 'em with
sand bottoms will be dangerous for three or four days. I once saw th'
Pawnee rise so quick that it was fetlock deep when I started in, an'
wagon-box deep before I could get across--an' a hull lot wider, too, I'm
tellin' you. An' yet some fools still camp in dried crick beds!"
"That's just what I been thinkin' about," said the marshal, a look of
worry on his face. "Out on Buffalo Crick there's near two dozen miners
with claims staked out on th' dried bed. It shore would be terrible if
this caught 'em asleep!"
"Don't you worry, Marshal," reassured his guest, laughingly. "Them
fellers may have claims in a crick bed, but they don't sleep on 'em.
They know too much!"
Tex related what a hail storm had done to a trail herd one night years
before, and so they talked, reminiscence following reminiscence, until
dawn broke, dull and watery, and they started for the hotel, to rout out
the cook for hot coffee and an early breakfast.
All day it rained, but with none of the fury of the darker hours, and
for the next ten days it continued intermittently. There was no special
news from Buffalo Creek except that it had changed its bed in several
places, and that two miners had been forced to swim for their lives. It
was noteworthy, however, that the prospectors of the country roundabout
began to spend dust with reckless carelessness. The hotel was well
patronized during the day, and the nights were times of great hilarity.
Drink flowed like water and old quarrels, fed by fresh fuel, added their
share of turbulence to the new ones.
Sleeping late in the mornings, the marshal was on his feet until nearly
every dawn, stopping brawls, deciding dangerous contentions, and once or
twice resorting to stern measures. The little jail at one time was too
full for further prisoners and had forced him to resort to fines, which
brought his impartiality and honesty into question. He had been forced
to wound two men and had been shot at from cover, all on one night. He
grew more taciturn, grimmer, colder, wishing to avoid a killing, but
fearing that it must come or the town would turn into a drunken riot.
Then came the climax to the constantly growing lawlessness.
Busy in repairing washouts along the railroad and strengthening the
three little bridges across the creeks of his section of track, Murphy
and Costigan, reinforced by half a dozen other section-hands from points
east, who had rolled into town on their own hand car, had scarcely seen
the town for more than a week when they came in, late one Saturday
afternoon. The extra hands were bedded at the toolshed and at Murphy's
box car, and took their meals at Costigan's, whose thrifty wife was glad
of the extra work for the little money it would bring her. Well knowing
the feeling of the Middle West of that time against his race, the
section-boss cautioned his crew to avoid the town as much as they could;
but rough men are rough men, and wild blades are wild. Knowing the
wisdom in the warning did not make it sit any easier on them, added to
which was the chafing under the restraint and the galling sense of
injustice.
Sunday morning found them quiet; but Sunday noon found them restless and
resentful. The lively noise of the town called invitingly across the
right-of-way and one of them, despite orders, departed to get a bottle
of liquor. He drew hostile glances as he made his way to the bar in the
saloon facing the station, but bought what he wanted and went out with
it entirely unmolested. The news he brought back was pleasing and
reassuring and discounted the weight of the section-boss' admonitions,
and later, when the bottle had been tipped in vain and thirsts had only
been encouraged by the sops given them, some wilder soul among the crowd
arose and announced that he was going to paint the town. There was no
argument, no holding back, and the half-dozen, laughing and singing,
sallied forth to frolic or fight as Fate decreed.
The first saloon they entered served them and let them depart unharmed
and without insult, raising their spirits and edging their determination
to enjoy what pleasures the town might have for them. They were as good
as any men in town, and they knew it, which was right and proper; but
soon it did not satisfy them to know it: they must tell everyone they
met. This, also, was right and proper, although hardly wise; but in the
telling there swiftly crept a fighting tone, a fighting mood, a fighting
look, and fighting words; yet they were behaving not one whit different
from the way gangs of miners had behaved since the town was built. The
difference was sharp and sufficient: The miners had been in the town of
their friends; the section-gang was in the town of its enemies.
The half-dozen entered the hotel barroom, jostled and elbowed, jostling
and elbowing in return, their tempers smoldering and ready to burst into
flames. Calling for whiskey at the bar they drank it avidly and turned
to look over the room, where all sorts and conditions of rough men and
ready fighters were frowningly watching them. The frowns grew deeper,
and here and there a gibe or veiled insult arose above the general
noise. The gibes became more bitter, the insults less veiled, and
finally a huge miner, belted and armed, stood up and shouted for
silence. Sensing trouble the crowd obeyed him, waiting with savage
eagerness to hear what he would say, to see what he would do.
"I'm goin' to tell you a story," he cried, and forthwith made good his
promise. It was not a parlor story by any stretch of imagination, and
it ended with St. Peter slamming shut the gates of heaven as he repeated
one of the then popular slogans of the country along the roadbeds, "No
Irish need apply." It was not couched in language that St. Peter would
use, and suitable epithets of the teller's own gave added weight to the
insult of the tale. Still swearing the miner sat down, an ugly leer on
his face, while shouts, laughter, catcalls, and curses answered from
every part of the room.
"Run 'em out of town!" came a shout, which swiftly became a universal
demand.
The track-layer nearest the door, a burly, red-haired, red-faced
fighting man, leaped swiftly to the miner's table, kicked the half-drawn
gun from his hand, and went to the floor with him. "St. Peter will open
no doors to th' like av ye!" he shouted. "I'm sendin' ye to h--l,
instead!"
The bartender, fearing pistol work, whipped his own over the counter and
yelled his warning and his demand for fair play. "I'll drop th' man
that draws! Let 'em have it out, man to man!"
This suited the crowd as an appetizer for what was to follow, and chairs
and tables crashed as it surged forward to better see the fight, the
five section-hands, their broad backs against the bar, forming one side
of the pushing, heaving ring, their faces set, their huge fists
clenched, in spirit taking and giving the flailing blows of the rolling
combatants, so intent, so lost in the struggle that consciousness of
their own danger gradually faded from their minds. They had faith in
their champion and were with him, heart and soul.
The miner could fight like the graduate he was of the merciless,
ultra-brutal rough-and-tumble of the long frontier, biting, kneeing,
gouging, throttling as opportunity offered, and he was rapidly gaining
the advantage over his cleaner-fighting opponent until, breaking a
throat hold, barely escaping the fingers thrust at his eyes and a
wolflike snap of murderous jaws, the Irishman broke free, and staggered
to his feet to make a fight which best suited him. Great gasps of
relief broke from his tense friends, their low words of advice and
encouragement coming from between set teeth.
"Steady, Mac, an' time 'em!" whispered his nearest friend. "He fights
like a beast--lick him like th' man ye are. He's as open as a book!"
Panting, his breath whistling through his teeth, the miner scrambled to
his feet, needlessly fearing a kick as he arose, and rushed, his great
arms flaying before him as he tore in. Met by a straight left that
caught him on the jaw a little wide of the point aimed at, he rocked
back on his heels, his knees buckling, and his arms wildly waving to
keep his balance. Before he could recover and set himself, a right
flashed in against his chest and drove him back against the ring of men
behind him. Gasping, he bent over and threw himself at his enemy's
thighs, missing the hold by a hair. The Irishman retreated two swift
steps and waited until his opponent had leaped up and then, feinting
with his left at the swelling jaw, he swung his right shoulder behind a
stiffening right arm and landed clean and squarely above the brass
buckle of the cartridge belt. The crash shook the building, for the
miner's feet came up as he was hurled backward and he struck the floor
in a bunched heap.
The bruised and bleeding victor, filling his lungs with great gulps of
foul air, started backing toward the bar to regain his breath among his
friends, but he staggered sidewise on his course, coming too close to
the first line of the aroused crowd and one of them leaped on him, the
impact toppling him over, just as the five friends charged. Chaos
reigned. Shouts, curses, the stamping of feet, bellows of rage and pain
filled the dusty air with clamor as the crowd surged backward and
forward, the storm center ever nearing the door. The valiant
half-dozen, profiting by experience, resisted all efforts to separate
them, keeping in a compact group, shoulder to shoulder, with their
rapidly recovering champion in their middle. They had passed the end of
the bar, which had been a sturdy bulwark against their complete
encircling, and the crowd was pouring in to attack from that
once-protected side when a hatless figure leaped through the deserted
rear door, bounded onto the long bar without changing his stride, dashed
along it and jumped, feet first straight at the heads bobbing nearest to
the stout-hearted six. It was Costigan who, not finding Murphy, was
acting on his own initiative and according to his lights. In his hand
was a broken mattock handle and under its raining blows an opening
rapidly grew in the crowd. Had he been given arm room, where his full
strength could have been used, Boot Hill would have reaped a harvest.
Audacity, that Audacity which is the fairest child of Courage, the total
unexpectedness of his hurtling, spectacular attack won more for him and
his friends than the deadly effectiveness of the hickory handle. The
astonished crowd drew back in momentary confusion and Costigan, cursing
at the top of his panting lungs, shoved the nearly exhausted handful
through the door and into the street. As the last man staggered through
and pitched to the ground, the club wielder leaped to the door, barring
it with his body. He was about to tell the crowd what he thought of it
when the situation changed again.
A hand clutched his shirt collar and yanked him back and he went
striking with the club as he sprawled beside a battered friend. The
change had been so sudden and the crowd just recovering from its
surprise at Costigan's flaying attack that it looked like magic. One
instant a red-shirted Irishman, his clothing torn into shreds, lovingly
balancing his favorite weapon; the next, a calm, cold-faced,
blue-shirted, leather-chapped gunman, bending eagerly forward behind the
pair of out-thrust Colts, his thumbs holding back swift death in each
hand.
"The devil!" growled a miner.
"Aye!" snapped Tex. "An' I'll find work for idle hands to do! _Why do
you stop and turn away? Here lies th' road to Rome!_" he laughed,
exultantly, sneeringly, insultingly; and never had they heard a laugh so
deadly. It chilled where words might have inflamed. There was not a
man who did not shrink instinctively, for before him stood a killer if
ever he had seen one.
"I only got twelve handy--which dozen of you want to open th' way for
th' rest?" asked the marshal. His quick eye caught a furtive movement in
the crowd and the roar of his flaming Colt jarred the room. The
offender-pitched forward before the paralyzed front line, rocking to and
fro in his pain. "Th' next man dies!" snapped the marshal, his deadly
intent fully revealed by his face.
The crowd gazed at impersonal Death, balanced in the two firm hands.
They saw no hesitancy reflected between the narrowed lids of those
calculating eyes, no qualifying expression on that granite face; and
they were standing where Bud Haines had stood, facing the man he had
faced. A restless surge set the mass milling, those behind pushing
those in front, those in front frantically pushing back those behind.
Tense and dangerous as the situation was, a verse of an immortal
fighting poem leaped to the marshal's mind and a sneering smile flashed
over his face. _Was none who would be foremost to lead such dire
attack; but those behind cried "Forward!" And those before cried
"Back!_" He seemed to tense even more, like some huge, deadly spider
about to spring, and his clearly enunciated warning, low as it was
spoken, reached the ears of every man in the room. "Go back to yore
tables, like you was before."
The surge grew and spread, split following split, until the dragging
rearguard sullenly followed its companions. The dynamic figure in the
door slowly forsook its crouch, arising to full height. The left-hand
gun grudgingly slid into its sheath, reluctantly followed by its more
deadly mate. Casting a final, contemptuous look at the embarrassed
crowd, each unit of it singled out in turn and silently challenged, the
marshal shoved his hands into his pockets, turned his back on them with
insolent deliberation and stepped to the street, where a bloody,
battered group of seven had waited to back him up if it should be
needed.
"Yer a man after me own--" began Costigan thickly between swollen lips,
but he was cut short.
"That'll keep. Take these fellers back where they belong, an' _keep_
'em there," snapped Tex, the fighting fire still blazing in his soul.
He watched them depart, proud of every one of them; and when they had
reached the station he wheeled and went back into the hotel, had a
slowly sipped drink, nodded to his acquaintances as though nothing out
of the ordinary had occurred, and then sauntered out again without a
backward glance, turning to go to the station.
When he reached the building he stopped and looked toward the toolshed
where Murphy, just back from a run of inspection up the line, and
Costigan, had turned the corner of the shed and stopped to renew their
argument, which must have been warm and personal, judging from their
motions. Finally Costigan, looking for all the world like a scarecrow,
hitched up what remained of his trousers, squared his shoulders, and
limped determinedly toward his little cottage, glancing neither to the
right nor to the left. Murphy, hands on hips, gazed after him, nodded
his head sharply, and was about to enter the shed when he caught sight
of the motionless two-gun man. Snapping his fingers in sudden decision,
he started toward his capable friend, his frame of mind plainly shown by
the way his stride easily took two ties at once.
"God loves th' Irish, or 'twould be diggin' graves we'd now be doin',"
he said. "An' me away! But they'll be mindin' their P's an' Q's after
this. I was goin' to skin Costigan, but how could I after I learned
what he did? It ain't th' first time he's tied my hands by th' quality
av his fightin'. But 'twas well ye took cards, an' 'twas well ye played
'em, Tex."
"I have due respect for Costigan, but if he leaves th' railroad property
he'll lose it quick," replied the marshal. "I turned that mob into a
mop, but there's no tellin' what might happen one of these nights. Tim,
I wish his family was out of town. It's no place for wimmin an'
children these days, not with ten marshals. I can't be everywhere at
once, an' I'm watchin' one house now more than I ought to."
"They're leavin' on tomorry's train east," said Murphy, breathing a sigh
of relief. "I've Mike's word for it, an' if he can't get 'em to go
without him, then he's goin' with 'em, superintendent or no
superintendent! I'm sorry that it's my fault that ye had th' trouble,
Tex; I should 'a' stayed close to them d--d fools."
"There's no harm done, Tim, as it turned out. It was comin' to a
show-down, gettin' nearer an' nearer every day. Now that it's over th'
town will be quiet for a day or two. I know of marshals who were paid
from eight hundred to a thousand dollars a month--I'm admittin' that
I've earned my hundred in just about five minutes today. For about
fifteen seconds th' job was worth a hundred dollars a second--it was a
close call."
"But look at th' honor av it," chuckled Murphy. "It's marshal av Windsor
ye are, Tex--an' ye have yer Tower, as well!"
Tex laughed, glanced over the straggling town from Costigan's cottage to
another at the other end of the street. "I'm not complainin'. I'm only
contrastin' and showin' that Williams didn't pull any wool over my eyes
when he offered me my princely salary. I agreed to it, and I'm paid
enough, under th' circumstances."
"Aye," said Murphy, following his friend's glance, a sudden smile
banishing his anxious frown. "Money ain't everythin'. Perhaps yo're
not paid much now, Tex--but later, who can tell?"
*CHAPTER XIX*
*A LECTURE WASTED*
That evening Tex had a caller in the person of Henry Williams, who
seemed to be carrying quite a load of suspicion and responsibility. He
nodded sourly, and nonchalantly seated himself on a chair at the other
side of the door. His troubled mind was not hidden from the marshal,
who could read surface indications of a psychological nature as well as
any man in the West. No small part of his poker skill was built upon
that ability. Should he lead his visitor by easy and natural stages to
unburden himself; make a hearty, blunt opening, or make him blurt out
his thoughts and go on the defensive at once? Having anything but
respect and liking for the vicious nephew, he determined to make him as
uncomfortable as possible. So he paid him the courtesy of a glance and
resumed his apparently deep cogitations.
Henry waited for a few minutes, studying the ground and the front of his
uncle's store and then coughed impatiently.
'"Tis that," responded Tex abstractedly; "but hot, an' close. I was
thinkin'," he said, definitely.