Indian and Scout
A Tale of the Gold Rush to California
BY CAPTAIN F. S. BRERETON
Author of "The Great Aeroplane" "A Hero of Sedan" "John Bargreave's
Gold" "How Canada was Won" "Roughriders of the Pampas" &c.
_ILLUSTRATED BY CYRUS CUNEO_
H. M. CALDWELL COMPANY
NEW YORK BOSTON
_Printed in Great Britain_
[Illustration: "JACK SWUNG HIS HEAD ROUND"]
Contents
CHAP. PAGE
I. TUSKER JOE 9
II. JACK KINGSLEY'S DILEMMA 21
III. A RUDE AWAKENING 35
IV. THE ROAD TO CALIFORNIA 52
V. ON THE RAILWAY 65
VI. A HOLD-UP 80
VII. FRIENDS AND HUNTERS 94
VIII. OUT ON THE PRAIRIE 109
IX. ONLY A YOUNGSTER 128
X. A BUFFALO HUNT 146
XI. SURROUNDED BY INDIANS 165
XII. A TIGHT CORNER 179
XIII. DODGING THE ENEMY 192
XIV. AN ATTACK IN FORCE 205
XV. GIVING 'EM PEPPER 220
XVI. THE BASHFUL JACOB 239
XVII. BLACK BILL TO THE RESCUE 258
XVIII. THE GOLD RUSH 275
XIX. TOM MAKES A FIND 288
XX. AN AMBUSCADE 301
XXI. THE OUTWITTING OF TUSKER 314
XXII. A DOUBLE RECOGNITION 327
XXIII. STEVE LEADS THE WAY 341
XXIV. A GREAT ACQUITTAL 360
Illustrations
Page
"JACK SWUNG HIS HEAD ROUND" _Frontispiece_ 154
TUSKER JOE'S CHALLENGE 10
"HE SAW THE RASCAL CRUMPLE INTO A HEAP" 89
"THE INDIAN CHIEF THREW UP HIS ARMS" 212
RUNNING A RISK 271
JACK FETCHES THE RIFLES 324
CHAPTER I
Tusker Joe
"Ef there was a man here as was a man, guess it'd be some use waitin'
and talkin'. But as thar ain't sich a thing handy, why, I'll git. Once
and fer all, aer thar a one here as don't think I did it fair? Eh?"
The man who spoke swept his eyes round the narrow, ugly room, and pulled
the brim of his wideawake hat down over his eyes just a trifle lower;
whether to hide the scowl in them, or the fear which lurked in his
dilated pupils, it would be difficult to say. Tusker Joe was not anxious
that his companions in the room, which went by the name of saloon,
should guess that he was anything but self-composed and full of courage.
But to give the bare truth, Tusker Joe was by no means easy in his mind.
Even the smoking revolver in his hand, in which four unused cartridges
yet remained, failed to reassure him. It was not only fear for his own
wretched life that haunted him. Tusker Joe had a conscience at this day,
and it smote him just then harder than all else. Even as he swept his
eyes round the room he was struggling hard to drown that ready
conscience, to still the voice which whispered persistently in his ear:
"Murderer, murderer!"
"Yer don't speak," he went on, after a minute's awkward silence,
raising his voice till he almost shouted the words, as if the sounds
helped to encourage him and drown that still, small whisper. "Then I
takes it that ye're all in agreement. It was fair done. Me alone against
them two, and they quarrelsome. I'd stop and face the sheriff hisself
with that. But what's the use? A man has ter work nowadays, and a
sheriff wastes time. Yer can jest give him the facts for yerselves; but,
at the same time, yer can jest mind. Tusker Joe ain't a playsome girl.
He ain't a weaklin', likely ter take sauce from no one. And lies he
don't have at no price, not at all. Ef there's a man here as feels at
this second as he don't agree that it war all fair and square, jest let
him speak up. That's what I say. Let him open his mouth, here and now,
before what's left of us."
The man's voice was truculent now. His words deafened those within the
saloon, and there was no excuse for not hearing them. But no answer
came. Not one of the three men seated at a table at one end ventured to
open his lips. Instead, all, as if by common arrangement, kept their
eyes fixed on the wall opposite them, as if intent on counting the
planks which helped to make it, while their open palms lay exposed on
the table.
[Illustration: TUSKER JOE'S CHALLENGE]
Right opposite Tusker Joe a solitary individual sat awkwardly on a rough
bench. He was a man of some thirty years of age, with red hair and
beard, and a weak expression. The long, pointed chin, the narrow eyes
switching restlessly from side to side, even the diminutive proportions
of this fellow, spoke of indecision, of one accustomed to follow and not
to lead, of one inclined at all times to shirk difficulties. Red Sam,
for that was the name he went by in this mining camp, was not even his
own master. He was a hired labourer, who had come to the mining camps
not to test his own luck, and to risk all he had in the hope that hard
work and a strenuous fight with Dame Fortune would bring him the riches
which many a man had won. Sam had not the courage for such a venture. He
preferred good wages, and a certainty, to any risk. He was not
quarrelsome, nor over-talkative, and he did not frequent the drinking
saloon at Salem Falls more often than others. He was just an average
miner, content with his lot so far, and indistinguishable from the
others who worked at the camp save in respect to his beard. He wore the
same gaudy shirt and neckerchief, high boots, a wide-brimmed hat, and a
belt big enough to circle a horse, in the holster of which was a
revolver. Tusker's eyes, which during the last few moments had been
searching the cracked mirror opposite him, at the back of the bar on
which he leaned, suddenly lit upon Sam--Red Sam, the weakling--whom all
in that camp knew to be harmless and the reverse of dangerous. And as
they did so, that still, small voice whispered with even greater
persistence in Tusker's ear: "Murderer, murderer!" till the man became
savage. He swung round again, his eyes flashing, his pistol pointed.
"What's that?" he demanded menacingly. "Yer didn't speak, I know, but
yer looked what yer thought. Draw!"
Sam was utterly disconcerted. Had he been able, he would have
straightway sunk beneath the rough boards which formed the floor of the
saloon. To retreat, to get away from such a terrible man and such an
ugly encounter, was all that he desired. But that pointed pistol held
him rooted to the spot.
"Me?" he stuttered, gripping the bench with both hands. "Me think
anything! Why----"
He stared at Tusker with wide-open mouth, and eyes which were dilated
with terror.
"Yer looked it," retorted Tusker, his face scowling horribly. "Ef I
thought for one moment as yer'd forget, I'd put daylight clean through
yer now. Clean through yer, Sam."
The very idea of such a terrible happening almost caused Red Sam to
faint. He positively shivered, and when his shifting eyes happened to
pass to the far end of the saloon, where were the men whom Tusker had
already fired upon, the shiver became a tremble. His fingers twitched as
he endeavoured to clutch the bench, his hair stood erect beneath the
wide-brimmed hat, which gave this modest fellow such a desperate
appearance at ordinary times, while the end of his beard shook.
"Clean through yer," repeated Tusker grimly: the sight of this harmless
and trembling individual seeming to appease the bully for the moment.
"Through yer and any others as dares ter think--think, mind yer--that
all warn't fair and square. For the last time, aer thar a man here as
has got a word ter say agin it."
Tall and broad, his face and neck and arms burned to a brick red by
exposure to the sun, Tusker Joe would have at ordinary times been
pronounced a handsome fellow. His long, curling, black moustache set off
features which, though never pleasant, were regular and distinctly
prepossessing. His red mining shirt, corduroy breeches, and high boots
made up, with the brilliant handkerchief round his throat and the
draggled and untidy hat upon his head, an appearance which was
picturesque, if nothing more; while the breadth of his shoulders, and
the size of his limbs, told of a man used to labour, of a strong fellow,
able to look well to himself. Unfortunately, however, there was
something about the face which detracted from the general air of
picturesqueness. Tusker Joe's features were marked by heavy lines, some
across a somewhat narrow forehead, and others about the corners of the
eyes and the mouth. Even at rest the features wore an air the reverse of
frank and straightforward. The eyes were shifty, even more so than those
of the weak Red Sam. And now, when his passions were stirred, the face
which looked out from beneath the pulled-down brim of his hat was seamed
with other lines--lines which told of hate, of avarice, of fear, of a
thousand passions flitting through the man's mind. Bluff and brag at his
best, Tusker Joe was in those days too young a man to carry off such a
situation with absolute tranquillity. True, he had been in saloon brawls
before, and had shot men; but he had never murdered. In those rough
days, down at the diggings, when men spent a goodly part of their gains
in the saloons, quarrels were of frequent occurrence, and revolvers came
readily to the hand. Bullies arose, too, and for a while terrorized even
these lawless, gambling men. But sheer murder was hardly attempted, for
then even the miners arose in anger, and when that was the case lynch
law was the order--a short shrift was given to the guilty party, and
either he was riddled with bullets or, if a rope happened to be handy,
he was strung to the nearest tree. Often enough there was no suitable
tree, and then the bullets of the miners finished the matter.
Tusker Joe had turned from Red Sam by now, and for one brief moment cast
his eyes to that far end where lay the men at whom he had fired. Even he
shuddered ever so little, and from contemplating them turned to the
rough bar again and leaned one arm upon it. Then his eyes sought the
cracked mirror which was nailed to the boarded wall behind the bar,
reflecting from its golden-circled frame the whole of the saloon. In the
glass he could see the three men seated at the table, their palms still
prominently exposed. Not one had moved so much as a finger. They sat
riveted to their chairs, their eyes fixed on the plank wall as before,
knowing that Tusker Joe's eyes were upon them, and that to carry a hand
to a pocket meant a shot from his revolver in an instant.
"Cowed! Jest don't dare ter move a finger, the skunks," growled the
murderer beneath his breath. "And thar ain't one of 'em as don't know
Tusker well enough ter guess what'll follow if they get ter blabbin'.
Blabbin'! What's that I said? Thar ain't no need ter fear that. It was
fair and square. Lord Tom had no need fer ter call me a liar and a
thief. He knew that a man don't take sich words hereabouts, and that
bullets git flyin' when names are called. He asked fer trouble, and, by
thunder, he's had it! As fer Jim, he'd a hand at his shooter, and ef
he's gone under, reckon it's his own fault. Yer don't catch me waitin'
fer a man ter shoot."
For some two minutes he stood at the bar, his unseeing eyes fixed upon
the reflecting mirror, while his busy brain invented excuse after excuse
for the act of which he had just been guilty. But, strive as he might to
gloss over this shooting affray, and to paint his own side of the
squabble in rosy colours, that still, small voice returned with
persistence. "Murderer! murderer!" It echoed even louder in his ears,
till the man was distracted and desperate.
"Here! fill it up, will yer?" he shouted, thrusting forward an empty
glass, and menacing the frightened negro behind the bar with his
revolver. "To the brim, and slippy with it! Hur! Now, again! Hur! Thar's
the price fer it. Keep the change."
Gulping down two glasses of spirit within a few seconds, he threw the
glass to the floor, where it smashed into a hundred pieces, and then
tossed a dollar on to the bar. By now a haunted look had come into the
man's face. The fingers which pulled the expended cartridges from his
weapon and replenished the chambers trembled obviously. The man was
become desperate. His conscience was driving him hard. But with it all
he was cunning. He kept his eyes on the men at the table, and then swung
round to confront Red Sam, causing that miserable individual to shiver
more than ever. Then, with never a glance to the far end of the room, he
backed to the door of the saloon, pulled it open with his foot, and
backed out. The door slammed to, and Tusker was gone. Those who crossed
to the window to watch him saw the miner running down the street for his
life, and, conscious now that they were safe themselves, they shook
their fists at his retreating figure, and swore beneath their breath.
"I knew as it would come from him," exclaimed one of them, proceeding to
fill a pipe. "Tusker Joe is bound ter break out somewhares, and become
camp bully and murderer. Up to date he ain't dared attempt anything over
much, but ter-day he's done it. He won't never look back. Mark my words,
mate, he'll get wusser and wusser. He's the sort that goes on from one
thing ter another, and don't stop till the sheriff's got him, or his
mates has took the law up themselves, and has strung him six foot up. It
war all a plant."
"It war," agreed a second. "Tusker had made up his mind fer a ruction,
and Lord Tom war a fool to help him. Ef he hadn't been green, as green
as grass, he'd have known what'd happen when he got ter callin' names.
He war too free with 'em, and had got no use fer his own shooter. But
I'm surprised at Jim. He's been out this way nigh most of his life, and
he must have known. Seems he was took by surprise; fer he could shoot,
he could."
They nodded their heads at one another, and slowly filled and lit their
pipes, while they held their eyes to the window, fearful that Tusker Joe
might yet return. Not that he would have terrorized them altogether.
When a man finds another holding a revolver levelled at his head, and
knows that the slightest movement or protest will bring a bullet in his
direction, he by force of circumstances keeps very still. Even if he
happens to be a courageous man--and many of these miners were
undoubtedly that--common sense teaches him not so much as to lift a
finger. He swallows his chagrin, and registers the vow to live for
another day, when matters may be more equal. Tusker Joe had got the drop
on his comrades in the saloon, to use a mining expression. He had drawn
his revolver at the very beginning of the quarrel, and all knew that he
was a dead shot. But now he could have no advantage, and had he appeared
again, he would undoubtedly have met with strenuous opposition.
"He's cleared, yer bet," said the third man after a while. "Tusker knows
as thar won't be no livin' fer him here after this, and he's bound ter
git. Suppose it's a case fer the sheriff?"
"Yep; thar ain't nothin' more ter do. Guess the verdict'll be murder.
Thar's bound to be a howl in Salem Falls, and men'll get ter swear that
they'll shoot Tusker on sight. Then it'll blow over. Tusker won't be
fool enough ter show up this side of the grave, and things'll be
forgotten. Suppose we git a move on."
The three stepped towards the door, Red Sam rising at the same time and
joining them, evidently with the idea of obtaining some sort of
protection from their company. He lifted the latch, and was about to
emerge, when a sound came from the far end of the room, bringing the
four facing round in that direction. And this is what they saw.
Close to the far wall was a second table--a long affair composed of
rough boards, with a bench perched just behind it, between the table and
the wall. On this bench a man was seated, with his hands sprawled out on
the table top, and his head resting on his hands. He might have been
asleep for all one could tell, as his posture was the most natural one
possible. Certainly one would never have imagined that he was the victim
of a shooting affray. But Lord Tom was dead, without any doubt. Closer
inspection of his body showed a hole in his forehead, now reclining on
his hands, while an ugly dark pool was spreading out between his
fingers. At his feet lay a man as dead apparently as he. His feet were
pointed towards the centre of the saloon, while his head and shoulders
lay beneath the bench, almost directly under his dead comrade. It seemed
that he had been holding a paper when the affray started, for he had
dragged that to the ground with him, and it now covered his face and
chest, while one arm peeped from beneath it, exposing the hand to view,
with a revolver gripped in the latter. A moment before Jim had lain an
inert mass. Now, at the sound of departure of the others, he stirred and
called gently to them. Then the hand which gripped the revolver loosed
its hold, and gently drew the paper from his face.
"Jest pull me out from under this here consarn," he asked in the coolest
possible voice. "Now set me up on the table. Gently, boys! That ere
chap's broken my arm. Now, Peter, something wet ter drink, quick as yer
can."
They lifted him on to the table very gently; for these miners, when all
was said and done, were exceedingly good and kind to one another when in
distress. And there they supported him, while the negro behind the bar
mixed some spirit and water and brought it.
"Huh! that'll make me wake up," said Jim, still cool and collected. "So
Lord Tom's dead? I guessed it'd come ter that when he got ter flingin'
names about. And Tusker's gone. Wall, there ain't nothin' more ter do
now but ter git well and started in again at the diggin'. Guess he's
took all. A fine pardner he's been, to be sure! He's seen me and Tom
slavin' every day and guess he's jest chuckled. He's bided his time, and
got clean off with all the stuff. Boys, we'd cleaned up the claim only
yesterday, and thar was enough to take every mother's son of us back to
New York, with something in hand ter start up business with. And
Tusker's got it all, and has rubbed poor Tom out."
He looked round at the miners, and each in turn nodded his agreement.
"Rubbed him clean out, yer bet," said one. "It don't take twice lookin'
ter tell that. Tom's dead, and we'd a notion yer was the same. Yer lay
that still."
"And yer didn't move over sprightly," came from the wounded man dryly.
"I saw every little bit of the theatricals, and thar wasn't a man as
dared ter show fight, small blame to yer. For me, he'd got the drop
before I'd a hand on my shooter, and jest sent his lead through my arm.
I wasn't askin' fer more. I knew a move meant death, sure. And so I did
same as you. Lay still as a mouse, with the paper over my face, and jest
a small tear in it through which I could watch what was happening.
Mates, I'll tell yer somethin'. I've been diggin' and minin' this five
years. I've met bad men and good, rough and honest, and downright
ruffians. But Tusker's jest a murderer. I gives him notice, here and
now, that I shoot on sight at the next meetin'. If only for Lord Tom's
sake, I shoot on sight. Tusker's a thief and a murderer."
When the whole matter came to be discussed, it was the decision of the
inmates of the camp at Salem Falls that Tusker Joe was indeed a thief
and a murderer. It cropped up in the evidence offered to the sheriff,
who duly made an enquiry, that this man, some thirty years of age only,
had twice before entered into partnership with other miners, and, having
waited till the claims panned out well, and earnings were collected,
disappeared with all that he could lay his hands on. And on this
occasion it was his intention to do the same. But Lord Tom, a man of a
different stamp to the miners, had detected his intention, and in an
unwary moment had taxed him with the crime, and had not hesitated to
call him a thief. Then it was that Tusker had deliberately shot his
partner down, and done the same for Jim. It was a clear case of murder.
A warrant was issued for the arrest of the man, and in a little while
the event was forgotten. But Jim did not forget, while in course of time
the news of Lord Tom's death filtered through to New York State, where
his widow was living. Mary Kingsley did not forget. She mourned her
husband for many a long day, and then, like the sensible woman she was,
set herself to think of her son. And that son, Jack Kingsley, is the lad
who is the hero of this story.