BOTTLES WILL DO
For a few minutes Reynolds stood and looked up the trail after the girl
and horse had disappeared from view. He was strongly tempted to follow
to the heights above to see what lay beyond. He refrained, however, as
the afternoon was fast wearing away, and he had a heavy load to carry
back to camp. Retracing his steps to the brook, he walked up the
ravine until he came to the spot where the grizzly was lying, half
buried beneath the rocks and earth.
"Too bad, old chap," he remarked, as he looked down upon the brute.
"But, then, it served you right. You attacked the innocent and
defenseless, little thinking that such swift vengeance was so near.
You were little different, however, from certain two-legged brutes who
tried the same game to their own sorrow. You did me a great favor
to-day, though, and it's too bad I had to shoot you. I would like to
take your skin and keep it as a souvenir of this day. Guess I'll have
to come back for it as I cannot carry it now. And, besides, I shall
need a shovel to dig you out of that heap."
It was later than usual when Reynolds reached camp. The way was long
and the sheep he carried was heavy. But his step was light and his
heart happy. He had met Glen, had talked with her, looked into her
eyes, and felt the firm pressure of her hand. Fate was kind to him, he
reasoned, and it augured well for the future.
He was tired and hungry when he reached his little tent on the bank of
the creek. A supper of broiled lamb, sour-dough bread, stewed dried
fruit, and tea greatly refreshed him. He then lighted his pipe, and
stretching himself out upon his blankets, meditated upon all that had
taken place during the afternoon. It was good to lie there and rest
with deep silence all around, the vision of Glen before him, and the
remembrance of her voice and the touch of her hand. He wondered how
and when he should see her again. He was determined that it must be
soon, and he smiled at the idea of a terrible father keeping him away
from her. What did he care for desperate men? Had he not faced them
over and over again as they lay entrenched behind blazing rifles and
deadly machine-guns? He had carried his life in his hand on numerous
occasions on behalf of King and country, and he was not afraid to do it
again for his own personal satisfaction. Just how he was to accomplish
his object he had no definite idea. It was enough for him as he lay
there to think of Glen's voice, the charm of her face, and the glory of
her kindling eyes.
When he had finished his smoke he arose, and hoisting the sheep once
again upon his back he carried it down to the roadhouse, where he sold
it to Shorty, who had bargained with him the evening before for his
game of the day. It was much easier than toting it around to the
various tents and shacks, and selling it by the piece to the miners.
He made less, to be sure, but he was satisfied. In fact, he was
becoming tired of this business, and longed for something else,
especially since he had met Glen in the hills.
Several men had arrived at Big Draw that day, and had brought a number
of letters. One was for Reynolds, from his old friend, the editor. It
was a fatherly letter, full of interest for his welfare, and the hope
that he would soon return and enter upon the quest to find the missing
Henry Redmond.
"I cannot get this notion out of my mind," he wrote in conclusion. "It
is with me night and day since I talked it over with you. I believe
you are the person best fitted for the undertaking. Give up your
present wild-goose chase, and come home."
Reynolds smiled as he thrust the letter into his pocket, The editor
called his trip north a "wild-goose chase." He little knew that it was
a chase of a different kind, and the bird was a fascinating girl. "I
guess I shall have to tell Harmon that the bird I'm after is not a wild
goose, but a new species, found solely up here, and with only one known
specimen in existence. But I must write to him, anyway, and tell him
something about my doings and the life at Big Draw."
In an adjoining room men were playing cards. Reynolds entered and
stood watching them, especially Curly, who was deep in a game. He was
evidently losing heavily, and he was in a bad frame of mind. As
Reynolds stood and watched him, he began to wonder when the fellow had
first met Glen. Was it on the trail, or had Curly ventured beyond the
Golden Crest? It pleased him to know that the girl disliked the man,
and how she wished that the fog-bank had not lifted just when it did.
He longed to know what was in Curly's mind. Would he attempt to meet
the girl again? That he was capable of the basest villainy, he had not
the shadow of a doubt. Frontier Samson had told him as much, and the
old prospector apparently knew whereof he spoke. It was not safe for
Glen to travel alone among the hills, he mused. She was in danger of
meeting a worse brute than the raging grizzly she had encountered that
afternoon.
As Reynolds thought of these things he kept his eyes fixed intently
upon Curly's face, not realising that he was staring so hard. But
Curly did, and glancing up several times from his cards, he met those
steady, inscrutable eyes. At first it annoyed him, making him nervous
and impatient. He wondered what the quiet, reserved fellow meant by
looking at him in such a manner. At length he became angry, and
noticing that the eyes never left his face, he leaped to his feet with
a savage oath, and moving over to where Reynolds was standing, demanded
of him an explanation.
Brought suddenly to earth, Reynolds started, and asked what was the
trouble.
"Trouble!" Curly roared. "You'll d---- soon find out if you don't mind
your own business."
"Why, I have been doing nothing," and Reynolds looked his surprise. "I
was merely watching the game."
"No, you weren't. You were watching me like a cat watches a mouse, and
I want to know what you mean."
Reynolds laughed.
"I didn't realise I was watching you," he explained. "My mind was
elsewhere. I was thinking of more important things. You seem to be
looking for trouble."
"I am, and you're the trouble, d---- you. You've made me lose my game."
"H'm, you needn't accuse me. It must be your own conscience. I am not
looking for a quarrel, even if you are. I shall leave at once if my
presence is so objectionable to you. I'm rather fond of my own
company."
"Coward!"
Reynolds had partly turned as this word smote him like a knife. He
wheeled in an instant and faced Curly.
"Did you refer to me?" he asked. His eyes spoke danger, and the
muscles of his body were tense. But Curly did not heed the signs; he
had thrown caution to the winds.
"I did," he replied. "And I repeat it, 'Coward!' for that is what----"
Curly never finished the sentence, for a rigid fist caught him suddenly
under the right jaw, and sent him reeling backward upon a small table.
Recovering himself as speedily as possible, and wild with pain and
rage, he ripped forth a revolver from a hip-pocket. A dead silence
pervaded the room, like a calm before a storm. And during that silence
something unexpected happened. It was not the report of the revolver,
but the angry growl of a dog, the spitting of a cat, the bleat of a
sheep, and the crow of a cock.
"Gr-r-r-r, ps-s-s-s, ba-a-a-a, cock-a-doodle-do-o-o."
So incongruous did the peculiar sounds appear, that all stared in
amazement. Then when they beheld Frontier Samson standing near the
door, their faces broadened into knowing grins, followed by hearty
outbursts of laughter.
The prospector walked at once over to where Curly was standing, and
laid his big right hand upon his shoulder.
"What's all this about?" he asked. "In trouble agin, eh?"
"I've been insulted by _that_?" and Curly motioned to Reynolds.
"An' so yer goin' to shoot?"
"I certainly am, so leave me alone."
"An unarmed man?"
"What in h---- do I care whether he's armed or unarmed?"
"H'm, I guess ye'd care if he had a gun in his hands."
"Let him do it, Samson." It was Reynolds speaking. "An unarmed man is
the only one he would try to shoot. He took mighty good care to keep
out of range of the German guns during the war."
"You're a liar," Curly yelled, for the taunt stung him to the quick.
"Then the lie is on your own bead," was the quiet reply. "You and
others have made the boast that you hid in the mountains and could not
be caught when men were so sorely needed at the Front. If it's a lie,
then you lied first, so don't blame me."
Curly's only response was to raise his revolver and fire. But Samson's
hand struck the weapon in time to divert the aim, and no harm was done.
"Thar, that's enough of sich nonsense." The old prospector's voice was
more than usually stern. "I'm not goin' to stand here an' see a man
shot down in cold blood by the likes of you, Curly. The chap ye want
to kill is worth ten of you any day. An' as fer shootin', why, ye
wouldn't have a peek in with him if he had a gun."
"Give him one, then, and see how he can shoot," was the surly reply.
"But give me that first," and Samson laid his hand upon Curly's
revolver.
"What for?"
"Never mind; I'll explain later, so jist let go. Thar, that's better,"
he commented when Curly had reluctantly obeyed. "Now, look here, I've
got a suggestion to make. Let's settle this racket outside. It's no
use practisin' on human bodies which the Lord made fer something more
important. Whiskey bottles will do as well, an' the more ye smash of
them the better, to my way of thinkin'. So s'pose we stick several of
'em up an' let you two crack away at 'em. That's the best way to find
out who's the real marksman. Anyone got a rifle handy?"
This suggestion was not at all to Curly's liking. He preferred to have
matters all his own way, and his opponent completely at his mercy. But
Frontier Samson, as well as all the miners present, decided otherwise,
and so Curly was forced to bow to the inevitable.
The men entered enthusiastically into this shooting-test, and in a few
minutes three bottles were stuck upon a stump about fifty yards off. A
rifle was procured, which Samson at once handed to Curly.
"Now, shoot, ye beggar," he ordered. "Here's the chance to show what
ye kin do."
Curly's hand trembled as he took the weapon. The miners crowded around
and assailed him with various remarks.
"Go to it, Curly," one encouraged. "Ye were always good at hitting the
bottle."
"But not so far away," another bantered. "Curly likes it near, and
full, at that."
Curly looked as if he would have liked to turn the rifle upon the men
instead of the bottles. He was angry, and an angry man is always at a
great disadvantage, especially where a steady nerve is needed. He
accordingly fired wild, and when, the third shot had been made, the
bottles remained untouched.
During this performance Reynolds had been standing silently by,
apparently the least concerned of all. He felt annoyed at the trouble
which had occurred, and he was anxious that Curly should be taught a
salutary lesson. He picked up the rifle from the ground where his
opponent had flung it in his rage, and brought it to his shoulder. He
never felt calmer in his life as he took a quick and steady aim.
Thrice he pulled the trigger, and each time a bottle crashed to the
ground, while the excited miners cheered and shouted themselves hoarse.
When he was through, Reynolds quietly handed the rifle to Frontier
Samson. Then he turned to Curly.
"Are you satisfied now?" he asked, "or do you want some more shooting?
If so, I am ready."
With an oath, Curly turned upon his heel, and was about to walk away,
when the old prospector laid a firm hand upon his shoulder.
"Jist a minute, young man," he ordered. "I want to give ye a word of
advice, which ye kin take or leave as ye see fit. Ye've made a
miserable fool of yerself today, though it isn't the first time ye've
done it, not by a long chalk. If ye want to git along in this camp,
stow that nasty temper of yours, an' mind yer own bizness. This young
feller wasn't interferin' with you one bit. The devil was in ye, an'
ye had to spit it out on somebody. Ye better be more keerful in the
future, as I mightn't allus be around to check ye on yer rampage."
"But he hit me," Curly growled.
"Sure he did, an' wouldn't anyone with the least grain of spunk in him
do the same if he'd been called a coward fer nuthin'? This young chap
is no coward, let me tell ye that. He did more'n his bit over in
France when you was hidin' away in the hills. Oh, I know all about it,
an' whar ye was an' what ye was doin'. Why, this chap ye wanted to
shoot has more scars on his body an' more medals to his credit than you
have toes an' fingers. An' yit ye called him a coward! I guess the
men here know purty well by this time who is the coward an' who isn't.
Thar, that's all I have to say, so ye may go. I'm sick of the sight of
ye."
Curly was angry, but so fierce and powerful did the old prospector look
that he did not dare to reply. He slunk away, leaving the miners
greatly amused at his defeat. But Frontier Samson was not amused, for
he knew Curly better than any of the men gathered there.