THE FIGHT FOR THE OLD JUAN
When a man's honor is questioned--his honor as a fighting man--it is
the dictum of centuries of chivalry that he shall not seek to avoid the
combat. A great fortune was at stake, many millions of dollars and the
possession of a valuable mine, and yet Rimrock Jones did not move. He
walked around the town and held conferences with his friends until word
came at last that he was jumped.
"All right," he said and with Hassayamp and L. W. he started across the
desert to his mine. Red-handed as he was from a former treachery, L.
W. did not fail Rimrock in this crisis and his cactus-proof automobile
took them swiftly over the trail that led to the high-cliffed
Tecolotes. He went under protest as the friend of both parties, but
all the same he went. And Hassayamp Hicks, who came from Texas where
men held their honor above their lives; he went along as a friend in
arms, to stand off the gunmen of McBain.
The news had come in that Andrew McBain had left Geronimo under cover
of the night, with an automobile load of guards, and the next day at
dawn some belated stampeders had seen them climbing up to the dome.
There lay the apex of the Tecolote claims, fifteen hundred lateral feet
that covered the main body of the lode; and with the instinct of a mine
pirate McBain had sought the high ground. If he could hold the Old
Juan claim he could cloud the title to all the rich ground on both
sides; and at the end of litigation, if he won his suit, all the
improvements that might be built below would be of value only to him.
Always providing he won; for his game was desperate and he knew that
Rimrock would fight.
He had flung down the challenge and, knowing well how it would end, he
had had his gunmen barricade the trail. They were picked-up men of
that peculiar class found in every Western town, the men who live by
their nerve. There were some who had been officers and others outlaws;
and others, if the truth were known, both. And as neither officers nor
outlaws are prone to question too closely the ethics of their
particular trade so they asked no questions of the close-mouthed
McBain, except what he paid by the day. Now, like any hired fighters,
they looked well to their own safety and let McBain do the worrying for
the crowd. He was a lawyer, they knew that, and it stood to reason he
was acting within the law.
L. W.'s auto' reached Ironwood Springs, where Rimrock had made his old
camp, while the sun was still two hours high. From the Springs to the
dome, that great "bust-up" of porphyry which stood square-topped and
sheer against the sky, there was a single trail full of loose, shaly
rocks that mounted up through a notch in the rim. They started up in
silence, Rimrock leading the way and Hassayamp puffing along behind;
but as they neared the heights, where the shattered base of the butte
rose up from the mass of fallen debris, Rimrock forged on and left them
behind.
"Hey, wait!" called Hassayamp with the last of his breath, but neither
Rimrock nor L. W. looked back. It was a race to the top, Rimrock to
get his revenge and L. W. to stop his mad rush; but in this race, as
always, youth took the lead and L. W. lagged far behind. Like a
mountain sheep on some familiar trail Rimrock bounded on until his
breath came in whistling gasps; but, while the blood pounded against
his brainpan and his muscles quivered and twitched, the strength of ten
men pulsed through his iron limbs, and he kept his face to the heights.
He was all of a tremble when, in the notch of the trail, he was
challenged by a ringing:
"Halt!"
He stopped, sucked in a great breath and dashed the stinging sweat from
his eyes; and then, hardly seeing the barricade before him or the
rifles that thrust out between the rocks, he put down his head and
toiled on. Right on the rim, where the narrow trail nicked it, the
gunmen had built a low wall and as he came on unheeding they rose up
from behind it and threw down on him with their rifles.
"Stop right where you are!" a guard called out harshly and Rimrock
halted--and then he came on.
"Get back or we'll shoot!" shouted a grizzled gunman who now suddenly
seemed to take charge. "This claim is held by Andrew McBain and the
first man that trespasses get's killed!"
"Well, shoot then," panted Rimrock, still struggling up the pathway.
"Go ahead--it's nothing to me."
"Hey, you stop!" commanded the gunman as Rimrock gained the barricade,
and he struck him back with the muzzle of his gun. Rimrock staggered
and caught himself and then held on weakly as his breath came in
quivering sobs.
"That's all right," he gasped. "I've got no quarrel with you. I came
to get Andrew McBain."
"Well, stay where you are," ordered the gunman sternly, "or I'll kill
you, sure as hell."
Rimrock swayed back and forth as he clung to a bush that he had
clutched in his first lurching fall and as he labored for breath he
gazed about wildly at the unfamiliar faces of the men.
"Who are you boys?" he asked at last and as nobody answered him he
glanced swiftly back down the trail.
"It's no use to try that," said the gunman shortly, "you can't rush us,
behind the wall."
"Oh, I've got no men," answered Rimrock quickly, "those fellows are
just coming along. I'm Henry Jones and I came to warn you gentlemen
you're trespassing on one of my claims."
"Can't help it," said the guard, "we're here under orders to kill you
if you come over this line."
He indicated the wall which barred the way to the location notice of
the claim and Rimrock hitched his belt to the left.
"Show me your papers," he said. "You've got no right to kill any man
until you prove that this claim is yours."
That hitch of the belt had brought his heavy six-shooter well around on
the side of his leg and as the gunmen watched him he looked them over,
still struggling to get back his breath. Then as no one moved he
advanced deliberately and put his hand on the wall.
"Now," he said, "you show me your authority or I'll come over there and
put you off."
There was a stir in the ranks of the grim-faced gun-fighters and their
captain looked behind. Not forty feet away on the flat floor of the
mesa was the shaft of the Old Juan claim and, tacked to the post that
rose up from its rockpile was a new, unweathered notice.
"That's the notice," said the captain, "but you stay where you are.
You knock down that wall and you'll get killed!"
"Killed nothing!" burst out Rimrock contemptuously, "you're afraid to
shoot me!" And looking him straight in the eyes, he pushed the top
rock off the wall.
"Now!" he said after a moment's silence as the gunmen moved uneasily
about, "I'll do that again, and I'll keep on doing it until you show me
that this ain't my claim."
"Mr. McBain!" called the captain and as Rimrock clutched at his pistol
he found a gun thrust against his stomach.
"You make a crooked move," warned the captain sharply, "and----"
He stopped for up from the mouth of the Old Juan shaft came the head of
Andrew McBain.
"Ah, hiding in a hole," spoke up Rimrock sneeringly, as McBain opened
his mouth to talk. "I'd like to work for a man like you. Say, boys,
take on with me--I'll double your money; and what's more I'll stand up
for my rights!" He looked around at the line of gun-fighters, but
their set lips did not answer his smile. Only in their eyes, those
subtle mirrors of the mind, did he read the passing reflex of their
scorn. "You're scared, you coward," went on Rimrock scathingly as
McBain looked warily about. "Come out, if you're a man, and prove your
title, or by grab, I'll come in there and get you!"
He stopped with a grunt for the hard-eyed captain had jabbed him with
the muzzle of his gun.
"None of that," he said, but Rimrock took no notice--his eyes were
fixed on McBain.
He came out of the hole with a waspish swiftness, though there was a
wild, frightened look in his eyes; and as he advanced towards the
barricade he drew out a bulldog pistol and held it awkwardly in his
hand.
"Mr. Jones," he began in his harsh lawyer's voice, "don't think for a
moment you can bluff me. These men have their orders and at the first
show of violence I have told them to shoot you dead. Now regarding
this claim, formerly known as the Old Juan, you have no legal right to
the same. In the first place, Juan Soto, whom you hired to locate it,
is not an American citizen and therefore his claim is void. In the
second place the transfer for the nominal sum of ten dollars proves
collusion to perpetrate a fraud. And in the third place----"
"You're a liar!" broke in Rimrock, his breast heaving with anger, "he's
as much a citizen as you are. He's been registered in Gunsight for
twenty years and his vote has never been challenged."
"Juan Bautista Soto," returned McBain defiantly, "was born in Caborca,
Sonora, on the twenty-fourth day of June, eighteen sixty. I have a
copy of the records of the parish church to prove he is Mexican-born.
And in the third place----"
"And in the third place," burst out Rimrock, raising his voice to a
yell, "that proves conclusively that you've set out to steal my mine.
I don't give a damn for your thirdlys and fourthlys, nor all the laws
in the Territory. To hell with a law that lets a coyote like you rob
honest men of their mines. This claim is mine and I warn you now--if
you don't get off of it, I'll kill you!"
He dropped his hand to his pistol and the startled gunmen looked
quickly to their captain for a cue. But the captain stood
doubtful--there were two sides to the question, and a man will only go
so far to earn ten dollars a day.
"Now hear me," warned Rimrock as there fell a tense silence, "you get
off----"
"Shoot that man!" yelled McBain as he sensed what was coming, but
Rimrock was over the wall. He knocked it flat with the fury of his
charge, striking the gunmen aside as he passed. There was a moment of
confusion and then, as McBain turned to run, the bang of Rimrock's gun.
Andrew McBain went down, falling forward on his face, and as Rimrock
whirled on the startled gunmen they shot blindly and broke for cover.
The fight had got beyond them, their hearts were not in it--and they
knew that McBain was dead.
"You get off my claim!" cried Rimrock as he faced them and
instinctively they backed away. That look in his eyes they knew all
too well, it was the man-killing berserker rage. Many a time, on
foreign battlefields or in the bloody saloon fights of the frontier,
they had seen it gleaming in the eyes of some man whom nothing but
death would stop. They backed off, fearfully, with their guns at a
ready; and when they were clear they ran.
When L. W. looked over the shattered wall he saw Rimrock tearing down
the notice and crunching it into the ground. He was perfectly calm,
but in his staring blue eyes the death look still burned like live
coals; and it was only when Hassayamp, risking his life from heart
failure, toiled up and took charge of his claim that he could be
persuaded to give himself up.