When the long overland train paused a moment before the ancient box car
that served as the depot for the town of Haskell, nestled in the gulch
half a mile away, it deposited Miss Stella Donovan almost in the arms
of Carson, the station-agent, and he, wary of the wiles of women and
the ethics of society, promptly turned her over to Jim Westcott, who
had come down to inquire if the station-agent held a telegram for
him--a telegram that he expected from the East.
"She oughtn't to hike to the Timmons House alone, Jim," Carson said.
"This yere is pay-day up at the big mines, an' the boys are havin' a
hell of a time. That's them yellin' down yonder, and they're mighty
likely to mix up with the Bar X gang before mornin', bein' how the
liquor is runnin' like blood in the streets o' Lundun, and there's half
a mile between 'em."
In view of these disclosures, Miss Donovan welcomed the courteous
acquiescence of Westcott, whom she judged to be a man of thirty-one,
with force and character--these written in the lines of his big body
and his square, kind face.
"I'm Miss Stella Donovan of New York," she said directly.
"And I," he returned, with hat off in the deepening gloom, "am Jim
Westcott, who plugs away at a mining claim over yonder."
"There!" laughed the girl frankly. "We're introduced. And I suppose
we can start for the Timmons House."
As her words trailed off there came again the sound of yelling, sharp
cries, and revolver shots from the gulch below where lights twinkled
faintly.
Laughing warmly, Westcott picked up her valise, threw a "So-long" to
Carson, and with Miss Donovan close behind him, began making for the
distant lights of the Timmons House. As they followed the road, which
paralleled a whispering stream, the girl began to draw him out
skilfully, and was amazed to find that for all of his rough appearance
he was excellently educated and a gentleman of taste. Finally the
reason came out.
"I'm a college man," he explained proudly. "So was my partner--same
class. But one can't always remain in the admirable East, and three
years ago he and I came here prospecting. Actually struck some
pay-dirt in the hills yonder, too, but it sort of petered out on us."
"Oh, I'm sorry." Miss Donovan's condolence was genuine.
"We lost the ore streak. It was broken in two by some upheaval of
nature. We were still trying to find it when my partner's father died
and he went East to claim the fortune that was left. I couldn't work
alone, so I drifted away, and didn't come back until about four months
ago, when I restaked the claim and went to work again."
"You had persistence, Mr. Westcott," the girl laughed.
"It was rewarded. I struck the vein again--when my last dollar was
gone. That was a month ago, I wired my old partner for help, but----"
He stopped, listening intently.
They were nearing a small bridge over Bear Creek, the sounds of
Haskell's revellers growing nearer and louder. Suddenly they heard an
oath and a shot, and the next moment a wild rider, lashing a foaming
horse with a stinging quirt, was upon them. Westcott barely had time
to swing the girl to safety as the tornado flew past.
"The drunken fool!" he muttered quietly. "A puncher riding for camp.
There will be more up ahead probably."
His little act of heroism drew the man strangely near to Miss Donovan,
and as they hurried along in the silent night she felt that above all
he was dependable, as if, too, she had known him months, aye years,
instead of a scant hour. And in this strange country she needed a
friend.
"Now that I've laid bare my past," he was saying, "don't you think you
might tell me why you are here?"
The girl stiffened. To say that she was from the New York _Star_ would
close many avenues of information to her. No, the thing to do was to
adopt some "stall" that would enable her to idle about as much as she
chose. Then the mad horseman gave her the idea.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I forgot I hadn't mentioned it. I'm assigned by
_Scribbler's Magazine_ to do an article on 'The Old West, Is It Really
Gone?' and, Mr. Westcott, I think I have a lovely start."
A few moments later she thanked Providence for her precaution, for her
companion resumed the story of his mining claim.
"It's mighty funny I haven't heard from that partner. It isn't like
him not to answer my wire. That's why I've waited every night at the
depot. No, it's not like 'Pep,' even if he does take his leisure at
the College Club."
Miss Donovan's spine tingled at the mention of the name: "Pep," she
murmured, trying to be calm. "What was his other name?"
"Cavendish," Westcott replied. "Frederick Cavendish."
A gasp almost escaped the girl's lips. Here, within an hour, she had
linked the many Eastern dues of the Cavendish affair with one in the
West. Was ever a girl so lucky? And immediately her brain began to
work furiously as she walked along.
A sudden turn about the base of a large cliff brought them to Haskell,
a single street running up the broadening valley, lined mostly with
shacks, although a few more pretentious buildings were scattered here
and there, while an occasional tent flapped its discoloured canvas in
the night wind. There were no street lamps, and only a short stretch
of wooden sidewalk, but lights blazed in various windows, shedding
illumination without, and revealing an animated scene.
They went forward, Westcott, in spite of his confident words, watchful
and silent, the valise in one hand, the other grasping her arm. The
narrow stretch of sidewalk was jammed with men, surging in and out
through the open door of a saloon, and the two held to the middle of
the road, which was lined with horses tied to long poles. Men reeled
out into the street, and occasionally the sharp crack of some
frolicsome revolver punctuated the hoarse shouts and bursts of drunken
laughter. No other woman was visible, yet, apparently, no particular
attention was paid to their progress. But the stream of men thickened
perceptibly, until Westcott was obliged to shoulder them aside
good-humouredly in order to open a passage. The girl, glancing in
through the open doors, saw crowded bar-rooms, and eager groups about
gambling tables. One place dazzlingly lighted was evidently a
dance-hall, but so densely jammed with humanity she could not
distinguish the dancers. A blare of music, however, proved the
presence of a band within. She felt the increasing pressure of her
escort's hand.
"Can we get through?"
"Sure; some crowd, though. 'Tisn't often as bad as this; miners and
punchers all paid off at once." He released her arm, and suddenly
gripped the shoulder of a man passing. He was the town marshal.
"Say, Dan, I reckon this is your busy night, but I wish you'd help me
run this lady through as far as Timmons; this bunch of long-horns
appear to be milling, and we're plum stalled."
The man turned and stared at them. Short, stockily built, appearing at
first view almost grotesque under the broad brim of his hat, Stella,
recognising the marshal, was conscious only of a clean-shaven face, a
square jaw, and a pair of stern blue eyes.
"Oh, is that you, Jim?" he asked briefly. "Lord, I don't see why a big
boob like you should need a guardian. The lady? Pardon me, madam,"
and he touched his hat. "Stand back there, you fellows. Come on,
folks!"
The little marshal knew his business, and it was also evident that the
crowd knew the little marshal. Drunk and quarrelsome as many of them
were, they made way--the more obstreperous sullenly, but the majority
in a spirit of rough good humour. The time had not come for war
against authority, and even the most reckless were fully aware that
there was a law-and-order party in Haskell, ready and willing to back
their officer to the limit. Few were drunk enough as yet to openly
defy his authority and face the result, as most of them had previously
seen him in action. To the girl it was all terrifying enough--the
rough, hairy faces, the muttered threats, the occasional oath, the
jostling figures--but the two men, one on each side of her, accepted
the situation coolly enough, neither touching the revolver at his belt,
but, sternly thrusting aside those in their way, they pressed straight
through the surging mass in the man-crowded lobby of the disreputable
hotel.
The building itself was a barnlike structure, unpainted, but with a
rude, unfinished veranda in front. One end contained a saloon, crowded
with patrons, but the office, revealed in the glare of a smoky lamp,
disclosed a few occupants, a group of men about a card-table.
At the desk, wide-eyed with excitement, Miss Donovan took a
service-worn pen proffered by landlord Pete Timmons, whose grey
whiskers were as unkempt as his hotel, and registered her name.
"A telegram came to-day for you, ma'am," Peter said in a cracked voice,
and tossed it over.
Miss Donovan tore it open. It was from Farriss. It read:
If any clues, advise immediately. Willis digging hard. Letter of
instruction follows.
FARRISS.
The girl folded the message, thrust it in her jacket-pocket, then
turning to the marshal and Westcott, gave each a firm hand.
"You've both been more than kind," she said gratefully.
"Hell, ma'am," Dan deprecated, "that warn't nothin'!" And he hurried
into the street as loud cries sounded outside.
"Good night, Miss Donovan," Westcott said simply. "If you are ever
frightened or in need of a friend, call on me. I'll be in town two
days yet, and after that Pete here can get word to me." Then, with an
admiring, honest gaze, he searched her eyes a moment before he turned
and strolled toward the rude cigar-case.
"All right, now, ma'am?" Pete Timmons said, picking, up her valise.
The girl nodded, and together they went up the rude stairs to her room
where Timmons paused at the door.
"Well, I'm glad you're here," he said, moving away. "We've been
waitin' for you to show. I may be wrong, ma'am, but I'd bet my belt
that you're the lady that's been expected by Ned Beaton."
"You're mistaken," she replied shortly.
As she heard him clatter down the stairs, Miss Stella Donovan of the
New York _Star_ knew that her visit would not be in vain.