The miner waited, leaning against the desk. His eyes had followed the
slender figure moving after the rotund Timmons up the uncarpeted stairs
until it had vanished amid the shadows of the second story. He smiled
quietly in imagination of her first astonished view of the interior of
room eighteen, and recalled to mind a vivid picture of its
adornments--the bare wood walls, the springless bed, the crack-nosed
pitcher standing disconsolate in a blue wash-basin of tin; the little
round mirror in a once-gilt frame with a bullet-hole through its
centre, and the strip of dingy rag-carpet on the floor--all this
suddenly displayed by the yellowish flame of a small hand-lamp left
sitting on the window ledge.
Timmons came down the stairs, and bustled in back of the desk, eager to
ask questions.
"Lady a friend o' yours, Jim?" he asked. "If I'd a knowed she wus
comin' I'd a saved a better room."
"I have never seen her until to-night, Pete. She got off the train,
and Carson asked me to escort her up-town--it was dark, you know. How
did she like the palatial apartment?"
"Well, she didn't say nothin'; just sorter looked around. I reckon
she's a good sport, all right. What do ye suppose she's come yere for?"
"Not the slightest idea; I take it that's her business."
"Sure; but a feller can't help wonderin', can he? Donovan," he mused,
peering at the name; "that's Irish, I take it--hey?"
"Suspiciously so; you are some detective, Pete. I'll give you another
clue--her eyes are Irish grey."
He sauntered across to the stove, and stood looking idly at the
card-players, blue wreaths of tobacco smoke circling up from the bowl
of his pipe. Some one opened the street door, letting in a babel of
noise, and walked heavily across the office floor. Westcott turned
about to observe the newcomer. He was a burly, red-faced man, who had
evidently been drinking heavily, yet was not greatly under the
influence of liquor, dressed in a checked suit of good cut and fashion,
but hardly in the best of taste. His hat, a Stetson, was pushed back
on his head, and an unlighted cigar was clinched tightly between his
teeth. He bore all the earmarks of a commercial traveller of a certain
sort--a domineering personality, making up by sheer nerve what he might
lack in brains. But for his words the miner would have given the
fellow no further thought.
"Say, Timmons," he burst forth noisily, and striding over to the desk,
"the marshal tells me a dame blew in from New York to-night--is she
registered here?"
The landlord shoved the book forward, with one finger on the last
signature.
"Yep," he said shortly, "but she ain't the one you was lookin' for--I
asked her that, furst thing."
"Stella Donovan--huh! That's no name ever I heard; what's she look
like?"
"Like a lady, I reckon; I ain't seen one fer quite a spell now."
"Dark or light?"
"Waal, sorter medium, I should say; brown hair with a bit o' red in it,
an' a pair o' grey eyes full of fun--some girl, to my notion."
The questioner struck his fist on the wood sharply.
"Well, what the devil do you suppose such a woman has come to this hole
clear from New York for, Timmons? What's her game, anyhow?"
"Blessed if I know," and the proprietor seated himself on a high stool.
"I didn't ask no questions like that; maybe the gent by the stove there
might give yer all the information yer want. He brought her up from
the dapoo, an' kin talk English. Say, Jim, this yere is a short horn
frum New York, named Beaton, an' he seems ter be powerfully interested
in skirts--Beaton, Mr. Jim Westcott."
The two men looked at each other, the miner stepping slightly forward,
and knocking the ashes out of his pipe. Beaton laughed, assuming a
semblance of good nature.
"My questions were prompted solely by curiosity," he explained,
evidently not wholly at ease. "I was expecting a young woman, and
thought this new arrival might prove to be my friend."
"Hardly," returned Westcott dryly. "As the landlord informed you, Miss
Donovan is a lady."
If he expected this shot to take effect he was disappointed, for the
grin never left Beaton's face.
"Ah, a good joke; a very good joke, indeed. But you misunderstand;
this is altogether a business matter. This young woman whom I expect
is coming here on a mining deal--it is not a love affair at all, I
assure you."
Westcott's eyes sparkled, yet without merriment.
"Quite pleased to be so assured," he answered carelessly. "In what
manner can I satisfy your curiosity? You have already been informed, I
believe, that the person relative to whom you inquire is a Miss Stella
Donovan, of New York; that she has the appearance and manners of a
lady, and possesses brown hair and grey eyes. Is there anything more?"
"Why, no--certainly not."
"I thought possibly you might care to question me regarding my
acquaintance with the young woman?" Westcott went on, his voice
hardening slightly. "If so, I have not the slightest objection to
telling you that it consists entirely of acting as her escort from the
station to the hotel. I do not know why she is here, how long she
intends staying, or what her purpose may be. Indeed, there is only one
fact I do know which may be of interest to you."
Beaton, surprised by the language of the other, remained silent, his
face turning purple, as a suspicion came to him that he was being made
a fool of.
"It is this, my friend--who she is, what she is, and why she happens to
be here, is none of your damn business, and if you so much as mention
her name again in my presence you are going to regret it to your dying
day. That's all."
Beaton, glancing about at the uplifted faces of the card-players, chose
to assume an air of indifference, which scarcely accorded with the
anger in his eyes.
"Ah, come now," he blurted forth, "I didn't mean anything; there's no
harm done--let's have a drink, and be friends."
Westcott shook his head.
"No, I think not," he said slowly. "I'm not much of a drinking man
myself, and when I do I choose my own company. But let me tell you
something, Beaton, for your own good. I know your style, and you are
mighty apt to get into trouble out here if you use any Bowery tactics."
"Bowery tactics!"
"Yes; you claim to live in New York, and you possess all the earmarks
of the East-Side bad man. There is nothing keeping you now from
roughing it with me but the sight of this gun in my belt, and a
suspicion in your mind that I may know how to use it. That suspicion
is correct. Moreover, you will discover this same ability more or less
prevalent throughout this section. However, I am not looking for
trouble; I am trying to avoid it. I haven't sought your company; I do
not want to know you. Now you go back to your bar-room where you will
find plenty of your own kind to associate with. It's going to be
dangerous for you to hang around here any longer."
Beaton felt the steady eyes upon him, but was carrying enough liquor to
make him reckless. Still his was naturally the instinct of the New
York gunman, seeking for some adventure. He stepped backward, feigning
a laugh, watchful to catch Westcott off his guard.
"All right, then," he said, "I'll go get the drink; you can't bluff me."
Westcott's knowledge of the class alone brought to him the man's
purpose. Beaton's hand was in the pocket of his coat, and, as he
turned, apparently to leave the room, the cloth bulged. With one leap
forward the miner was at his throat. There was a report, a flash of
flame, the speeding bullet striking the stove, and the next instant
Beaton, his hand still helplessly imprisoned within the coat-pocket,
was hurled back across the card-table, the players scattering to get
out of the way. All the pent-up dislike in Westcott's heart found
expression in action; the despicable trick wrought him to a sudden
fury, yet even then there came to him no thought of killing the fellow,
no memory even of the loaded gun at his hip. He wanted to choke him,
strike him with his hands.
"You dirty coward," he muttered fiercely. "So you thought the pocket
trick was a new one out here, did you? Come, give the gun up! Oh! so
there is some fight left in you? Then let's settle it here."
It was a struggle between two big, strong men--the one desperate,
unscrupulous, brutal; the other angry enough, but retaining
self-control. They crashed onto the floor, Westcott still retaining
the advantage of position, and twice he struck, driving his clenched
fist home. Suddenly he became aware that some one had jerked his
revolver from its holster, and, almost at the same instant a hard hand
gripped the neck-band of his shirt and tore him loose from Beaton.
"Here, now--enough of that, Jim," said a voice sternly, and his hands
arose instinctively as he recognised the gleam of two drawn weapons
fronting him. "Help Beaton up, Joe. Now, look yere, Mr. Bully
Westcott," and the speaker shook his gun threateningly. "As it
happens, you have jumped on a friend o' ours, an' we naturally propose
to take a hand in this game--you know me!"
Westcott nodded, an unpleasant smile on his lips.
"I do, Lacy," he said coolly, "and that if there is any dirty work
going on in this camp, it is quite probable you and your gang are in
it. So, this New Yorker is a protégé of yours?"
"That's none of your business; we're here for fair play."
"Since when? Now listen; you've got me covered, and that is my gun
which Moore has in his hand. I cannot fight you alone and unarmed; but
I can talk yet."
"I reckon yer can, if that's goin' ter do yer eny good."
"So the La Rosita Mining Company is about to be revived, is it?
Eastern capital becoming interested. I've heard rumours of that for a
week past. What's the idea? struck anything?"
Lacy, a long, rangy fellow, with a heavy moustache, and a scar over one
eye, partially concealed by his hat brim, grinned at the others as
though at a good joke.
"No, nuthin' particular as yet," he answered; "but you hev', an' I
reckon thet's just about as good. Tryin' ter keep it dark, wasn't yer?
Never even thought we'd caught on."
"Oh, yes, I did; you flatter yourselves. I caught one of your
stool-pigeons up the gulch yesterday, and more than ten days ago Moore
and Edson made a trip into my tunnel while I happened to be away; they
forgot to hide their trail. I knew what you were up to, and you can
all of you look for a fight."
"When your partner gets out here, I suppose," sneered Lacy.
"He'll be here."
"Oh, will he? Well, he's a hell of a while coming. You wired him a
month ago, and yer've written him twice since. Oh, I've got the cases
on you, all right, Westcott. I know you haven't got a cent left to go
on with, and nowhere to get eny except through him." He laughed.
"Ain't that right? Well, then, yer chances look mighty slim ter me
just at present, ol'-timer. However, there's no fight on yet; will yer
behave yerself, an' let this man Beaton alone if I hand yer back yer
gun?"
"There is no choice left me."
"Sure; that's sensible enough; give it to him, Moore."
He broke the chamber, shaking the cartridges out into his palm; then
handed the emptied weapon over to Westcott. His manner was purposely
insulting, but the latter stood with lips firmly set, realising his
position.
"Now, then, go on over thar an' sit down," continued Lacy. "Maybe, if
yer wait long enough, that partner o' yours might blow in. I got some
curiosity myself as to why that girl showed up ter-night under yer
guidance, an' why yer so keen ter fight about her, Jim; but I reckon
we'll clear that up ter-morrow without makin' yer talk."
"You mean to question Miss Donovan?"
"Hell, no; just keep an eye on her. 'Tain't likely she's in Haskell
just fer the climate. Come on, boys, let's liquor. Big Jim Westcott
has his claws cut, and it's Beaton's turn to spend a little."
Westcott sat quietly in the chair as they filed out; then took the pipe
from his pocket and filled it slowly. He realised his defeat, his
helplessness, but his mind was already busy with the future.
Timmons came out from behind the desk a bit solicitous.
"Hurt eny?" he asked. "Didn't wing yer, or nuthin'?"
"No; the stove got the bullet. He shot through his pocket."
"Whut's all the row about?"
"Oh, not much, Timmons; this is my affair," and Westcott lit his pipe
with apparent indifference. "Lacy and I have got two mining claims
tapping the same lead, that's all. There's been a bit o' feeling
between us for some time. I reckon it's got to be fought out, now."
"Then yer've really struck ore?"
"Yes."
"And the young woman? Hes she got enything ter do with it?"
"Not a thing, Timmons; but I want to keep her out of the hands of that
bunch. Give me a lamp and I'll go up-stairs and think this game out."