A STUDY IN MISCHIEF
Nearly three months had passed and all Beasley Melford's affairs were
amply prospering. His new saloon was the joy of his heart. It had been
completed more than a week, which week had been something in the
nature of a triumph of financial success. The camp was booming as he
had never dared to hope it would boom. Traders were opening up
business all round him, and the output of gold was increasing every
day. But, with all this rapid development, with all the wrangling and
competition going on about him, he was the centre of the commercial
interests of Yellow Creek, and his saloon was the centre of all its
traffic.
But he was quite alive to the fact that he must maintain his position
and custom by keeping well in line, even just a little ahead of all
competition. He knew that to rest on his oars would be to court swift
disaster. It must be his constant thought to make his place more and
more attractive, to listen to the voice of public requirements, and
seize every opportunity of catering for them.
His saloon was no better than a gambling-hell and drinking-booth, the
dry goods side of his enterprise being almost insignificant. For he
knew that the more surely his customers could indulge in such pastimes
in comparative comfort the more surely he would keep them. So he made
these things the basis of his trade. But there were other needs to be
provided for. Therefore, on the completion of his new saloon, and the
moment his vanity had been satisfied by the erection of a great board
top, set up on the pitch of the roof, announcing in blatant lettering
that it was "Melford's Hotel," he set to work to erect a dance hall
and a livery barn. He foresaw the necessity of running a stage, and he
never lost sight of the fact that a great number of the women of the
class he wished to see about were invading the place. Then, too, the
dance hall could be used as a boarding establishment for those who had
no homes of their own.
It was a precious thought, and, after a journey to Leeson Butte to
consult his partner, these matters were put in hand. He no longer
worked single-handed. His establishment was increased by the advent of
a bartender, a Chinese cook, and a livery stable keeper. These, and
some casual labor from among the loafers, supplied him with all the
help he so far found necessary.
The bar and the gambling-tables were always his own care. These were
the things he would never trust to other hands. The bartender was his
helper only, who was never allowed to escape the observation of his
lynx eyes.
Yes, Beasley Melford was flourishing as he intended to flourish, and
his satisfaction was enormous. In the mornings he was always busy
supervising the work, in the afternoons he gave himself what leisure
his restless spirit demanded. But in the evenings he gathered his
harvest by rascally methods of flagrant extortion.
It was during the latter part of his afternoon leisure that he was
suddenly disturbed by the appearance of Montana Ike in his bar. He was
stretched full length upon his counter, comfortably reviewing a
perfect maze of mental calculations upon the many schemes which he
had in hand, when the youngster pushed the swing door open and
blustered in.
Beasley was sitting up in an instant. He hated this sort of sudden
disturbance. He hated men who rushed at him. He could never be certain
of their intentions. When he saw who his visitor was there was very
little friendliness in his greeting.
"Wot in hell you want rushin' that way?" he demanded arrogantly.
"Guess your thirst ain't on a time limit."
But the ginger-headed youth ignored his ill-temper. He was too full of
his own affairs. He simply grinned.
"Fish out them durned scales o' yours," he cried gleefully. "Fish 'em
out, an' set your big weights on 'em. Ther' ain't goin' to be no chat
nor drink till you weighed in. Then I guess the drink'll be right up
to you."
Beasley's mood changed like lightning. He swung over behind his bar
and dropped to the floor on the other side, his eyes alight, and every
faculty alert for trade.
"Wot's it?" he demanded. "Struck it big?" he went on as the dingy gold
scales were produced from the shelf at the back. Then he laughed
amiably. "It needs to be big, wakin' me in my slack time."
"Oh, it's big enuff," cried Ike confidently, his eager, young, animal
face alight with pleasure.
He watched the other with impatient eyes as he deliberately picked out
the weights. But Beasley was too slow, and, with an impatient
exclamation, he snatched up the biggest of them and set it on the
somewhat delicate scales with a heavy hand.
"Say, you're rapid as a sick funeral," he cried. "I ain't got no time
to waste. What I got here'll need that--an' more. Ther'!"
Beasley's temper was never easy, and his narrow eyes began to sparkle.
"You're mighty fresh," he cried. "Guess I'm----"
But his remark remained unfinished. With a boisterous laugh the boy
flung a small canvas bag on the counter and emptied its contents
before the other's astonished eyes.
"Ther'," he cried gleefully. "I want dollars an' dollars from you. An'
you'll sure see they ain't duds."
Beasley's eyes opened wide. In a moment he had forgotten his
ill-humor.
From the gold spread out before him he looked up into the other's face
with a half-suspicious, wholly incredulous stare.
"You got that from your claim--to-day?" he asked.
"An' wher' in hell else?"
"Sure!" Beasley fingered the precious nuggets lovingly. "Gee! Ther's
nigh five hundred dollars there."
"Fi' hundred--an' more," cried Ike anxiously.
But Beasley's astonishment was quickly hidden under his commercial
instincts. He would have called them "commercial."
"We'll soon fix that," he said, setting the scales.
Ike leant against the bar watching the man finger his precious ore as
he placed each of the six nuggets in the scale and weighed them
separately. He took the result down on paper and worked their separate
values out at his own market prices. In five minutes the work was
completed, and the man behind the bar looked up with a grin.
"I don't gener'ly make a bad guess," he said blandly. "But I reckoned
'em a bit high this journey. Ther's four hundred an' seventy-six
dollars comin' to you--ha'f cash an' ha'f credit. Is it a deal?"
The other's face flamed up. A volcanic heat set him almost shouting.
"To hell!" he cried fiercely. "Ther's fi' hundred dollars ther' if
ther's a cent. An' I want it all cash."
Beasley shook his head. He had this boy's exact measure, and knew just
how to handle him.
"The scales don't lie," he said. "But ther', it's the way wi' youse
fellers. You see a chunk o' gold an' you don't see the quartz stickin'
around it. Here, I'll put a hundred an' seventy-six credit an' the
rest cash. I can't speak fairer."
He drew a roll of bills from his hip-pocket and began counting the
three hundred out. He knew the sight of them was the best argument he
could use. It never failed. Nor did it do so now.
Ike grumbled and protested in the foulest language he was capable of,
but he grabbed the dollars when they were handed to him, and stowed
them into his hip-pocket with an eagerness which suggested that he
feared the other might repent of his bargain. And Beasley quickly
swept the precious nuggets away and securely locked them in his safe,
with the certain knowledge that his profit on the deal was more than
cent for cent.
"You'll take rye," he said as he returned his keys to his pocket. "An'
seein' it's your good day, an' it's on me, we'll have it out o' this
thirteen-year-old bottle."
He pushed the bottle across the counter and watched Ike pour himself
out a full "four fingers." The sight of his gluttony made Beasley feel
glad that the thirteen-year-old bottle had been replenished that
morning from the common "rot-gut" cask. After their drink he became
expansive.
"That's an elegant claim of yours, Ike," he said, taking up his
favorite position on the bar. "It's chock full of alluvial. Don't
scarcely need washing. Guess I must ha' paid you two thousand dollars
an' more since--since we got busy. Your luck was mighty busy when they
cast the lots."
"Luck? Guess I'm the luckiest hoboe in this layout," Ike cried with a
confidence that never seemed to require the support of rye whisky.
Beasley's eyes sparkled maliciously.
"How about Pete?" he grinned. He knew that Ike had an utter
detestation of Pete, and did not have to guess at the reason. "I paid
him more than that by fi' hundred. How's that?"
"Tcha'! Pete ain't no account anyways," Ike retorted angrily. "Say, he
pitches his dollars to glory at poker 'most every night. Pete ain't
got no sort o' savee. You don't see me bustin' my wad that way."
"How about the gals? Guess you hand 'em a tidy pile."
"Gals!" Ike suddenly became thoughtful. His gaze wandered toward the
window. Then he abruptly turned back to the bar and clamored for
another drink. "We'll have that thirteen-year-old," he cried. "An'
guess I'll have a double dose. Gals!" he went on, with a sneer, as the
other watched him fill a brimming tumbler.
"Ther's sure on'y one gal around here. That's why I got around now.
Guess I'm payin' her a 'party' call right now, 'fore the folks get
around. Say, I'm goin' to marry that gal. She's sure a golden woman.
Golden! Gee, it sounds good!"
Beasley grinned. He was on a hot trail and he warmed to his work.
"Goin' to ask her now?" he inquired amiably, eyeing the spirit the man
had poured out.
Ike laughed self-consciously.
"Sure," he said, draining his glass.
"What about Pete?"
Ike looked sharply into the other's grinning face. Then he banged his
glass angrily on the counter and moved toward the door.
"Pete ken go plumb to hell!" he cried furiously over his shoulder as
he passed out.
Beasley dropped nimbly from his counter and looked after him through
the window. He saw him vault into the saddle and race away down the
trail in the direction of the farm.
His eyes were smiling wickedly.
"Don't guess Pete's chasin' ther' to suit you, Master Ike," he
muttered. "Marry that gal, eh? Not on your life. You pore silly guys!
You're beat before you start--beat a mile. Buck's got you smashed to a
pulp. Kind of wish I'd given you less cash and more credit. Hello!"
He swung round as the door was again thrust open. This time it was
Blue Grass Pete who strode into the room.
"Wher's Ike?" he demanded without preamble the moment he beheld the
grinning face of the saloon-keeper.
"Gee!" Beasley's grin suddenly broke out into a loud laugh. He brought
his two hands down on the counter and gave himself up to the joy of
the moment.
Pete watched him with growing unfriendliness.
"You're rattled some," he said at last, with elaborate sarcasm. Then,
as Beasley stood up choking with laughter and rubbing his eyes, he
went on: "Seems to me I asked you a civil question."
Beasley nodded, and guffawed again.
"You sure did," he said at last, stifling his mirth as he beheld the
other's threatening frown. "Well, I ain't laffin' at you. It's--it's
jest at things."
But Pete had no sense of humor. He disliked Beasley, and simply wanted
his information now.
"Ike been along?" he demanded doggedly.
Beasley spluttered. Then he subsided into a malicious grin again.
"Sure," he said. "He's been in with a fat wad. Say, he's a lucky
swine. 'Most everything comes his way. Guess he can't never touch bad.
He's ahead on the game, he's a golden-haired pet with the gals, an' he
gits gold in--lumps."
But Pete's dark face and hungry eyes showed no appreciation, and
Beasley knew that the man's mood was an ugly one.
"Wher's he now?"
"Can't jest say. I didn't ask him wher' he was goin'. Y' see I cashed
his gold, and we had a drink. He seemed excited some. Guess he was
sort of priming himself. Maybe he's gone along to the gals. Have a
drink?"
"No--yes, give us a horn of rye."
The man behind the bar pushed the bottle across.
"What you needin' him for?" he asked with apparent unconcern.
Pete snatched at his drink.
"That ain't your affair," he retorted surlily.
"Sure it ain't. I jest asked--casual."
Pete banged his empty glass on the counter.
"I'm needin' him bad," he cried, his eyes furiously alight. "I'm
needin' him cos I know the racket he's on. See? He quit his claim
early cos--cos----"
"Cos he's goin' to pay a 'party' call on that Golden Woman," cried
Beasley, appearing to have made a sudden discovery. "I got it, now.
That's why he was in sech a hurry. That's why he needed a good dose o'
rye. Say, that feller means marryin' that gal. I've heard tell he's
got it all fixed with her. I've heard tell she's dead sweet on him.
Wal, I ain't sure but wot it's natural. He's a good looker; so is she.
An' he's a bright boy. Guess he's got the grit to look after a gal
good. He's a pretty scrapper. Another drink?"
Pete refilled his glass. His fury was at bursting-point, and Beasley
reveled in the devil now looking out of his angry eyes.
"He's gone across ther' now?" he demanded, after swallowing his second
drink. His question was ominously quiet.
Beasley saw the man's hands finger the guns at his waist. It was a
movement the sight of which gave him a wonderful satisfaction.
"Seems like it," he said. "Though course I can't rightly say. I see
him ride off down the trail that way----"
"Here, I'll take another drink. I'm goin' after----"
"Say, you ain't goin' to butt in with two folks courtin'?" cried
Beasley, blandly innocent.
But Pete had no reply. He drained his third drink and, flinging the
glass down, bolted out of the bar; while Beasley turned with a
malicious chuckle, and scrupulously entered up three drinks against
the man's name on the slate.
"I'd give somethin' to see it," he muttered. Then he rubbed out the
entry he had made. "Guess I'll make it six drinks. He's too rattled to
remember."
Ten minutes later a number of men were lounging in the saloon, and
Beasley, in the leisure of administering to their wants, was relating
to them the story of the afternoon's events. At the conclusion he
added his own comment, which was not without definite purpose.
"Say, if they ain't jest like two dogs worritin' a bone you got me
plumb beat," he said. Then he added with an air of outraged virtue:
"I'd like to say right here she's jest playin' them fellers for their
wads. Oh, she's a keen one, her eyes is right on to business. She'll
sure have 'em shootin' each other right up. Seems to me a gal like
that ain't no right in this yer city. She's a scandal to the place.
An' a danger. Wot we fellers needs to figure on is the liberty an'
safety of our citizens, an' anything calc'lated to be a danger to that
needs to git seen to."
Some of the men concurred half-heartedly. They were men who had come
into the camp with the rush, and were anxious to keep in with the
saloon-keeper. Still, even they were very little stirred by his
appeal. They cared not the least bit in the world who was shot up, or
who did the shooting, so long as they were not personally concerned
beyond the role of spectators.
So for once his mischief fell flat. It was too early in the day to
make the impression he needed. They were not sufficiently primed with
rye. So Beasley contented himself with insinuating the bottle toward
doubtful customers, and easing his disappointment by making all the
trade he could.
But presently a diversion occurred by the advent of Buck. He rode up,
his great horse loaded down with the carcasses of three splendid deer.
He had brought them in for sale. Game was a precious thing in this
camp, where a diet of simple beef ruled.
The moment he displayed his wares there was a rush to bid for them,
and Beasley, much to his chagrin, found himself forced to pay boom
prices before he could secure them for retailing. He paid ungraciously
enough. If there was one man more than another in the camp he
begrudged anything to it was Buck. Besides, it made him utterly
furious to think that he never came up against this man on any
debatable matter but what he managed to come off worst.
However, his policy forced him to stifle his resentment, and he paid,
mentally adding another item to the long list of his personal
animosities to be wiped out at some future date.
But Buck's presence was an opportunity for mischief not to be
altogether missed. Nor was Beasley the man to let the moment pass
without availing himself of it. Buck's interest in Joan was something
to be played upon at all times. Therefore he drew him aside in a
manner as portentous and ingratiating as he could make it.
Buck, wondering at his drift, submitted all unwillingly.
"Say," Beasley began, the moment they were out of ear-shot of the
rest, "guess you ain't bin around the farm lately--I mean this
afternoon?"
Buck looked him coldly in the eye.
"No--why?"
Beasley returned his look in consummate irritation. He pretended to be
annoyed at his coolness. He shrugged and turned away, speaking over
his shoulder as he went.
"Oh, nuthin'! Guess it might be as well if you had."
He went back to his bar, and in a moment was busy again at his trade.
Buck looked after him for one doubting second. Then he too turned away
and went out to his horse.